It's familiarity, it's relief that he's alive, anger, longing. The remnants of the trust and affection that he'd felt for York back in the project. It's a need for human contact that he's been denying for so fucking long. The rise and fall of York's chest against his is intoxicating somehow.

York is leaning in, lips parted. Wash holds his breath. Can't deny that he wants it.

York nips his nose and suddenly he's laughing. His head drops back against the mat and he laughs, a warm, genuine thing that gets the attention of the rookies better than screaming would have.