Roland's legs are one of the few parts of him which are not shifting their agonizing way back into shape and so he uses them. His hands aren't so lucky but he uses them, too, in spite of the way the mouth still climbing up Roland's chin gives a little yell at the feeling of his bare muscle and bone gripping tight onto the other man's shoulder.

Stopping is a risk. Every time he stops, there's a risk he won't be able to start going again. Here the risk is a necessary one but still it grates at his frayed nerves, sends desperation and anger snapping out behind his words as he leans into the man's face, shouting.

"What the hell are you doing? Legionnaire, on your feet!"