Hopping Hall Corner

Zsshwoop!

McCoy scowled at the hypospray held at eye level, shaking it slowly and observing the vaccine swish. The sound of the ward door opening and shutting only faintly registered.

"Bones," a familiar, somewhat dramatically urgent summons came across the empty office to the adjoining lab area. The interrupted doctor put on a burly sullen look for the approaching captain, and upon his arrival gave the grumpy greeting,

"Hands off the lab table." Kirk huffed in exaggerated irritation, smirking amenably as he twirled a uniform undershirt around one hand, keeping the other on the off-white surface it had been ordered off of.

"Bones," he spoke in the intimate yet mystically condescending tone reserved for his good friend, "I… have a job for you." The doctor entered a notation on a med inventory PADD and rested the hypospray in an open drawer before looking up with mild mistrust.

"Okay," he stretched his own arms out, palms planted on the table in mimicry of the captain, "what's in it for me?" Kirk tilted his head and eyed him knowingly and Bones' reproving glance began to show hints of humor until the pair collapsed into good-hearted laughter. The doctor made a clear space on the table between them, saying, "No, no, I'm just kiddin' ya… What can I do ya for?" Kirk spread the shirt on the vacant table area and looked up with rougish eagerness.

"I… found this in a… rather… odd place, Bones, on my way to the mess this morning." The corners of the doctor's mouth turned down and an acutely arched brow rose in contemplation. The captain, however, kept an oddly intense look focused on his conversation partner. "The shirt itself was discarded at the base of an engineering maintenance tube-"

"Which way'd ya go to mess this mornin'?-"

"and, the placement made it seem as though the shirt had been… removed during some…" McCoy looked up, squinting defensively at the penetrating gaze that met his, "questionable activity." The captain leaned back into a normal standing position, having hunched over the table in the fervor of his explanation. "So," he clapped his hands together, "Spock's running a check for me to see who on board is men's size small."

"And loving it, I'm sure," McCoy replied dryly, marveling at the captain's severe deviation from "on task". "But, whatda ya want me to do?"

"Oh, right," Kirk curtailed a movement towards a biobed end, "finger prints, Bones, or DNA, whatever you can find on that to find out whose it is." He changed his mind and hopped on an empty lab table, eying the doctor expectantly.

Bzzbzzbzz.

Click.

"Sick bay, Kirk here," McCoy rolled his eyes at the nonchalance with which this invasion of his turf was made. Spock appeared on the comm screen from the bridge.

"Captain, I am feeding my results to your present communicator."

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Spock," Kirk glanced briefly at McCoy, than back at the small print replacing the image of his first officer. He promptly began scanning the names. After the passing of several minutes, he stated without turning from the screen, "Bones, could you get to work on the shirt?" The doctor started out of his reverie of over-the-shoulder reading,

"Well, I – no, Jim. It's a violation of privacy."

"Bones," the captain faced the defiant McCoy, "it's part of my job to know who has time to do the dirty in the halls."

"Pssh!" the doctor rounded the lab table and stopped cross armed in front of the again name hunting Kirk.

"Hmm… Mr. Sulu wears a small… and yes, so does Mr. O'Reilly…"

"Ahem."

"Dr. M'Benga, really? I would have placed him as a medium…"

"Ahem."

"Yes, Bones, do you need something?"

"I'm not gonna scan that thing."

"Okay, I order you to."

"Jim, it's unethical to pry like some-"

"I already told you, I am justified in knowing-"

"Old Baptist gossipy granny-"

"to maintain safety and sanitary-"

"if it were you, would ya like it if Spock randomly ordered a-"

"it's as simple as that, Bones, there's no question-"

"but since you're the captain, it's a-ok ta just order a-"

"and besides, I already know-"

"SOME LITTLE ENSIGN WHO ACCIDENTALLY DROPPED HIS LAUNDRY ON THE WAY TO-"

"I ALREADY KNOW IT'S YOUR SHIRT, BONES, AND I-"

"WELL, WHAT'S WITH ALL THE SNEAKY AND UNDERHANDED-"

"SO IF YOU JUST WANT TO GO AHEAD AND TELL ME-"

"I'VE GOT NO PROBLEM BEING HONSET WITH MY CAPTAIN-"

"WHO YOU WERE SCREWING IN THE HALLWAY, THEN-"

"I SURE AS HELL WASN'T SCREWING ANYBODY-"

"THAT WOULD BE GREAT!"

Zsshwoop!

The final shouted syllables reported sharply as the feuding duo turned hastily to an awkwardly entering Scotty.

"Am ah, uh, interruptin' sometin'?" The engineer scratched the back of his head with his free hand.

The other held a very nearly neatly folded uniform undershirt. Size small.

The tension dissolved instantly.

"Hey, Scotty-"

"Here," the doctor hurried to meet him at the door, "let me take that." Kirk's smirk returned as he watched a confused Scotty lean down to hear a residually ticked off message from McCoy and then an understanding whispered reply and, if Kirk wasn't mistaken, a quick kiss on the cheek. He returned the parting salute from the sheepishly grinning engineer and fixed a hautily victorious look on McCoy. "So you were being screwed, not screwing-"

"Shut up!"

"That's funny, Bones, I-"

"SHUT UP!" the doctor stopped mid-prowl and beaned Kirk square in the abdomen with the compact shirt. He stifled the captain's heckle with a simmering glare. "Ass off the lab table!" Kirk slid down obligingly as McCoy stalked fuming to his hyposprays and violently seized the previously examined one, slamming it down, and picking another. Kirk watched for several seconds before slyly asking,

"Did he ki-"

"James T. Kirk, I'm gonna stick this hypospray up your-" the captain snickered as he exited the medical ward at a trot, leaving a menacing McCoy to his inventory. The doctor stared down the door heatedly before taking a deep breath and picking up the shirt on the floor. He layed it next to the one Kirk had brought.

After a moment of thought, he checked the tag of the one Scotty had found, suspecting that it was not a replacement as he and the captain had thought nor the original Scotty had believed it to be.

Sure enough, a neat H.S. was on the label.

"Quite the hopping hall corner, I suppose," he muttered, returning at last to his vaccine examination.