There's no alcohol involved, which is strange. Spencer had always thought, on those occasions when he actually allowed himself to think about this, that there would be alcohol.
Maybe one too many bottles of beer while Derek tries to convince him that watching football is more interesting than C-SPAN. He'd pictured it in secret, his hand wrapped around his cock and his cheeks flushed with equal parts shame and arousal. Pictured the blur of clinking green bottles, the condensation wet and cold on his palm, the debate getting more impassioned with each greedy gulp. Imagined the way Derek would feel, warm and relaxed at his side, his eyes laughing even while his lips curled with mock scorn. They'd get closer as they argued, bodies and tongues looser than usual, and then one of them would close the distance. The kiss would be hard and wet and messy, electric with the intensity of their only mostly fake fight. Spencer would groan, the taste of hops on Derek's lips driving him insane.
Of course, it was just as likely--which is to say, not at all--that it could happen at one of the clubs or bars Derek's been resolutely dragging him to for their 'guy's night' the last couple years. They'd do shots, and for once Derek wouldn't continually disappear onto the dance floor with any of the girls with fuck me heels and bedroom eyes. They'd sit at the bar. Not a table or a booth, because then he'd have to sit across from Derek, but at the bar he could sit next to him, maybe even close enough so that their shoulders would press together and their knees would brush.
Derek would laugh and tell stories about being on the bomb squad. More than one of his coworkers had been big into practical jokes, and while Spencer's never understood the humor in rigging someone's locker to blow when they open it, even non-fatally, he would laugh too because it was Derek slurring his way through an impression of a former Valley girl turned explosives expert. Eventually, Derek would decide he wanted to dance, because Derek always wants to dance sooner or later, but would be too impatient to take the time to pick up a girl. And Spencer would find himself out on the dance floor, body pressed close to Derek's, hip to hip and chest to chest, a little tight and a lot hot and all dirty grinding. Those were the nights when Spencer pictured them out behind the bar or crowded together in a tiny bathroom stall, his hands braced against dirty brick or cold metal, Derek's breath hot on the back of his neck and his fingers biting bruises into his hips.
There are a thousand scenarios in his head that he could pull up at a moment's notice, like some kind of equation or obscure fact. Sometimes it would be at a Christmas party, where someone had spiked the punch and hung up mistletoe. Other times they were out drinking with the team and Garcia would twist their arms to play truth or dare and it would go too far. Maybe a case would go bad and Derek would show up at his door, drenched with rain--because literature has always demanded that the weather fit the mood whenever applicable, and Spencer is nothing if not a good student--and almost too drunk to stand, and would fall clinging and needy into Spencer's arms.
Half the time he'd thought it would have to be him to make the first move, the other half he let himself pretend that the little looks and grins Derek's always thown his way have a deeper meaning, that he wants this as desperately as Spencer does.
Bone deep and painful and distracting.
Those were the times when it was best, when he'd come so hard that he felt almost numb with the overload of it, his body slowly coming back to him with trembling, achey pleasure. They were also the times when Spencer couldn't quite look at himself in the mirror afterward.
So, to say that Spencer's dreamed about this happening a thousand times would be an understatement, but he'd always thought it would be half booze influenced mistake if it ever did. He hadn't once allowed himself to even consider a different possibility.
But then there's Derek, who's sitting there next to him while a late night showing of The Blob plays on Spencer's TV, his eyes locked on his lips and his fingers slowly, cautiously stroking into his hair. The half full cups on the coffee table are filled with coke, because they have to work in the morning, and Derek's eyes are completely clear, if somewhat darker than usual, and Spencer's frozen with surprise that's edging slowly into incredulous joy. And when Derek finally leans in, his lips gentle and careful and intimate in a way Spencer never dared hope they would be, he opens to his touch and feels intoxicated.