[While's Art huff of breath falls only slightly short of a laugh, Bucky's expression is nothing of the sort -- serious, his brows furrowed as he looks at Art, the hand that ghosts over his chest briefly.]
Good. [It comes out sharp, almost harsh in a way, but the cause of it is in the desperate worry he can't quell no matter how much he tries. No joke to tell, indeed, and this is definitely something nobody should so much as think to joke about; perhaps even more importantly so because he can guess, too, that it isn't like Art hasn't considered the idea.
Of course you would have, you self-sacrificing fool.]
Everything I said before - it still stands. [That he'll make sure you never have any reason to try it, that a situation like that just won't come to pass, ever.
Except... that one time he couldn't be there for you, the one time it might have already happened. He draws a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cold air once more, to feel himself breathing-- as much as his body now tells him he's alive, he knows it's nothing but a deception, what should be a second stretched into hours, days, weeks, months like this.
But maybe it doesn't have to be the same for Art.]
If that's really your- Minimum... [His words come slowly, but- one of them has to say it, and he doesn't want it to have to be you.] Then, what happened, you--
[-- the rest gets stuck in his throat, but he knows Art will hear it regardless.]