He's wearing a helmet so he can't grin, but the tilt of his helmet is enough to help him get the message across. "Alien tech," he says. "Can retrieve it later on."

His breath hitches when York clasps the back of his neck and then he relaxes, shoulders loosening with the praise. It feels good. "Thanks." And it's gratitude for a lot more than just that.

He's got the cargo bay door closed by the time they start moving, shut down tight, and he's strapping himself into the back of the pelican. Not a whole lot he can do now until they're out of here.