The sudden show of solidarity- well. It's a reminder that A) Wash always tried harder not to be a dick than he ever did, B) if anyone has a right to flip out at what that asshole did it's Wash and whatever scraps of Epsilon are still rattling around in his brain, and C) he did, deep down, actually like the rookie, even if he'd been a dick about it almost all the time. Delta's still tense and scrabbling in the back of his head while York's free hand flexes on the arm of his chair, fingers twitching in what looks to be an aimless pattern but is actually a variation on the Fibonacci sequence.

Soothing gestures for a code and logic oriented AI. Like meditative breathing but- well. No lungs required.

York himself takes a slow breath, in through the nose for three, out for four- old sniping trick he gave North shit about and, christ, North's dead. South's dead. They're all dead- Delta gets himself together enough to beat back the sudden wave of black grief though their mutual hold on their respective composure is slim at best. Even D can't keep a slight film of damp from coming over York's eyes before he can scrub at them. "He- uh."

Vague waving over his left shoulder where D would appear, normally. "Says thanks."

A beat passes before his eye flicks to Wash. "To both of you."