"Bad dream, right?" By Clint's tone, he knows what kind of an understatement he's making. He knows, because he's had night terrors like that, himself. He's going to find a cup in the dim light, get Jim some water. The sweating and the crying-out makes for a dry throat, and adrenaline always tastes bitter when it's got nowhere to go.

"Here," he supplies, holding out the cup, "got'cha some water."