"Don't even," Ratchet says, his voice sharpening slightly as his eyes meet York's, feeling the slight hitches of York's ribs against his arm as York breathes, too fast, and his brain finally grinds into gear.

"Liability," he mutters more for his own benefit than anything else, his voice strained with firmly squashed incipient panic as he shifts his grip on York carefully, still supporting him. "Oh yes, a military test subject with a brain implant who has neurological difficulties and PTSD, how novel. Come here." He turns York and keeps his hand on York's wrist as he pulls him in again, his back to Ratchet's chest and Ratchet's arms around him to brace his weight as he leans back against the wall, the tile cold against his shoulder blades through his fatigues.

"I need you to focus on my voice, York, all right? Can you do that? Pay attention to my voice and breathe when I do, nice and slow, come on." He inhales, feeling the odd, tightening shift in his chest as his lungs expand against his ribs, pressing into York's back. He lets the air rush out between his lips and slides down the wall, ending up in an only slightly tangled heap on the floor as Ratchet holds on, keeping York upright against him. "I've got you, you're okay, I just need you to focus for me. You're all right."