"Oh," Ratchet says, his voice smaller somehow, glad York can't see the expression that flashes over his face. He tightens his grip just a bit when York leans back, his hold secure but not squeezing as he clears his throat a little. "Well."

"I was thinking being in a better-lit room might be helping too, as long as the hallucinations aren't giving you migraines on top of everything else. The breathing exercises, too." He's quiet for a long moment, digesting what York said and contemplating his place in the universe, specifically right here, apparently human, on an utterly unknown planet in an unknown galaxy with unknown, possibly hostile organics, trapped in a science lab-slash-military base with nine strangers and sitting on the cold floor of a bathroom with his arms wrapped around an ex-military science experiment with a malfunctioning neural implant. He lets out a slow, steady breath.

"I'm glad," he finally says, his voice a little rough. "That it helps. And, I'm not going anywhere."