York gets his head regenerated and his leg patched up, a prescription of painkillers that he'll probably ignore. He'd rather be clear and ready than muzzed up and useless.

It is what it is. Mal's sick. Mal's sick, again, because of this place. Because the suit wasn't good enough or damn near antyhign else and this might not have a cure. This might be a stopgap. He might have to put a bullet in him.

They give York some time alone to breathe. To think. To shake out everything before he shuffles to Malcolm's room, knocking on the door. "Hey, boo."