Neither of them is in any rush to move. York's other hand drifts over to their joined ones, tracing patterns on the back of Ratchet's. Living alone in a suit if armor for the past year has made him pretty contact starved, and this is one of the few good things about being stuck here. He's free of that constant barrier between him and other people. He can see their faces, look them in the eye, touch them. It's all a very human need, and he wonders how Ratchet's adjusting -- or if he's always liked this much contact.

"You could, but then I couldn't demonstrate anything." He could give instructions, but finding his own knots might be difficult. And... "And I'd probably get pretty distracted having you on top of me."