Tucked in as he was and his head settled on the padding, the Soldier waited for the companionable situation to be stripped from him. He waited for the door to open and for them to be pulled apart, and the idea alone scratched at an old scar. He thought that if he didn't move, if he was very small and hidden in the other weapon's greater width, this situation would not be taken from him and the old scar wouldn't be itched to irritation again. Never mind the fact that he had an arm curled around the other man; never mind that the man had an arm around him.

Injury dictated that in any kind of battle, he would lose. There was an ache in his flesh that he was ignoring, but when he considered the danger of being close to this far more deadly weapon, he would not stand much of a chance. He couldn't say that he would even fight back, not with the warmth of companionship and the trivial warmth of their bodies pressed together.

Yet, he simply tipped his head a little more forward at the fingers that pressed through his hair, smoothing out tangles and brushing the tops of his ears. The words were what was needed to be said, but they didn't ring with him as the normally would.

He raised his flesh hand between their bodies, his fingers smoothing over the curve of the other weapon's jaw. It was strong and hard, but the flesh was warm and smooth, and they traced features as his eyes followed the motions. "We are not alone," he whispered softly where only heightened ears could pick it up.