"And not how good looking it makes me? Dang." False bravado that settles on the skin with such familiarity it might as well be real. York gives a little snort, a soft self depreciating laugh before he rolls out his shoulders. Tense fidgeting because this is an unknown variable among a month of roughly the same and finding a baseline from which to work keeps getting more and more difficult.

A week, though. Five years ago he'd ignore it, chase Wash, make sure he's okay. Now? Probably better to give him the week. Didn't seem like he was all that settled, seeing him again.

Chief's confirmation of what he more or less figured to be the case has him grimacing before he can twist it into a smile. "Rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated."

He lives because of course he does- or. He doesn't, they don't, and they aren't looking at that at all. It's harder to hold onto that thought. He reaches up to massage a phantom ache, two bullet wounds now scarred on his upper left chest. "...They uh. Patched me up when I got here."