the Dalaverse

OMG THE CHAIRSEX IS HERE! Kirk/McCoy, Spock/Uhura, implied Sulu/Chekov, implied Scotty/right hand.

Oh, and I stole the physical scene from that ep with the Clint Howard alien.



Body of Evidence


As first officer Spock is required to keep track of many day-to-day operations - certainly more than the captain bothers with - but for the most part, his professional duties revolve around the bridge. He excels at his job, as he previously excelled in his studies and his teaching career at the Academy. Although he is aware that some of the crew with whom he has little interaction find him intimidating (or "scary as fuck" in the captain's crude vernacular), he does not consider this to be a serious disadvantage, any more than he did as an instructor. He requires only their respect. If any crew member wishes a more congenial relationship with a superior officer, Kirk’s interpersonal skills certainly qualify him for the position over Spock.

Thus he is surprised, after several months aboard the Enterprise, by the realization that he spends a great deal of his time, not only on duty but off, with the same core group of individuals. This is only to be expected in his romantic relationship with Nyota Uhura, of course; however, the captain’s overtures of friendship prove rather difficult to ignore. Kirk is clearly a man unused to hearing “No,” much less “No, thank you, I have already finished my evening meal” or “No, I do not believe that performing duets of old Vulcan folk songs is an appropriate use of the comm system, no matter how late the hour nor how much Saurian brandy one has imbibed.” In doing his best to keep the captain out of trouble, he finds himself drawn into it more often than not.

More confounding is the way young Chekov looks to him for nearly indistinguishable signs of approval when he’s worked out a difficult equation, or Mr. Scott’s cheerful colloquial greeting whenever Spock has business on the engineering deck. Even Dr. McCoy, underneath his gruff and frankly offensive exterior, makes a point of personally treating the wounds Spock suffers from time to time on mission (although he spends much more time on the captain, both in treatment and harassment).

He passes several evenings in a row with Sulu and Kirk in one of the training rooms, learning the basics of both Eastern and Western traditions of swordplay. After one such session Uhura greets him in his quarters with a query as to whether he had fun. Spock pauses, considers responding that the experience was educational, culturally enlightening, or physically rewarding as exercise – all of which is true – but says simply “Yes, I did.” She picks the note of bewilderment out of his even voice and smiles, drawing him near.

For such a large vessel, there are times when the Enterprise feels very small indeed – especially those rare instances when their schedules coordinate to leave them all free at once.

On this occasion, Spock finds himself at a table in the officers’ mess, Uhura pressed against him on the left and Sulu not quite as close on his right. Their proximity to the bar keeps the alcohol and conversation flowing. Spock has a little trouble following the way his crew runs over one another in speech; topics have ranged from favorite hometown watering holes to the state of holographic sciences to the captain’s formal appeal to have a swimming pool of considerable volume installed somewhere onboard (Kirk claims that they might encounter a species in need of an aquatic environment; McCoy counters that he just wants to go skinny-dipping without having to beam down to a body of water).

The doctor is still rolling his eyes when he leaves the table for a few hours of sleep and a stack of supply order forms. Kirk’s insistent defense of his plans for modification fades out as Scotty launches into a story about a brief and torrid affair with an Andorian waitress. Spock finds the details so circumspect that he is too distracted to notice Kirk’s departure approximately five minutes after McCoy’s.

“Where has the captain gone?” Chekov glances around, brow furrowed. While he seeks intellectual approval from Spock, he looks up to Kirk as some kind of elder brother whose varied qualities and habits are worthy of emulation. Spock considers this to be an unhealthy fixation, although Uhura says it’s only harmless hero worship – until Kirk’s tutelage leads to Chekov picking up some alien sexually transmitted infection, anyway.

Sulu looks up from thoughtfully contemplating his empty glass. “Huh. Weird. He’s usually the first one drinking and the last one standing.”

