Disc: Never did. Never have. And thank God I never will, since I can barely afford to take care of myself or my kids (Whoaser and Chinser), own Star Trek, Paramount or Desilu in any form or fashion.

I want to apologize to my baby Whoaser before going any further for having to use her name in this in the fashion that it's used in this story. Her whole name is Whoa Phat and she sorta fits the name but that doesn't mean I really should insult her in this fashion. She is after all my big purrty princess girl. (If you're interested enough, I have a pix of her at my account at Deviantart.) Yes I'm different.

Before anyone says anything I well aware that this is totally impossible to ever happen on Star Trek, but I wrote this originally when I was dealing with a similar situation in my own home. Altho it was only myself and the cats and no Doctor to contend with. And it was actually 2 o'clock in the morning when I wrote this to basically force myself to become tired enough to go to sleep. Not that's a good excuse, but it's the best I can come up with at the moment. Life On the Bridge is a small series I've been working on off and no in my head for a while now.


"Believe me Major Caltrix, I my chief Medical Officer had been aware that it was your Ambassador's wife he was referring to, he would never had used the words genetically altered walrus when speaking of her."

Well honed charming smile fixing itself onto his face, Captain James Kirk hauled himself from his command chair. With an exasperated roll of his eyes he shot a glance at Spock who exhaled slowly in his own version of impatient frustration.

For the last twenty minutes they had been desperately negotiating with the Nanotian's over what had been considered by Kirk, as a tiny indiscretion during the last dinner party aboard the ship before reaching Babel. After six weeks he had also foolishly thought the Nanotian Ambassador and more importantly the Ambassador's wife, had forgotten the whole embarrassing heavily imbibed haranguer of his CMO.

Obviously short term memory loss had not yet effected any other race save for the human, much to the greater percentage of aforementioned species chagrin.

"If there is anything that my crew or myself can do to correct this slight but completely understandable and entirely not my fault misconstrued incident,…"

"Give us the infidel." Growled the square built box of grey mass that literally filled the view screen.

Walking around the navigation console, Kirk laid a hand along the top of the instrument panel while casting a glance at the two men sitting silently on the other side with bored expressions.

If anyone on the bridge had had their druthers and had been given the permission to speak, the multitude would've happily handed over the malefactor medico without batting an eyelash. Possibly stuffed, mounted and professionally gift wrapped if given the appropriate amount of time.

The realistic knowledge that a replacement would've been delivered before the incense smuggled from Spock's secreted supply had a chance to get a descent start to fumigate McCoy's office, kept anyone from jumping up to volunteer.

"I fully appreciate and understand the personal affrontment of the Ambassador and his wife. Also the obvious indignation of the entire Nanotian race." With his trademark quick decisive spin back toward the screen as he spoke, Kirk again offered a hasty prayer to the god's of negotiation. "However what you ask is entirely impossible."

The expression on the dull battleship gray equilateral shaped face never moved a millimeter. However his butt apparently dropped three inches followed by his whole upper frame as he continued to stare at Kirk faintly bored annoyance.

"Give us the infidel."

For several seconds Kirk merely stared at the screen and the granite complexioned Major. All the time he fought off the urge to say 'the hell with it', and have the SUV sized Nanotian space craft blown into belly button lint size, then head for the galley to have espresso and a white chocolate biscotti.

The only problem with that plan was A. Phat Headd.

A. Phat Headd was the representative the Federation had sent to assist in the small but delicate mediations the 'Enterprise' and her intrepid Captain found themselves in. In other words, to make damn sure they did as ordered and did it properly, promptly and without placing the entire Federation space on to the brink of full war.

Five foot five inches, salt and pepper badly trimmed hair, pot belly expanding as the seconds ticked by filling his polyester tailored periwinkle blue jumpsuit, add the fact that he was as intelligent and interesting as a ten pound bag of fertilizer Headd was about useful and needed as a drunk clown on Vulcan.

The only differences with that comparison was even a drunk clown had some sense of humor, even if it was a perverted babbled humor. Headd, had none. Too the point that he could make Spock come across as Milton Berle. A Milton Berle on a slow day, when pulling on a sundress or hoop skirt seemed blasé. Yet, Milton Berle.

Lips pursing once again, Kirk let his shoulders droop a full three centimeters in the only show of this latest momentary exasperation.

If there was anything he prided himself on, other than prowess with anything with a seventy five percent or lower, estrogen level and managing to keep his hair in all it's perfect radiance after any kind of dangerous action, was his legendary shoveling of persuasive bull cookies.

This once however, he feared his renowned skill was working about as well as McCoy in charge of the ship's liquor supply. The doctor would appreciate the gallons of booze but no one else onboard the would. Save for a price.

"If I may inject something useful here."

'Dear God, Buddha, Allah, Santa Clause, whomever is out there tuning in today. Please let us suddenly be caught in an asteroid shower that will strike the bridge, knock loose a ceiling tile hard enough to have it fall and knock that pencil-neck bastard dead.' Was the quick silent prayer that ran through the Captain's mind as he slowly rubbed his fingertips over his forehead.

"Yea Mr. Headd?" Whirling on his heels, Kirk slapped the best faux amiable smile on his face as he blinked anxiously at the Federation representative. "It would be indeed interesting to know if you can say anything useful."

Sarcasm flying a good three feet over his head, Headd moved toward the main screen, taking care not to stagger off the step to the main floor as he had during his other visit's to the bridge.

"With all due respect to Captain Kirk, I'm sure Starfleet would clearly see and understand the purpose of allowing Doctor McCoy or any other crew member of the 'Enterprise' to be allowed to return with the Nanotian's to their home planet for a face to face apology for their action's. It is the least that can be expected considering that all any of us want is to maintain our alliance with you and all of our Federation members."

