Nothing like a hot soak to help with the ache of stab wounds, right? Right. Everything's healed up neatly but York still swings in either mixed or male (he's not paying enough attention to do anything but avoid the place obviously not meant for him), Delta perched on his shoulder in his little robo body. They both have towels around their waists because Delta does on occasion have a sense of humor.

York soaks and Delta settles against the ledge at his back, flicking through holographic puzzles or catalogs for bowling balls while occasionally nudging York for his opinion.

Or asks someone nearby what they think of a particular face. He's. Trying to build his own sense of visual identity. It's slow going.