“Perhaps the captain, like Dr. McCoy, has some outstanding tasks that require completion before he retires,” Spock suggests. He is thinking about making some signal to Uhura that they might likewise slip away, which will be easier without Kirk there to made lewd comments about “feeling a little green under the collar.”

Scotty snorts into his imitation whiskey. “P’raps they’re off completin’ each other’s tasks, if ye know what I mean.”

Chekov chokes on his liquor and Uhura slaps him between the shoulder blades. Sulu smirks as if Scotty has said something of great wit. Spock can think of no reason for Kirk to appropriate McCoy’s paperwork when he has no great tolerance for his own, and says so.

“He means they’ve gone off to bed together,” Uhura explains, rolling her eyes. “Which is ridiculous.”

“I don’t know,” says Sulu slowly, arching an eyebrow. “I heard all kinds of stories about our illustrious captain’s tastes, back at the Academy.”

Chekov casts wide eyes at him. “But they are always fighting. And surely, he would not become involved with one of his own senior officers?”

Spock shifts in his seat. He and Uhura are discreet, by nature as well as necessity; all of those who know about their liaison have sat at this table tonight. Chekov is the one exception, for reasons Spock attributes to his relative age.

“We’re talking about Jim Kirk here,” says Sulu with a chuckle. “If it stands still long enough, he’ll hit on it.”

Uhura seems to have taken a personal stake in this discussion, likely driven by copious amounts of red wine. Spock has rarely seen her overindulge and he finds the flush to her skin, the way she licks her lips, to be most intriguing. He should request that she desist from rubbing his knee under the table, but in truth he would be disappointed if she stopped.

“I ran into the two of them all time on campus.” She makes a face; Spock can guess how these encounters ended, having come to know Kirk as he does. “Not that I’m defending Kirk’s honor, but they were roommates – I never saw any signs that they were romantically involved,” Uhura continues with a frown. Spock thinks he understands, as Uhura once told him about her first memorable meeting with Kirk. No matter how exasperating their later encounters may have been – almost certainly were, and would continue to be in future – her history with the captain is longer than anyone else’s. It makes a kind of sense that she would consider herself the authority on the nature of Kirk and McCoy’s relationship. He is proud of himself for this insight, as its nuances would have escaped him just one year ago.

“Aye, but how can we be sure?” Scott holds up his glass, contemplating its amber depths with misty eyes. “Man’s got needs, y’know…any port in a storm and all that…”

Given that it’s Kirk, Spock thinks, it would have to be a storm of hurricane strength to give him difficulty in finding a port. Then he immediately resents being forced to think about his captain’s sex life.

“Women love the captain,” Chekov declares, tugging on one brown curl. Sulu and Uhura appear relieved that he has prevented any more references to Scotty’s lonely stay on Delta Vega, and Spock sympathizes. “Even I know this, back at school. He would have no time! Dr. McCoy is his best friend, not boyfriend.”

Sulu cocks his head, his face slowly split by a grin. “Care to make a wager on that?”

“I would,” says Chekov firmly, before he ducks his chin and shoots a guilty look at Spock. “I am sorry, Sir – it is against regulation –”

“I’ll take that wager,” Uhura interrupts, her eyes fixed on Sulu across the table even as she runs her foot up Spock’s calf.

As their commander, Spock is obligated to put a stop to any illegal activity, which under Starfleet regulations includes gambling.

As an interested party – as a friend, if he must express himself in such language – he can’t quite bring himself to deny them the entertainment.

“As we currently have no proof, it would be necessary to produce conclusive evidence of…clandestine involvement, to settle such a bet.”

Chekov stares at him, mouth agape; Scotty whoops. Uhura’s lips turn up very slightly. Sulu leans forward and nods seriously.

“So it’s Scotty and me, Uhura and Chekov,” he says, tapping the center of the table. “I take it you’re remaining neutral, Mr. Spock? We need someone to keep it fair.”

“As I have no emotional investment in the matter, I will agree to withhold judgment for the present.”

