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    Summary

    “Is everything okay?” Sam says again. “Were you having a nightmare?” 

    Bucky pushes himself up on his elbows; Sam’s eyes scan over him, as if searching for injury. Bucky shakes his head. “What are you doing in here?” he asks. 

    “You were calling my name,” Sam explains, and his eyes trail over Bucky again, but this time they linger, assessing. First on Bucky’s face, his sweat-dampened brow and his darkened eyes, then on his chest, bare where the blanket has slipped down, flushed pink, and then to his legs, his lap. Bucky drops his eyes there too, sees perfectly — despite the low light — the obvious tenting of the blanket. He knows better than to wish for the universe to be kind enough to him to not let Sam be able to see it through the gloom. 

    When he looks up, Sam does too, meets his eyes. “You were calling my name,” Sam repeats, but this time his tone is wondering. 


    Bucky calls out for Sam in his sleep. But it's not a nightmare he's having.

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