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TITLE: My Best Friends' Wedding
CHARACTERS: Spock/McCoy, Kirk
NOTES: Written for the kink meme. Not-terribly-appropriate!title is not terribly appropriate.
SUMMARY: So the telepathic bond thing seems to be working for Spock and Bones. Except for the part where it's driving Jim up the wall.

Jim couldn't be happier for his friends. Really. They were together, they were happy, they were finally working off all that bickering in the bedroom where it belonged—

Or they were at least less pissy, and the bickering was less malicious, and Jim figured that was about the best he could hope for short of Admiral Pike descending from the heavens to grant Jim three months of shore leave and a classic 1950s-era convertible filled with Herodotus's complete works and between three and five horny and sexually-liberated women. One of the women could be green, he'd appreciate that, and speaking of, he really ought to ask Gaila to bring a friend the next time they got together to watch Betazoid holodramas. Shit, he couldn't wait to find out if Sabin really had it in for Reinette's fourth husband or if he was really having a thing on the side with his half-brother's sister—

Anyway. Bones and Spock.

The marriage thing seemed to be working for them. Like today, on the bridge, when Spock suggested—"suggested" was such a mild word for how Spock said things, he sort of "intoned" and it was all infused with logic and facts and a sort of stony "my-way-or-get-the-fuck-out" sensibility—when Spock intoned that the most reasonable course of action would be to simply beam the kelp straight to the center of the poverty-torn southern continent.

"Maybe you've forgotten," Bones countered, "but that will leave six-hundred thousand sea-dwelling—"

"And feed eight million others," Spock interrupted, which would have been weird enough because, as Jim was acutely aware on every diplomatic mission, it would be a hot day on Delta Vega before Spock would be so crass as to interrupt anyone, except apparently his husband.

"Dammit, don't give me that—" Bones snarled, and then there was a long period of silence, punctuated only by the occasional eyebrow twitch from one or the other.

"Your argument is invalid," Spock concluded, finally, and Jim glanced furtively at Uhura for an interpretation, but she shook her head.

"Well you didn't have to drag Dramia into it," Bones snapped, and Spock countered with, "It is a matter of simple logistics that the needs of many—" and then they were off again, all heavy silence and intense stares and it was about that point Jim realized that they were arguing in their heads.

So he was happy for them. Really. Except for the part where they were driving him up the fucking wall.


And seriously, if he had a direct telepathic link to someone else's brain, he wouldn't waste it on something stupid like arguing. Mind sex, hell yes. Mind blowjobs.

God, that would be freaking fantastic. The Klingons were really starting to get to him, and a mental blowjob right when General whatshisface started with the hail-the-conquering-villain speech could be just what the doctor ordered.

Not his doctor, obviously. But some doctor somewhere would probably order that. It was just Jim's luck that he was stuck with the one-in-five who didn't know how to to have fun.

Telepathic blowjobs. Just think about it.


Then there were mornings like this, when Bones slouched his way in and kind of crumpled into the seat across from Jim and started downing coffee like his blood was made of caffeine. Jim was pretty sure that most doctors would advise against starting the day with only coffee and no food whatsoever, but Bones claimed that the smell of bacon made him sick in the morning and he refused to eat anything for breakfast other than bacon, so: the pot of coffee.

"Hi, Bones," he said. Bones grunted. "Anything exciting planned for today?"

"Yes," Bones said, which took Jim off-guard—people shouldn't be allowed to suddenly go sunny and optimistic on him without warning. "I get the priceless honor of inoculating half the science department against the fascinating new rash Sulu discovered in the botany lab last week." Jim stops holding his breath; it'd be nice to see Bones exhibit signs of life before 0800, but it's even better to know that Bones hasn't been replaced by his counterpart from an alternate universe. Usually Jim can tell by the facial hair or lack thereof, but it's also apparently too much for Bones to show up to breakfast clean-shaven.

"Have you heard about Uhura and Scotty?" Jim said—or started to say, because Bones was staring off into space with a distracted and all-too-familiar expression. Jim twisted around. Across the hall, Spock was eating with Uhura, Chekov, and a passel of junior officers, except he wasn't actually eating but instead staring at a fixed point three feet above Chekov's head. As Jim watched, Spock's eyes narrowed, and then Uhura clapped her hands in front of his face. Bones jumped and sloshed half his cup of coffee onto his shirt.

"Christ!" he yelped, and bolted for the nearest refresher.

From across the room, Jim heard Uhura say, "I had to catch your attention somehow, Spock. You were doing it again."


About three weeks after they left New Vulcan behind, Jim started to see the humor in it. Yeah, the mental conversations were obnoxious, especially when you considered all that potential going to waste; still, it was pretty funny to hear Spock spit out "Well shut my mouth!" in surprise when he first saw Jim all done up like a Romulan. Bones had to lock himself in his office, and they'd heard the sound of muffled laughing from behind the door for nearly ten minutes, but nothing was better then the dull olive flush that crept across Spock's cheeks.

"What I meant to convey, Captain," Spock said, "was my satisfaction that the surgical alterations were completed successfully."

"Oh, you managed to convey that pretty well, Spock," Jim said.

There was another roar of amusement from behind the door. Jim hoped that Bones wouldn't crack a rib laughing. Although it would probably serve him right, the bastard.


It also helped to know that they didn't leave him out intentionally, and as time passed they both seemed to adjust to things. And when Jim actually felt what they had between them—yeah, he decided, he could cut them a break.

"Turn right when you get to the third tunnel past the second fork, and you'll pass a loose patch of dirt in front of a tunnel," Jim said, "only you don't want that tunnel, the main console's down the one past that—"

"Good God, man," Bones growled, and then ducked as one of the Nefelese tried to fling a rock at his head. "Can't you draw him a map!"

Spock spread his fingers and said, "Captain, if you will allow me?"

Jim nodded, and Spock pressed the psi points on Jim's face, and then—

There was the familiar sensation of falling. Nine-tenths of his concentration was spent on the mental map, on trying to convey a physical reality to Spock through a combination of memory and extrapolation, but there was always a little seepage in a mind-meld, and now Jim could just make out the warm curl of Bones' thoughts around Spock's own.

Jim's eyes snapped open. "Thank you, Captain," Spock said, and started to lower himself into the access hole.

"Before you go," Jim said. Spock paused and tilted his head inquiringly; Jim cast a glance over his shoulder—Bones was currently occupied with flinging rocks back at the Nefelese—and lowered his voice. "Mind sex, Spock," he said, lowly and urgently.

"Jesus Christ, Jim, I heard that!" Bones shouted, and Spock's eyebrow crawled upward.

"I meant you to!" Jim called back, and then lowered his voice again. "Telepathic sex," he repeated, and grinned. "Just think about it, okay?"
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