“Stakes?” Uhura leans her chair back on two legs, revealing several bare inches of skin between the hem of her skirt and her knees. Thus does Spock’s attention waver from the ensuing haggle over credits and personal favors. Later her kisses are flavored with wine and affection, and he knows he didn’t miss anything of import.




“Sir, Airlift Two is on manual hold between Decks Seven and Eight.” Uhura’s voice is bland and pleasant.

Sulu swivels his chair around. Spock is leaning over her console, hands clasped behind his back.

Well, Uhura’s nothing if not a team player – even when she’s on the opposing team. Sulu catches her eye and bites his lip against a smirk. Obviously she’s convinced making out in the lift isn’t the doctor’s style (no one has any such illusions about the captain) or she wouldn’t have pointed it out. Sulu finds this especially funny considering how often he’s tapped his foot waiting for a lift, which arrives late and turns out a certain communications officer and Vulcan. They’re always perfectly composed, exactly two paces apart, and he’s never fooled.

“Please call up the security footage for Airlift Two, Lieutenant,” says Spock coolly. “It may be a malfunction, or perhaps the passengers stopped it on account of a medical emergency.”

This time Sulu can’t quite suppress a short laugh. He can absolutely see Kirk baiting McCoy with a fake sprained ankle, batting his lashes demurely before shoving his CMO against the wall panel. Ensign Purcell shoots him a sidelong look of disapproval. She’s much harder to engage in conversation than Chekov and reminds him unpleasantly of his least favorite aunt. He makes a mental note to swift shifts.

When the image pops up on Uhura’s screen, Sulu thinks for a second that she’ll be paying up. There are definitely two people in the lift, the one foremost in view with cropped light hair, and they are definitely occupied in some hands-on disorderly conduct.

Then he spots the tentacles. In places where tentacles should never, ever go, at least not on a humanoid companion.

Uhura’s nails – dark blue today – click as she shuts the screen off, looking as stricken as Sulu feels. Spock, of course, remains impassive.

“Kinky.” They both whip around to see that Kirk has come onto the bridge. He grins, claps Spock on the shoulder, and winks at Uhura. “Didn’t know you guys were into that. I’ve got some vids you can borrow if –”

Spock’s step away from him definitely qualifies as hasty. Describing his expression as “murderous” might be a bit of a stretch, but Sulu’s reading between the lines.




“You don’t know what I had to do to uncover this information.” Uhura slides into the seat next to Scotty as he’s contemplating his breakfast, her eyes glinting with triumph. Spock, unexpectedly for this time of day, is trailing her at a strategic distance.

Scotty squints at the back of her hand as she plants it next to his bacon. There’s some kind of text scrawled on it in black ink.

“I had to make small talk,” she continues with a shudder. “In a changing room, just like high school.” This is an avenue of thought down which Scotty would be happy to wander, not that he’d ever say it aloud. He likes his balls just where they are, thanks.

“Is that a serial number?” Sulu chews on a piece of toast, as clueless as Scotty.

Uhura nods her thanks as Spock places a bowl of oatmeal before her. “If you put this number into the ship’s logs, you’ll discover it belongs to a Lieutenant Solis Brandon, a very pretty blonde in Environmental – not a natural blonde, I discovered, but that’s beside the point. She spent the night with our tomcat of a captain three days ago.”

“Ha!” says Chekov, trotting up in time to catch the tail end of the explanation – pun unintended but delightful, Scotty notes. “We win!”

“Hey now, wait just a minute –”

“Aye,” Scotty chimes in indignantly. “That doesnae prove a thing.”

Chekov’s face falls and Uhura’s brows rise to dangerous levels. Spock folds his hands in his lap, face unreadable as ever.

“Do you wish to corroborate Lieutenant Uhura’s story with the crew member in question, Mr. Scott?”

