[He'd seen him, on the day before, walking close to where Bucky had taken refuge, looking around without trying to seem like he was looking for something -- someone -- in particular. Quiet, tired.
Bucky had had to suppress the small yet insistent part of him that wanted to step out, to grab Art by his robes, shake him and demand him answers-- why can't I stop thinking of you, or perhaps why do I know you're here, now, looking for me, why do I know you probably haven't slept well if at all, have eaten nothing but some of those sweets you still have in your pocket.
The questions still burn at the back of his mind, but this isn't the time for them... if there is ever a time for them. There are memories in his head, scrambled like a pouch of marbles, spilled on the floor, disappearing before he can catch them. There are images, words, promises--
promises. Mission operative: protect, a voice at the back of his mind says, clinical and emotionless.
Protect.
He doesn't remember this mission operative, doesn't remember this mission, and yet it settles in his head like puzzle pieces sliding together. It's the only thing that makes sense to him, even if he doesn't know why.]
Bad enough. [His teeth grind together, the words barely audible because of it. It's the only thing he says before he looks around them, surveys the surroundings for more monsters-- and only when he is satisfied that there are no more attacking (for now, at least), he strides up to Art, drops down next to him. Rips the fabric hiding the wound on his arm, easy like paper towels in his metallic hand. The wound needs to be treated, now, clothes be damned.]