"'m fine," York croaks with a wan smile, but she doesn't bother trying to get up. She's down now. The couch is totally hers. She sips at the water, a little clumsy, reaching with her free hand to try and dig the pills out of the pocket of her sweatpants. She doesn't need them now, not when she's still riding that last boost they'd given her at the clinic. Right now the pain is kept to a quiet, dull buzz in the back of her mind, easy enough to ignore. But the salarian doc had given her some ointment for the burn, too -- just like last time -- and she figures she'll need that later.

She's got that fresh out of the hospital look, her skin tinged a little yellow and her lips paler than normal, a dark, bruised ring under her good eye. Hair already going lank and and a little greasy from sweat and a couple of days without a shower. God, she hates getting out of the hospital. She swears she can taste sterilizer in the back of her mouth.

"I'm just lyin' down for a few minutes," she tells Wash, her voice a little thick, feeling with one foot to see if one of them left a blanket or pillow on the couch. The armrest isn't really the most comfortable place after a minute or two, and she can't bother to lift her head to look. All that gauze must be weighing her down. "Then I'm gonna shower. I could use a shower."