[He tries to be gentle, to cling more with his bony legs than his serrated forearms. Because he can't tell, very easily, the difference between cloth and burnt flesh. He winces every time he feels something catch on a rough surface, hoping that it's her vest, trying not to allow himself to be jostled too much as she ascends swiftly and deftly.

Once they're over the other side, he starts to climb off her back, but she seems to have no intention of putting down, instead starting off at a brisk pace, still carrying him. And he realizes that it's likely for the better. Without his network, and his computers and his guardians, he isn't strong. He isn't capable. It's known to L, and acknowledged dispassionately, and accepted.]