He clenches his jaw, breathes out hard, gives a tight nod. But he can't make that promise, really — the further they get from all the watching eyes the more of Francis' weight he leans on Raju, and the more Raju's reminded of what happened in there, what needed to happen and what didn't. How much Francis needed them, and the vulnerable people who died that night, and the vulnerable people who will. Keeping anything from actively catching on fire is the most that he can do; he keeps everything in his mind as forced down as he can manage, and snow melts around him in a spreading wave, smoke rising up from it.

He can hear the sound of Francis' strained breath even better now. The wheezing is a familiar sound, one he's started to consider a reminder, and the smoke in the air stays clear of Francis' face, the heat rising from the ground is split by the progress of his feet. His skin, now that he knows to pay attention to it, is hot in a way that, even now, he registers as strange, sharp cold hitting it from the outside with something else heating it from within.

The bridge. That's what Francis has asked. It doesn't matter why. So he'll keep this up until the bridge. That's all he needs to think about now, that and guiding the slow and precious weight of Francis leaning against him. He can do all that.