This is why he adores Delta. Loves him like family. That he can reduce even the most shit stirring of journalists to wincing kindergardeners with a look. York has tired to master the look. He has failed. But the conference moves on and York has, to the best of his ability, smiled and nodded along with most of the answers- when addressing the fans? He makes a heart with his hands for the camera for them to see

Which, of course, is an excellent photo moment- doing this shit he's come to expect and brace himself for the sudden spike in flashing and clicking that comes from cameras. Seriously. Digital cameras do not need flashes this bright. So he does the thing. It's something he does, it's normal, but every fucking time.

Camera city.

And it's the question, the muffled roar of the crowed outside the pressroom, the tension, the sudden spike of lights and sound- something, any of it, all of it and he can usually grit his teeth and get by. For some reason? He just can't. His hands start to shake so he drops them to the table, presses them flat and tries to breathe through it, his grin more of a grimace as his eyes dart from face to face, camera flash to camera flash and-

He needs air. Need air but is too fucking terrified to move.