Ratchet's hand is warm and heavy and York tenses at the contact, his breathing rough as he goes very still. When was the last time someone touched him? How pathetic is it that he's not sure? The grip on his arm didn't get to him the same way, didn't make him wonder how long it's been since anyone gave a shit if he existed or not. He's lived in a solo limbo too long, just him and Delta.

He might be going insane, but it feels like someone actually cares.

There's a tiny nod at Ratchet's reassurances, as York struggles to pull himself together. He leans into the other man's touches for just a moment, allowing himself that last moment of weakness and comfort before straightening up again. "You're right. I'll keep it down, sorry." Keep the crazy to himself as much as he can.