ㅤHe'd drifted back off into whatever dream or memory he'd been lost in, or perhaps some muddled mix of the two that came out of the blender his subconscious could be. It was a good one, not the softest or easiest he could have found because there had been nothing soft or easy about the war, but a moment of reprieve. He still couldn't place the voice or the form he was pressed into, but it wasn't important enough to pull any actual alertness into place - if he did that, he'd lose any chance of stealing these last moments of sleep. Nobody wanted that.
ㅤ"Remember Monty's tea before you declare war," he murmured, hopefully understandable, but not caring if he wasn't. Whether it was Jim or Gabe, they'd know what had happened to Monty's tea, and nobody wanted that kind of retaliation.
ㅤIn fairness, Jim or Gabe would also have let him sleep if there was no urgent reason to get them up, and that was the part that was escaping him right then. They'd both have been well-accustomed to him being the first one up, dragging all of them up to get to work before Hydra guards had to come do it - they learned early and fast that nothing good came of that, and somehow his dumb ass had been one of the highest ranking NCOs in the work camp. Worse, people listened to him, they liked him, guards included. The only time he'd faltered was when he'd gotten sick, and even then, he'd ran himself ragged. They'd let him steal precious moments to nap then, too.
ㅤThat nagged at him a little, even in his half-lucid dream-memory. He was prompted about using him as a pillow, called Barnes, and that wasn't that unusual, but shouldn't it have been something else? Sarge. Gabe had officially been under his command before the Commandos, but Morita hadn't been. He'd called him 'Sarge' like the others out of respect, though. Someone else? That was the unfortunate point, as quiet as it was, that made him actually stir. Confused, still not entirely awake but taking in more details. It didn't smell right, didn't feel right. Even when his eyes cracked open, he wasn't really getting it.
ㅤThe light was bright but soft, early morning, and that was nothing unusual except that there were windows. He was indoors, not in a tent like he'd first thought, and first impressions didn't say it was some bombed out shell of a building, either. It was comfortable, whole, the wrong era. That meant that it wasn't Jim or Gabe beside him, and the tension that snapped into his muscles would be a dead giveaway that he wasn't asleep anymore, not that it gave more than a fraction of a second's warning before he flinched awake hard enough that if someone was resting against him they were going to be knocked around some by the movement. His consciousness was rocketing through the possibilities, trying to piece together where he was, when he was, who he was and who was there with him, and coming up with too many uncertainties. "Steve?"
ㅤLast ditch effort, blond hair marked for memories that could be this calm and easy, but it wasn't Steve. Didn't smell right, didn't feel right, and just as fast as he'd woken and questioned it, he moved. With a rolling motion, Bucky's goal was straddling the other to pin him down with his substantial weight (metal and muscle did that), left hand going for his throat to slow any attempts at retaliation. It was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