Mouth hanging slightly askew, Kirk stared at Headd then shifted his stunned yet dazzling hazel gaze to Spock who was momentarily lost in the idea of possibly being rid of his all too human southern bane.

Finding little support from his first officer, Kirk jerked his dumbfounded gaze toward Headd and only found the Federation representative with his mandatory bureaucratic idiot smile plastered on his face.

Admittedly he had his moments that he could've cheerfully handed McCoy over to the first enemy vessel that staggered across their wake when physical season came around every other month. As well as the number of times the meddling medico had managed to wrangle some young lovely he had lined up for shore leave tryst. And then the other two dozen everyday irritants the man worked in before lunch that came to the Captain's mind at that second.

However it would be a cold day on Vulcan or in hell, whichever was the hottest at this point, when anyone else would stand on his bridge and gleefully handover one of his senior officers without batting an eyelash in his direction.

If anyone was going to be throwing anyone to the wolves on this ship, it was going to be him.

Slack jaw clamping shut as he finally turned back toward the screen, Kirk scowled slightly at the satisfied smirk on the Nanotian's granite textured face.

Lower lips puckering up and then out, Kirk set his mind on a hasty scavenger hunt for some argument that would at least waste enough time that the Nanotian would finally get bored, that he failed to note the sound of the lift doors opening behind him.

"Major Caltrix there is no one who appreciates the Federation's stand on this tentative matter than myself. But even you being a commander can surely understand how complicated the…"


"…whole idea let alone the process of filling out the proper forms…"


"Bones, for God sake I'm trying to save your skinny, white as…"

The words trailed off when Kirk spun around to give the Doctor a short blunt reprimand and found a damp, shriveled to the consistency of a prune, towel clad, shower cap swearing McCoy glaring at him.

"What the hell are you doing Bones?!" He hissed once regaining his composure from the sight of the soaking wet, nearly naked Doctor saturating his bridge.

One hand clutched a wood handled loofah sponge while the other hand kept a somewhat tight hold on the sagging word bath towel, McCoy glowered at the Captain.

"We're outta hot water."

Staring incredulously at the man a nerve twitched under Kirk's right eye.

"What?" He managed to grunt while trying to move between the Doctor and Headd.

Absently tugging on his tired looking terry cloth towel, McCoy seem to be shriveling up even more as he stood there dripping in the middle of the bridge.

"Ya got velour lint stuffed in your damn ears flyboy? I said were outta hot water!"

Deciding instantly it was better not to mention the fact that he was in the process of saving his skinny puckered butt, unable to bear the idea of what type of retaliation the Doctor would implode on the bridge, Kirk forced an equally odious scowl on to his face.

"Can't you hold off on this Bones? I'm in the middle of something here!"

"So was I!" McCoy snapped back vehemently, making his towel drop an inch. "You know what my skin is like if I don't thoroughly rinse off even the slimmest layer of soap. I dry up and start flaking like cheap paint on a two hundred year old outhouse."

Jaw grinding like two pieces of flint, Kirk flared his nostrils. "Couldn't you get Scotty to take care of it?"

"Oh yea! Sure!" Snorted the Doctor with a shake of his head sending a spray of water droplets flying in a ten foot radius. "The man hasn't bothered to answer a call of mind ever since the time I had him come to my cabin to unlock my bathroom cabinets after Yeoman Barrow locked herself under my sink. But I still think it had to do with the French maid outfit that bothered him. Like I can help the fact that I look in better in his clothes."

Grimacing in pain at the visualization of that confession, Kirk let his infuriated gaze follow an invisible line along the ceiling counting to himself for several seconds then fixed his eyes back on McCoy.

"For the time being why don't you go down to the mess and have one of the kitchen aides spray you off with the dishwashing sprays. When I get done here I'll have Scotty check the pilot light in the water heater."

"No way." McCoy sniffed as he folder arms in front of him, the loofah he held showering Spock with cold water in the movement while his sagging towel slipped another inch and a half. "The last time you promised me something like that was the time Scotty was to fix the spore and bacteria dispenser in my labs. Instead he drank half the experiments and used some breeding virus cells to make a hybrid vegetarian haggis that put that pointy eared text messaging machine in isolation for two weeks."

The nerve began to twitch at thirty beats a second along Kirk's face as he speculated on the actual amount of time he would spend in prison for manslaughter. With the easily blackmail able witnesses he had present, there was little doubt he would receive a suspended sentence.

"We'll talk about this later when were both sitting in the stockade." Kirk hissed sounding like a king cobra trying to convince a kangaroo rat that he really had given up meant for Lent. "Now get the hell outta here. You're dripping dead skill cell's allover my bridge."

Giving the Captain one final speculating glare, McCoy abruptly harrumphed then did a quick turn on his heels and headed for the lift pausing as he passed Spock.

"by the way you're outta lavender-chamomile body-wash and I drank your last Fresca."

Eyebrow snapping upwards until it all but disappeared under the nearly trimmed bangs, Spock abruptly focused his attention back on his instruments when Kirk and Headd stared bemusedly in his direction.

Snorting to himself in frustration Kirk straightened his shoulders took a quick peek at Headd then glared at McCoy as he stepped into the lift and from view when the door's snapped shut.

Kirk glared at the closed turbo lift doors, the gold flecked somewhat haggard hazel stare narrowing specifically on one thing. The damp corner of a bath towel firmly hanging between the closed door panels.

Face darkening instantly, the Captain bypassed the startled federation representative and gave the Nanotian Major a hard inflexible look. "Security will have him packed and ready in fifteen minutes."


Medicus Lacrimo--Roughly latin for Doctor Drip. yea, I already told you I was different.