Notes: Short, pointless threesome, featuring slightly-moronic-Jim.

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek 2009, and I make no profit from this work.

Vulcan Tachycardia

Despite what Bones always grumbled, and what everyone else bar Uhura seemed to think, finding Spock off-duty was easy. He was either in the labs, the mess, the rec room (and that meant with Uhura, and not to be disturbed from whatever she had planned on pain of emasculation and death), or one of their respective quarters.

Jim had just come from the mess, and passed Uhura on the way. Two down, two to go.

Their respective quarters were limited in options. Spock outright refused to go into his, citing potential biohazards as his reason (Jim maintained that he was nowhere near that bad, but neither Bones nor Spock seemed inclined to believe him, the bastards) and given that Spock and Bones had neighbouring cabins, it was simply a case of 'walk in and find out.'

He guessed right.

Bones kept his quarters warm - not hot, like Spock's, but still warm. He claimed it was less like being in an oversized tin can piloted by a kid barely out of diapers that way. Jim always retorted that Sulu was wholly toilet trained, thank you very much. But when Spock invaded, warm became hot - and Jim walked into a wall of hot.

"I thought you had been collared by Uhura for music practice on Wednesdays?" he asked Spock's back. He was sitting at McCoy's desk with a padd. Probably working, overzealous freak.

"She has a date."

Jim's interest peaked. "Who with?"

"She refuses to tell me."

"But she hinted, right?"


"So? You've worked it out, right?"


"Going to tell me? Tell me. Captain's right to know."


Jim snorted and snatched the padd. Spock let it go without a murmur; it was the beginnings of next month's gamma rota. Nobody liked gamma shift, and Spock had taken to rotating the beta and gamma teams around to avoid stagnation.

"You can do that later," Jim said, tossing it aside. "Waiting for Bones or waiting for me?"

Spock didn't grace him with an answer; he rose fluidly from the chair to retrieve the padd, and Jim took his place.

"C'mere," he offered, holding out his arms when Spock turned, and was given an arched eyebrow. "Hey. C'mere!"

Spock sat on the edge of the bed, toed off his boots, and folded his feet up under himself, serenely unimpressed with Jim's attention.

"It's like having a fucking cat," Jim grumbled, and turned to rummage through McCoy's desk. Privacy be damned; he already knew where the sweet stuff was, and it wasn't in here. The padd started beeping behind him, and he rolled his eyes. "Do you ever go off-duty?"


"Do it."

"I am off-duty," Spock replied flatly. "I am simply waiting, and using my time productively."

"What are you waiting for?" Jim asked, head in the bottom drawer.



"We made a wager, and I have lost."

Jim's interest sat up again. Spock making bets? This he had to hear about.

"What kind of a wager?" he asked, finding Bones' spare tricorder at the back of the drawer and switching it on experimentally. "Huh. Still works."

"On you, as it happens," Spock said calmly. "Leonard was insistent that your libido..."

Jim scowled. He didn't like the sound of this.

"...was more stubborn than the norm, and would not be hampered by the vaccine for Tellarite flaking disease. I was sceptical."

"You mean you had a bet about whether or not I'd be up for it after that battery of hypos last week?"


Jim scowled. "You're both bastards."

Spock shrugged minutely. "And I have lost the wager. I will learn from it, and not challenge Leonard over matters concerning your libido again."

Jim snorted, and waved the tricorder over himself. It beeped merrily. "Seriously. You're both bastards. Anyway, I'm not the one who fucked in a storage closet."

Spock raised an eyebrow, but didn't dignify that with an answer.

"So what do you have to do?" Jim asked, coming to wave the tricorder over him. Why not? He never got to play with Bones' toys. "Sing in the mess or something?"


Jim grinned. "Can I watch?"

Spock offered him a long-suffering look. Jim had seen it all before, and was wholly unimpressed.

"So - what? He's going to tie you up and fuck you?"

Spock coloured and said, "You have an excellent grasp of the scenario at hand as always, Jim."

"Excellent grasping, that's me," Jim snickered, and frowned at the tricorder. "Huh. Must be busted. Or something. You okay?"


Jim poked the two alarms that flashed on the screen. "What's a code thirteen?"

"Medical tricorders differ from scientific ones, Jim. I rather doubt that the tricorder is insisting that the atmosphere is unbreathable."

Jim dropped the tricorder on the sheets, still scanning, and went to rummage for a manual. If Bones kept one. The man was like a monkey with a rock sometimes; reading the instructions was for morons.

"Why do you always get the fun times with Bones?" Jim complained, head in the drawer again. "He just snarls at me."

"He 'snarls' at everyone, Jim."