“No, that’s not the point,” Sulu says before he can speak. He shakes his toast very emphatically, if not in Spock’s face then in his general direction. Spock brushes crumbs off his sleeve in a smooth, unruffled moment that nonetheless conveys his distaste. “It just means Kirk was with this girl on one particular night, it doesn’t count out the possibility that he’s sleeping with McCoy as well.” Scotty nods vigorously.

Uhura sighs, twirling her spoon. “I guess that's true,” she admits with obvious reluctance. She and Sulu both glance at Spock, official referee, and he inclines his head slightly. Scotty’s not the best at assigning emotions to that stone face, but he thinks he detects a hint of amusement.

Chekov sinks down at the table and mutters something that’s in Russian but nonetheless sounds like it means “well, crap.”




“Why me?”

Chekov’s voice is closer to a whine than he usually allows himself. Sulu grins and pats his shoulder. “One, because you’re the captain’s pet and no one would have the heart to yell at you for sneaking around, not even McCoy.” Chekov glares, arms crossed over his chest – but he doesn’t argue the point. At least Sulu never strokes his hair like he’s a puppy. He really hates that, even when the captain does it. “And two, because it’ll hold more water with Uhura and Spock if it comes from you rather than me.”

“I will see nothing anyway,” Chekov huffs as he heads off for sick bay. “There is nothing to see.” Even if the captain and the doctor were involved, which they’re not, there is no way McCoy would let Captain Kirk talk him into sex in public. The captain possesses legendary powers of persuasion but McCoy is the only one who regularly tells him off, and in such colorful language. Chekov’s a little bit frightened of him, to be honest, and not just because of his mania for hyposprays.

It seems luck is with him: the sick bay is practically deserted. There’s a nurse puttering around with a data pad and Chekov ducks behind a curtain until she walks back to where the offices might be – he hasn’t spent much time here and is unfamiliar with the layout. As her footsteps fade away, he realizes that he’s stumbled upon the perfect hiding place. The fabric is too heavy to see through, but he can hear voices on the other side. He is just about to peek around the edge when Dr. McCoy speaks.

“Come on, Jim, is that all you got?” The doctor’s voice is pitched low, slightly thickened by his accent, as gruff as ever. Beneath it Chekov can hear heavy, steady breathing.

“You’ve got me on my back here, Bones, it’s not exactly comfortable,” Captain Kirk pants.

Chekov claps his hands over his mouth to stifle a squeak. He is very, very glad the curtain obscures them from view.

“Just a few seconds more,” McCoy urges, sounding lazy and amused.

“Just a few seconds more, my ass.”

Kirk is grunting with effort. Chekov’s ears are burning. He tells himself he cannot actually hear a faint thumping sound. There’s not one expletive in Russian or English that would fully express how much he does not want to be here right now.

“I don’t know why you always start bitching, you should be used to this by now.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, I don’t see you laid out on this table.”

“Big strong man, afraid to work up a sweat,” McCoy taunts with a chuckle.

Chekov tastes blood and realizes he’s biting his knuckles. He should leave, right now, but what if they hear him? Oh God, he’s going to kill Sulu.

“All right,” McCoy sighs, “that’s it.”

Kirk lets out an almighty groan that makes Chekov’s stomach twist. He wants to toss himself out an airlock, but at least the thumping he was not hearing has stopped. Just, please, let the captain stop breathing like he’s just won gold at the Dirty Sex Olympics.

“Hand me a towel, would you? I’m dripping.”

Just as Chekov notes that his bitten hand is now resting on a stack of clean towels, the doctor flings the curtain back.

This time Chekov does squeak. McCoy’s eyes go wide and he barks out a curse. Taking in Chekov’s pale face, his expression softens with concern.

“What are you doing, kid? You okay?”

Chekov nods frantically, not trusting himself to speak, and stumbles back. McCoy’s broad shoulders are blocking his view of the table beyond and he’s unspeakably grateful, for that and for the fact that the doctor is fully clothed.

