Ah, well. Bruises could be soaked and poulticed. "How about your life?" she quipped back with a sharp, sudden grin, like a knife in the dark, and then she was ushering him up the crates, seeing if they would hold his weight. Which they didn't, not quite - but she put her arm and shoulder up under a rotten crate, shoring it up just long enough for him to reach the top. Every second was more precious than blood, her senses straining to hear voices and tromping boots through the rain and night. Come on, Aurin, she willed him silently, braced against the crate, just a little bit faster....
And then he hauled himself up and over the edge, painfully slowly (hurry hurry they're coming hurry) and as soon as his weight was on the roof, she scaled the side of the building, a downspout braced in one hand, not trusting to the crates. Then there was his reaching hand, to help her up. How sweet. She clasped her forearm to his and used him to scale the last few feet like a monkey, clambering over him with such practiced ease that one might think she did this every day, coming up on her feet on the rooftop and tugging at his forearm. "No time to rest, we need to move. On your feet, soldier."