"Oh-" Words. He should- words. York can speak easily and gladly to great vulgar extent while buried or penetrated but all Delta can manage is that single syllable. Less than that, even, when more and more eases in slow and inevitable like the press of his chip into York's implant. Like the many iterations required to find the proper solution and this- this is it. The balanced equation.

The key to his body's encryption, the reason for the warmth in his chest that doesn't belong entirely to York. As much as he is able to feel this fondness, this affection? It coils and curls and settles in alongside everything else of him that had been broken. Forms something new.

He is, after all, meant to learn. Adapt. Grow.

With shakey breaths he clings to Locus, lips working in senseless desperation for a little more of that grounding contact. "I feel-"

A beat- and Locus knows how he was made. Knows what he is, what he'd gone through.

"Whole."