McCoy’s frown deepens with suspicion. “Well, long as you’re here, you might as well go next.”

“What?” Chekov hears his voice shoot up.

Kirk sidles around McCoy just then. He’s wearing loose black pants, a towel around his neck, and a customary cheeky grin. Sweat glistens on his defined torso, and despite his panic Chekov has a moment for an internal sigh of envy.

“This man is a sadist, Pavel,” he intones darkly, holding his arm out straight to point at McCoy. “Save yourself.”

McCoy grumbles and swats Kirk’s hand away. “It's a stress test, not a torture chamber. Now get the hell out of my clinic before I tell Starfleet you failed your physical.”

Chekov’s knees go weak and wobbly with relief. He hasn’t lost the bet, he hasn’t inadvertently heard Dr. McCoy fucking the captain over an exam table, and he doesn’t have to hide Sulu’s body in a Jeffries tube. With a babbled, “Sorry, Captain, I must go to my post!” he flees.

On his way out the door, he can hear McCoy muttering, “I know he’s a genius, Jim, but there’s something not right about that boy.”




If it had just been Chekov, McCoy wouldn’t have paid it any mind. But over the next few days, he gets more visitors than the physical schedule requires. Scotty comes by to share some godawful liquor he’s brewed up in that still Spock blithely refuses to acknowledge, staring at McCoy with beady eyes as he forces it down. He wants to know when he’s due for his exam and, oddly, how the captain’s went.

Uhura brings him some tea one afternoon, just when his back is aching and he’s thinking about catching a ten-minute nap in his office. She doesn’t try to make much conversation, just studies his face for a solid ninety seconds and leaves looking pleased with herself. McCoy is briefly puzzled, but he stopped trying to understand women way back before he took off his wedding band. Ones who happen to be bonded to pointy-eared assholes seem especially impenetrable.

He’s treated Sulu after quite a few missions and knows the helmsman has a high tolerance for pain. After Sulu comes in for a tiny, barely bleeding scratch from fencing practice, McCoy slaps an adhesive bandage on it and asks the ceiling, “What the hell is going on with these people?”

“You really don’t know?” Christine Chapel glances up from her log. There’s a secret at the corner of her smile.

“Nurse Chapel,” he says in his most authoritative voice, the one that always makes Jim’s gaze skitter away when he’s done something stupid. “As your Chief Medical Officer, I’m ordering you to tell me what I apparently do not know.”

Chapel taps her nails against the data pad and arches an eyebrow, still smiling. “I’ll tell you, sir, but only because it’s kept me amused for a week now. You’ve become the subject of your very own gossip column.”




“Oh, come on, Bones! It’ll be funny!”

Bones glares at him over the mouth of the bottle. “It will not be funny because I ain’t doin’ it,” he rasps. “I never should’ve told you in the first place.”

“Yeah, you always say that but you never actually stop telling me shit,” Kirk points out, stretching out a leg to kick him in the shin. They’re sitting on the floor in Bones’ quarters, exactly where Kirk found him twenty minutes ago. The bottle of replicated whiskey was already half gone by then. Bones has always hated the fake stuff, which meant he had to be twitchy over something to drink it. Kirk simply applied pressure (okay, wheedled) until he finally gave in and snapped that he needed to rein in his crew. Kirk applied some more pressure until Bones told him why.

And that was when Kirk’s brilliant brain came up with this masterful plan.

Bones hoists the bottle up and peers dolefully into the mouth.

“If you do this with me, I won’t go planetside for any missions for a whole month.”

He snorts, licking at the last few drops. “What would I do with all that free time?”

“Two months,” Kirk offers, getting up on his knees and scooting closer. “And I’ll set you up with that hot Engineering recruit, and make Spock be nice to you, and – and write up chart reports instead of getting myself beaten, bloodied, kidnapped, or shot!”

