His new friend didn't seem to want to let him his hold his hand and Wren withdrew his slow, like retreating ivy, fingers curling into his palm before he drew his arm in towards his chest like it had been wounded and he was hurt. He licked his lips again nervously and cringed a little, expecting a backhand but more surprised by what the stranger did next than the fact that none was forthcoming. He cocked his head to the side like the little bird he'd been named after as the man wore his backpack to the front, moved the gun that Wren wasn't clever enough to be afraid of to the front too and then... then turned his back on him and bent down?
Wren had no idea what he was supposed to be doing here, what new kind of dirty act he'd been introduced to - they were both still clothed and none of this was making sense and a high pitched distressed whine was making itself known in the back of Wren's throat before he was finally, mercifully, given a command. He couldn't hop, his feet were too sore for him to have even tried, but he clambered up onto the man's back anyway, no weight at all but his bones poking here and there, his arms going to hold on around the stranger's neck. The position slowly became familiar, some memory of riding on NAME's back like this sometimes hitting him all of a sudden. He bowed his head and buried his face in the stranger's shoulder and it wasn't long before the quiet, silent tears he was shedding began to soak through Sarge's shirt.