A brief nip, a drag of his tongue, and he draws away, feeling the thrum of whatever that was pulsing out from York like ripples in a pond. Of course, he can't get far. He's still leaning against the machine with York now draped over him, clutching hold and trying to nuzzle his way close.

He remembers well enough, and his hand smooths over the back of York's head as he straightens slightly. Locus, for his part, feels warmer than ever, everything in crystal-sharp focus, and if his heart still beat? It feels like it ought to be galloping.

Instead, he just holds his fledgling close. Waits.