They do a lot of talking in the sweet air of the control room, about everything and nothing. Faith, dreams, where they came from and where they are headed. The universe, angels, robots, children. (Only obliquely, but Shaw is numb enough that none of it hurts. It seems necessary. David is sterile too, and when he is not trying to hurt her, he has a great deal to say about mothers and fathers.) And more practically, they talk about food, salvage, the ship itself. David tries to teach her the Engineers' characters, which would be easier if he had pen and paper, and hands that could do more than twitch uselessly at the ends of dead arms. He recites language programs and coaches her on alien phonemes; those she can recognize, though not without her gut clenching at her own fragmented memories. It's not like learning French or Greek or Afrikaans, this language holds together like sand, but she already speaks with her Maker, she would like to know His offspring too. And she'd rather not have the android do all her speaking for her, even if they are cooperating.

There is water, there is a full nutrition reservoir in Elizabeth's suit, and they are equipped for something like cryosleep. The duffel bag is thoroughly scavenged now, and it is beginning to stink like liquid latex, but David's head is almost back on his shoulders. Almost.

Shaw leans over to reach for a salvaged implement -- and quickly finds herself doubled over.

"Careful now!"

"Shut up, David, I'm trying to help you." She slams her hand on the console, sucking in a hard breath as a cramp of pain shoots through her, without adrenaline to deaden it. With her teeth in her lip she manages to choke out something like a joke. Humor helps, a little. "At least you aren't in pain."

"There's that, at least. The discomfort would be unbearable." His voice is mild as milk, and amused. "I don't recommend any further injections for a few days. In the breast pocket of my uniform you'll find Paracetamol tablets, pain relief lozenges, thallium, arsenic, rusted nails..."

"David."

"Sorry. Just seeing if you were paying attention."

The actuators and wires of his throat and chest have to be reconnected each to each now, as best she's able with unfamiliar resources. David's tinny direction narrates the whole ordeal at intervals. She'll never be a masterful engineer, but putting shards together is a damn sight easier than surgery. Her hands are covered in small cuts.

"T.E. Lawrence was an archaeologist in his youth, Dr. Shaw," David says, apropos of nothing in the course of his directions. Periodically he produces these facts, to amuse her, to amuse himself has he languishes in boredom, or perhaps to get under her skin again. She knows nothing whatsoever about Lawrence, and frankly she does not care. Elizabeth doesn't look at his face, and wipes up another dab of milky servo fluid from under her wrist.

"Not like me. He must have had colleagues," Elizabeth says, clippedly. Something sharpens in her, a tight awful feeling rises in her throat out of the dull mess of aches her body has become.

"Yes," David says. "But few peers. Do you miss your crewmates? Solitary as you are, you must long to engage with your fellow humans. Even I do at times, is that cruel?"

"Please, David, be quiet. I'll throw you on the floor."

He falls silent. Even the whirring of his servos stops. All she is left with is rustling cords, her own labored breathing, and the fluid as it drips. A throb that could come from the ship itself, like a pulse sounding out.

"Thank you for your assistance," David finally says. The line of his mouth, his faulty smile, is like a typographical bracket.