AndreaLyn

Two fingers to his temple and it’s suddenly not just a joke for McCoy to rely on any longer. Spock’s body (his second time around when McCoy’s still wearing out the first) is his own, but those are his two fingers tapping against McCoy’s temple. Too light to be a mind meld, too heavy to be a lingering brush to remove a stray piece of fabric.

“What do you want me to remember this time, you green-blooded hobgoblin?” McCoy sighs out the words as if they’re fond and distasteful to speak at once and he looks curiously over his station at Spock. He’s pulling an extra shift on the bridge because he’s worried about Spock regaining all his memories, but he’s not about to admit it.

Spock simply quirks his brow at him, the closest approximation to a smile that McCoy’s ever going to get. “I trust that you remember your agreement to dine with me at lunch?”

And if that isn’t an invitation for a date, then McCoy will be plum-wrong, but he’ll at least have ventured a guess in trying.

It’s not so hard to guess Spock’s intentions these days, not when he’s had the man’s consciousness and soul nestled so tightly against his that soulmates isn’t even some silly romantic term as it is a literal description of their time together. He knows what Spock feels deep down buried under ration and logic. He knows what he wants to show, but can’t, bound by his principles.

Spock taps those fingers twice more and McCoy’s lips glide into an easy smile. “Trust me,” he assures, calm and easy. “Some things, I don’t ever forget.”