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[ He doesn't know, honestly. He wasn't exactly thinking straight, after realizing what he'd done, after that strange focused anger started to fade away into horror and anguish. All he remembers is still having Wash's blood on his hands, scrabbling at his armor, pulling off his helmet just to see his skin pale as death, just to see him not fucking breathing. He remembers shaking him, no, come on, rookie, David, don't -- come on --

Then there was Maine. He couldn't afford to stay, but he couldn't just fucking leave him there either, and. York ended up taking the helmet with him.

Wash doesn't need to know any of that. ]

How could I walk away with nothing to show for all my hard work?

I'll get it mounted, put your name under it it in shiny brass lettering. I'll polish it every day, don't worry. I remember how particular you were about that.