@regulationblues prompted: Post search for Spock where he only remembered Jim, Bones really misses his arguing partner and feels that maybe his friendship wasn't as important to Spock
“Jim. Your name is... Jim.”
Jim had been so ecstatic that Spock recognized him he hadn’t noticed McCoy go stiff and awkward by his side. Spock had mingled in their little group, naming each of them in turn until he’d gotten to McCoy. Spock had been silent, his head tipped to one side as he studied McCoy. They met eyes and McCoy thought, It’s me! It’s me, dammit! You were inside my head!
But Spock said nothing. Merely turned when his father called.
Now it was hours later and McCoy was tossing and turning on an uncomfortably thin Vulcan mattress. It was unfair, that was what it was. After all he’d done for Spock. After carrying him around inside his head, after all those arguments he’d pretended to lose, after all those years of--friendship.
He felt like crying and he buried his face in his hands, cursing the thin mattress. Spock didn’t remember him. But he remembered Spock. Lord, how he remembered Spock.
McCoy jumped at the sound of footsteps. He turned and squinted in the dark as a white-robed figure knelt beside him.
“...Spock?”
The Vulcan nodded. He looked so eerie in the half light, his face younger than McCoy remembered, but also flatter. He’d forgotten how to smile as well. “I apologize. Were you asleep?”
“No.” He sat up and scrubbed at his face to do away with any tears. “These damned illogical beds made that impossible.”
He half expected Spock to take the bait, and when he didn’t he felt a deep disappointment. Spock merely looked at him, hair long over his ears. They hadn’t cut it yet.
“Forgive me,” Spock whispered. “What is your name?”
McCoy turned away, swallowing past the lump of sadness in his throat. “It’s true,” he said miserably. “You really don’t remember me.”
“That is not it at all,” Spock said. “I remember you quite clearly. I have an image of you in my mind when I look at you. You are younger and in a strange room with many beds. You are smiling at me when I open my eyes.”
He turned, surprised. That could have been any number of times, but somehow he knew Spock meant that horrible fiasco on Deneva when he’d blinded Spock. “You remember that?”
“It is merely...The word which I remember calling you, I know that it is not a name.”
“What is it?” Probably some Vulcan curse, McCoy wagered.
“Ashayam.”
McCoy blinked. He had never heard Spock call him that, but it sounded so sweet on his tongue. “What...what does it mean?”
“The nearest translation into Standard is ‘beloved.’“
McCoy’s breath caught. “Beloved?”
“I know from what memories I have that we were not involved romantically,” Spock said carefully. “Yet I also know that loved you.”
“I had no idea.”
Silence hung between them for a moment. McCoy’s mind raced. Spock loved him? Had loved him? Still loved him? How could he know? Spock seemed to be considering something very seriously.
“Please,” he said after a moment. “Your name?”
“Oh. Leonard. Dr. Leonard McCoy.”
Spock nodded thoughtfully. “Leonard,” he said, as if tasting the word and finding it to be rich and sweet. “The name suits you.”
“Thank you?”
Spock stood and dusted off his robes. “I must rest. The healers insist.”
“Of course. You shouldn’t be pushing yourself.”
The old Spock might have rolled his eyes. This Spock merely gazed at him impassively and stepped towards the doors. McCoy watched him leave and was surprised when Spock hesitated in the frame. When he spoke it was hardly above a whisper.
“Good night, Ashayam.”
McCoy tingled with joy. “Good night, Spock.”
Tomorrow he would figure out how best to ask what Spock still remembered. Tomorrow he would see if Spock wanted to try something new and exciting with this gift of life. Tonight, he closed his eyes and had the best damned sleep since his retirement.
