A benefit to being as in synch with an implanted AI as humanly possible without becoming some kind of gestalt entity- incredibly quick processes for decision making and conversation. Every word, every barb, every shot fired his way, Delta's had ten, fifteen, one hundred reasons why lashing out in turn is pointless, is harmful, is going to do absolutely nothing to benefit either of them. It hasn't stopped York from falling into habits older than even the Project and baiting Wash-
Hasn't stopped him from grinning and spreading his hands, fingers flicking in a 'come here' curl. Bring it, bro.
It keeps his knees locked when the world's cut out from under him. Keeps him upright while his mind whites out, logic and reason falling away entirely to the single thought running around. Alive, alive, alive alive-
He'd let her go. They'd let her go. Years on the run and she'd never-
Why would she? Things had been fucked before he crashed the MOI and this is all of his sins laid to rest on this fucking cheerful table with eggs and toast and a fucking grapefruit he'd never wanted, coffee that never tastes right, and Wash using the fact that he'd survived like a fucking knife- clumsy but effective enough to strike home, somehow, in that absurdly lucky way of his. The whole fucking world slows down for a beat, his pulse a deafening roar that drowns out Wash's last biting remark but-
Again.
Lip Reading- it's a hell of a fucking skill.
Delta doesn't begin to try to talk York out of it, his eyes, their eyes flashing magnesium bright as his hands snap down and haul, violently upending the table to give himself that split second distraction before vaulting over the mess he'd made, swinging with all the force rage and training can give him, with all the accuracy of Delta glowing green and furious in the back of his eye.
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Hasn't stopped him from grinning and spreading his hands, fingers flicking in a 'come here' curl. Bring it, bro.
It keeps his knees locked when the world's cut out from under him. Keeps him upright while his mind whites out, logic and reason falling away entirely to the single thought running around. Alive, alive, alive alive-
He'd let her go. They'd let her go. Years on the run and she'd never-
Why would she? Things had been fucked before he crashed the MOI and this is all of his sins laid to rest on this fucking cheerful table with eggs and toast and a fucking grapefruit he'd never wanted, coffee that never tastes right, and Wash using the fact that he'd survived like a fucking knife- clumsy but effective enough to strike home, somehow, in that absurdly lucky way of his. The whole fucking world slows down for a beat, his pulse a deafening roar that drowns out Wash's last biting remark but-
Again.
Lip Reading- it's a hell of a fucking skill.
Delta doesn't begin to try to talk York out of it, his eyes, their eyes flashing magnesium bright as his hands snap down and haul, violently upending the table to give himself that split second distraction before vaulting over the mess he'd made, swinging with all the force rage and training can give him, with all the accuracy of Delta glowing green and furious in the back of his eye.