For a moment he just stands there, staring at Malcolm all. Put together. Calm and clean and neat and precise. Fucking- there's a word that he can't think of right now. Shevled? Something like that. Meanwhile he's clean, sure, but his shirt's an old ratty one he borrowed or stole from someone larger, his sweats are covered in paint, his hair's a mess and he's got stubble from not having shaved.

A hot mess. Carolina would say. She's not wrong.

York sighs and holds the door open, motioning for Mal to come into his room with the photos of his last crew, places he's been, selfies in the rig and on top of his Jeager with the dead Kaiju in the background. Shit like that. Yarn and knitting needles on one nightstand, combatboots and a pile of clothing under his desk. It's not tidy or orderly but it's his. "Fine. May as well judge me too."

Everyone's at it today.