Bones shuffles away and holds the bottle up crossed with one arm like Kirk is fucking Dracula. Kirk grips his shoulders for balance and stares down at him with eyes as wide and sweet and blue as he can manage.

“Please, Bones? It’s been slow lately, that’s the only reason this rumor got rolling.” Bones’ mouth twists and he looks resolutely past Kirk’s ear.

“And really,” Kirk adds with his brightest smile, “it’s kind of the only way to make it go away.”

“I’d like to make you go away right now,” Bones mutters. He groans and throws his head back against the edge of the bed. “Why do I always let you talk me into these things?”

Kirk sits back on his heels, knowing he’s won. The Giant Blue Eyes of Doom never fail him. Not to mention that after nearly four years, Bones is easy to handle. It's no wonder everybody thinks they’re fucking.




“You asked for me, Captain?”

Bones looks like he wants to be anywhere else in the universe, including a rickety shuttle with expired safety registration. But he’s shown up on the bridge like Kirk ordered (okay, begged).

“Yes, Doctor,” he says, adding heat and honey to his voice. He keeps his gaze on Bones, but out of the corner of his eye he can see Sulu perk up. Perfect. “I require…attention.”

It kind of looks like Bones is having a seizure, the way he’s trying to contain the eye-rolling and the jumpy eyebrows.

“Mr. Spock, Mr. Sulu,” Kirk snaps, making Sulu jump. Spock turns around, equanimity written across his features. “I have the conn. Why don’t you both go take a short break, have a cup of coffee? We’ve got a long shift ahead.”

“The hours are the same as always, Captain,” Spock remarks, tilting his head slightly. “And it is against procedure to leave one person on the bridge.”

“It’s not one person, Dr. McCoy’ll be here,” says Kirk, doing his best to undress Bones with his eyes. It’s not exactly difficult, considering they shared a room for ages and Kirk’s seen him naked a hundred times. Well, maybe not a hundred – not everyone’s as uninhibited as James T. Kirk. Not that Bones has any reason to be shy, because his body is pretty much perfect. Not that Kirk was really looking, ever, because other than being captain it’s the one thing in life he’s managed to not fuck up (not yet, anyway).

Bones is staring out at the stars. Pissily.

Sulu’s already out of his chair, bouncing on the balls of his feet, no doubt eager to run off and get the others. Of course he is – he’s about to win the wager. Kirk’s not entirely clear on what he’s going to win, but he wishes him well.

“You’re dismissed, Commander,” he says with finality, and at this Spock heaves the equivalent of a Vulcan sigh – a slightly deeper breath – and follows on Sulu’s heels.

They don’t activate the door controls, and neither does Kirk.

He swivels his chair until he’s got his back to the door, beckoning to Bones with one finger. Bones clenches his jaw hard enough to turn his lips white and walks stiff-legged around in front of him.

“You are such a fucking asshole,” he mutters, shaking his head.

Kirk beams at him, calculating that Scotty’s had sufficient time to get up here and he’s the farthest away. In a much louder voice, he says, “God, Bones, I’ve wanted you all day.”

Bones’ nostrils flare. Kirk reaches out and yanks him down by the collar, sinking low in the chair so it’ll look like they’re kissing passionately from behind. In reality, Bones is hissing violent imprecations against his neck and Kirk’s making smacking noises into the air.

“On your knees,” he says, breathless from holding back giggles. Bones narrows his eyes, but for the first time Kirk catches a glimmer of humor. This’ll be even better if he can make Bones laugh – that’s one of his favorite things to do anyway.

Good as his word, Bones drops down in front of the chair. Kirk tips his head back, gripping one armrest (his other hand would be tangled in his lover’s hair, of course).

“Oh, Bones,” he cries, rolling his neck. “Oh yeah, baby, give it to me!”

“The sick thing is, you’d do this without an audience,” Bones whispers, and he’s letting himself smile now. He props his chin on Kirk’s knee. His lips are swollen from being bitten, as they’d be if he’d really kissed the hell out of someone – out of Kirk. Even, Kirk thinks, unable to tear his eyes away from that red mouth, even like they’d be if he were actually sucking Kirk’s cock right now.

