York's weight drags him down, an awkward fall while he's grappling to grab hold of him, shove him away, get some leverage. He hits the ground heavily, an awkward twisted angle against the rocks, just enough time for York pin him. Got his arms dragged against the ground beneath his weight, rifle knocked away and he can't quite reach his knife and all that rage and bitterness is back, a knotted up ball inside his chest.

There's a click and a gun pressed against his visor and he faces York for the first time in years.

Inside the helmet, Wash is grinning, a horrible smile, about as far from the one York would remember as possible. "I'll let you know if I ever meet one."