"..." There's no informal or friendly 'fuck you' fired back, not so much as a flinch as York registers that yes, there is someone in the room and no, they aren't a threat. Just Grif. One person he hadn't seen in the middle of that mess.

One person Delta hand't tried to kill. So.

That's a bonus.

He blinks blearily at him for a moment before snorting and reaching out, trying to ignore the new aches and pains, the odd patches of scartissue that won't really heal properly just yet on his skin where the wires had been. "The fuck happened to you?"