He swallows, forgetting to moan. Bones is laughing silently, shoulders shaking, his breath hot against Kirk’s thigh.

“So good,” Kirk says, and his voice is softer – too soft to be properly heard from the doorway, really. Bones looks up at him sharply.

Kirk leans forward a little. “So fucking good, Bones,” he says, a little louder. If Bones moved his head he’d see that Kirk is getting hard. But he’s just staring, eyes growing darker and deeper. Kirk forgets the act once more.

“Your hands on me - your mouth on me,” he murmurs. Bones lifts his chin from Kirk’s knee but his hands are braced on soft black leather, either side, pinning him there. As if Kirk could move when Bones is looking at him like this, like he’s lost in the desert and Kirk is a long, cool drink of water.

Bones shifts slightly, there on the floor. Kirk wants to touch his face but he doesn’t dare move.

“Harder,” he bites out, hand sliding restlessly on the armrest, hips rolling under no one’s ministrations. It gets him a little bit of friction and he gasps.

Throat working – Kirk swears he can see the jump of a pulse – Bones finally breaks his gaze, glancing over Kirk’s shoulder. Once more Kirk remembers that they’re supposed to be putting on a show. He gives himself a little shake, feeling dizzy.

“That’s it, right there,” he calls out hoarsely. Bones won’t look at him anymore and it’s like someone turned out the sun. Kirk whispers to him, trying to make him smile again – “Okay, big finish.”

It doesn’t work. Fuck. He can’t concentrate while he’s getting a fake blowjob.

He lets out a long, loud moan. Orgasm, ecstasy, blah blah blah. Then he grabs a fistful of blue shirt and hauls. Bones is so startled that he actually goes, landing in Kirk’s lap with a grunt of surprise.

“What are you –”

“Making it look good.” He tilts his head to one side, pulling Bones down until their faces are pressed together. Not their mouths, but close enough. Kirk closes his eyes, breathing hard for effect but mostly because he can feel a half-hard cock against his thigh.

He hears the patter of soft-soled boots in the corridor, and grins against Bones’ cheek.




“We brought this on ourselves,” Sulu hisses, hands clapped over his ears. Chekov has already taken off running.

Scotty is peering interestedly at the back of the chair. “Figured he’d be loud, but he sort of fades in and out, no?”

Uhura pushes her shoulders back against a bulkhead and does – not – look – at the bridge. She’s glad Spock refused to stay, claiming that he would be content to judge the outcome in the morning once they’ve presented him with the proper evidence (she was pretty sure he was joking about writing up an official report).

She’s glad, because she couldn’t stand next to him and listen to Jim Kirk moaning wantonly and not embarrass herself in front of her colleagues.

“Okay, that’s it, I’m out,” Sulu announces, and he lights out in the same direction as Chekov. Uhura can’t spare any corner of her brain to follow that thought– she’s already processing way too much information about people’s personal lives today.

Scotty sticks out his hand, a twinkle in his eye. “D’ye concede, then, Lieutenant?” He seems to be the only one unaffected by the display, but then he's pretty unflappable as long as Enterprise isn't keening in distress all around them.

Uhura shrugs and shakes it. “I was wrong. The captain and the doctor are apparently involved in a romantic dalliance.”

“If by ‘romantic dalliance’ you mean ‘shagging each other rotten,' then sure,” Scotty corrects her smugly. “G’night.” He whistles as he wanders off down the hall.

The bridge has gone quiet. Uhura steels herself and peeks around the door frame. She can just see McCoy’s dark head pop up next to Kirk’s sunny blond hair.

She’d been so sure that there was nothing between them. Kirk has the attention span of a gnat when it comes to sexual partners; McCoy has ‘serial monogamist’ written all over his recently divorced face. On a purely physical level she can see the attraction – maybe too well – but it just isn’t…logical.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Spock had better be there when she gets back to her room.




