They weren't pulled apart. In fact, he was closer to this man than he had ever been to anyone, not that he remembered all those moments. This warmth was something that piqued his interest but also eased a part of himself that was always on guard for some form of punishment, some part of him that could never ever relax. This weapon would not abandon him or bring him to harm unless ordered to do so, and if that happened, he knew he wouldn't fight back against that order, especially cuddled up and nestled in as he was. There was no need to fight. He was warm and even cozy.

Yet, it was the tune or an attempt at one that had his eyelids drooping and then shutting out the rest of the world. He nestled his face into the other weapon's chest, metal arm still tucked tightly to hold him in place as the last of his guard dropped and he went to sleep. He breathed soft and slow, but he didn't dream for any of the time that he was unconscious and resting. The closest thing to a dream was his mind occasionally reviewing skills and nothing more.

He woke slow and warm and comfortable in the same position that he had slept in, but when he shifted to nestle more into the warmth in front of him, pain flared dully along his frame. He inhaled sharply and cracked his eyes open to peer up at the young face that twinged something deep inside of him.

(OOC: It does seem that way! When do we want them escaping and running away?)