Never anywhere but your side
The first night he slept. Slept long and hard. He was exhausted. All of him hurt. All of him ached. He needed to let everything fix itself. He nestled into a sauna of blankets, half on his bed, half on the floor. He curled into himself, stretched out. Fell onto the floor, but still he slept.
The second night, he had nightmares. Saw everything happening to his beloved friend, over and over. He woke, paced, drank some water. He breathed hard, tried to keep those images out of his head. He stared at his lamp until his eyes burned, just to keep those damn images the hell away.
On the third night, he cried. He cried and cried into his pillow. He didn't sleep. It was a twisted form of withdrawal. He shook violently, held his legs, stayed on the ground. He couldn't move more than to the washroom to rinse his face and try to cool down.
The fourth night, he was paralyzed. He couldn't see, couldn't feel. He could only hear. And that was all he needed. He heard two distinct sets of rumbles. His body was a rusted machine, but he forced it up. He struggled through the house on unstable legs, out the front door.
A bright hummer sat in the driveway, rumbling happily. But he couldn't see that. All he could see was his companion as he stumbled forwards and embraced the former Camaro, as much as he could.
He was babbling things, crying, clinging. The yellow robot whispered softly to him, a large hand set lightly along his back. The Hummer rumbled backwards, turned, left them be. Inside the house, two sets of eyes looked out before retiring.
That night, Sam slept in the driveway, his back against the tire of his beloved companion, not hurting, not crying. Safe.