He doesn't laugh - just huffs, relieved and bemused and aggrieved all in one seamless tumble. Head and rifle barrel down and to the side, away from that unconsciously strict attention, because this is York. He's on Earth in the future and here's York, snuck into somewhere he has no business being either, strung out and giving him shit about his name.

"Don't think you can sweet-talk your way out of ignoring me, now," he warns him, grin probably audible even through his helmet comms.