[The touch makes it real, somehow, that it's not some fever dream or hallucination and for a moment he clings onto those hands with force enough that it probably hurts.]

I just....[ Should probably stop talking.]

[He nods.] Yes. Right. The washracks. This way. [There's an awkward fumble as he turns, because he doesn't want to let go of Wing entirely, almost as if afraid the jet will melt into the air.]