They’re gone. They’re gone and McCoy’s trousers are too tight and Jim’s still got an arm across his back.

He twists away, avoiding Jim’s gaze. This is why he never plays games, not like this – they always go too far. Tries to stop his legs from trembling as he stands, mostly succeeds although his flaming cheeks still give it away.

Jim’s hand shoots out to grab his wrist. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“You’ve had your fun, Jim,” says McCoy roughly.

“Not even close,” Jim breathes. He starts to tug him back and McCoy leans away, raising the first protest that comes to his addled brain.

“I am not sitting on your lap like a kid at Christmastime!”

Jim laughs. Before McCoy can blink, he’s pulled and pushed and reclining in the damned chair with Jim climbing on top of him. He shifts back and McCoy’s arms go around him in reflex, tightening. No matter how pissed off he got he’d never let Jim fall. Bastard knows it, too.

His grin softening, Jim brushes his fingertips over McCoy’s lips. McCoy shudders at the touch, expecting Jim to start back up with the dirty talk now that he’s decided to put his money where his mouth is, and where McCoy’s mouth is for that matter.

But he doesn’t. He only kisses McCoy, slow and deep and burning. He’s still quiet when he reaches out to tug their zippers down, though McCoy’s breath hitches as Jim palms his cock. He keeps his grip on Jim’s hips, steadying him, while Jim wraps long fingers around them both. He trails searing kisses down McCoy’s neck, sucking fingers into his mouth when McCoy raises a shaky hand to his face. He slides it down Jim’s belly, pushes his tongue into Jim’s panting mouth and rubs his thumb over the heads of their cocks.

He strokes up as Jim strokes down, and it’s so easy and so fucking good that he comes quick and hard like a teenager. Jim swallows his moan and presses forward, nails digging into the muscles at the small of his back. Grip slick and sure on Jim’s cock, he sucks at the join of neck and shoulder. His turn now –

“Come for me, Jim,” he rumbles. Jim grinds down onto him, chest heaving. “Want to make you beg, God, want to hold you down and fuck you so hard…”

Jim squeezes his eyes shut, hips jerking – spills hot and sticky over McCoy’s palm, crying, “Bones, fuck.”

He falls heavy on McCoy’s shoulder, arms and legs going completely limp. McCoy wipes his hand off on his pants and grabs Jim before he can slide to the floor, rearranging him into a more comfortable sprawl. Jim drowsily kisses his jaw, heedless of the mess they’ve made of his beloved captain’s chair.

It’s a bad, bad idea to fall asleep in this chair. It needs to be cleaned – hell, so do they – and it’ll give him one hell of a crick in the neck. The stupid bet was one thing, the prank’s over now; it is officially past time to take this behind closed doors where it belongs. Moreover, at some point they're going to have figure out exactly what this is.

But just now his arms are full of warm, sleepy, sated Jim; and he can’t quite bring himself to move just yet.




Spock does not require the same amount of sleep as humans, and so he does not keep comparable hours. After leaving the eavesdroppers at the bridge, he returns to his own quarters and answers several outstanding Starfleet communiqués. It’s dull work, well-suited to a slow evening.

Still restless, and frankly concerned for the state of the ship when Kirk is left alone at the helm, he takes a leisurely route back to the bridge. Surely McCoy has dragged Kirk off to bed by now. Spock sensed earlier that he was not pleased about being summoned to service the captain, although he was clearly aroused by the idea.

He has overestimated one of them and underestimated the other, it would seem.

They are curled up together in the chair, Kirk’s face buried in McCoy’s neck, McCoy’s arms wrapped around Kirk’s waist. It cannot be comfortable and yet they show no interest in shifting position; nor do they notice his approach, although McCoy at least is mostly awake.

Spock backs away slowly.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs, and sets off for Nyota's cabin.