"Yeah, but he has a special snarl for me."

"Is that what they're callin' it these days?"

Bones' drawl was sudden and loud, and Jim yelped as he cracked the back of his head on the desk.


Bones snickered, and dropped his tunic over the back of Jim's neck. "I'm not even gonna ask what you're doin' in there."

Jim extracted himself enough to watch a shirtless (thank you Lord) Bones cross to the bed to remove Spock's padd and kiss him. There was something weirdly hot about watching Bones get so focused on anyone like that, and Jim paused in his hunt to watch. Bones was grumpy with his affections most of the time; it took all of Jim's charm and wheedling to squeeze a single drop of emotional blood from the rock of a doctor. If it wasn't sex or foreplay, Bones didn't do it, unless Jim waged war to get it.

Spock didn't wage wars, so he didn't get it. To watch them doing something like kiss, with (most) of their clothes on was intriguing.

(Jim didn't get it. Spock could go kinda soft and shy with him, but he and Bones were like...well, they were all prickly and shit. Like Bones. Twice over. It was scary.)

So he watched the strangely sweet display (sort of, anyway) until Bones broke it off and moved away again, stuffing the padd under a pile of other identical ones on the shelf. Bones always broke things off first; Spock always looked like nothing had happened whatsoever. Over-perfected bastard. Jim pointed the tricorder at him and watched the numbers start flashing again.

"Bones," he called when the doctor passed into the bathroom. "What's a code thirteen on a tricorder?"

"Yours or ours?"


"Tachycardia," Bones called over the sound of the faucet.

Jim blinked. Spock was removing his socks, and graced him with a distinctly dirty look when the tricorder was shoved in his face again.

"What's a code sixteen?"

"Abnormal blood pressure."

Jim poked the alarms. There were three orange lights and two red, and he squinted at the readout. Spock was looking utterly exasperated.

"What's a two?"

"Deficiencies. Iron, vitamins, that kind of thing," Bones sounded muffled; he was washing his face, by the sounds of it.

"What are four and eight?"

"What is this, a-?"

"Four and eight, Bones!"

Bones snorted audibly. "Organ failure and unspecified overdose."


"What the hell, Jim?" Bones emerged from the bathroom scowling, towel around his neck and hair dripping. "Can't a man - get off me, you infant!"

Jim dragged him to the bed without a care for the protest and shoved the tricorder in his hands. The readout was flashing imminent failure in green letters, rather like the engineering consoles before something important exploded.

"There's something wrong with Spock!" he blurted out.

Bones offered him the flattest, most sceptical look he'd ever received in his life.

"There is!" Jim insisted, stabbing the readout urgently. "Just look! Look! You've got to..."

"Ye-es," Bones said, waving the tricorder from head to toe almost lazily. "Specifically, he's missing his pancreas, he's mysteriously overdosing on copper, his blood pressure says he's dead despite a heart rate fast enough to wake the damn dead, and his iron and sugar levels are on the floor with said blood pressure."


"He's struck with the horrible affliction of being Vulcan, Jim," Bones said sharply, switching it off and dropping it back to the sheets. Jim's rising heart rate dropped with it. "Which is medically horrific, I agree with you, but there ain't a damn thing I can do about it and, unfortunately, it ain't gonna kill him."

Jim flushed hot, but Bones' attention was diverted by Spock's bare feet sliding from the edge of the mattress to the floor. The acidic look that he'd been given Jim and the tricorder had turned fluidly on the doctor, and he began to unwind himself, making as if to stand.

"Sit," Bones said sharply, pushing him back down onto the mattress. "You lost the damn bet, now take your punishment like a man."

"Now that we have finally come to the brilliant conclusion that I am not a man, I see no reason to do so."

"Shut your trap," Bones said genially. "Jim's a moron and you're uptight. Nothing's changed. Now you can sit down and shut up, or I can pump sedatives into your system until you wouldn't know if you were Vulcan, Human or goddamn Klingon."

"You'd fuck him in his sleep?" Jim asked, suddenly distracted from the anxiety and the faint embarrassment.

"It would not be the first time," Spock muttered, sounding almost petulant.

"Next time you feel like playin' doctor, find a properly calibrated tricorder," Bones suggested, working his fingers under the hem of Spock's tunic and stripping it off him effortlessly. "Or you could learn somethin' by usin' that and watchin' how bad Vulcan tachycardia can get. Don't you give me that look, hobgoblin, you do have tachycardia. Just not that ridiculous."

Jim grinned; Spock looked less than impressed, making a noise almost like a growl as Bones pressed him back into the mattress.

And Bones didn't give a damn.