[There's no denying that his breath catches in his throat, that he hadn't expected him to be suddenly quite so close. Like this, it's even harder to ignore just how much larger Bucky suddenly seems, the weight of his shoulders, his arm that shreds the robes.
There's breathlessness in his voice from it, but Art still speaks rather firmly despite himself.]
Wait.
[He missed the beat a little too late -- already his wound is showing from the open fabric, a broken arm and gaping wounds, the worst at the shoulder. It's deep, almost like someone like him shouldn't have the endurance to still be conscious under the sort of trauma and pain this would cause. Left without argument here, he exhales, stubborn and frustrated at himself and at this whole situation. He groans soft and insists.]
Don't. There isn't any point to it. [He adds almost more reassurance for Bucky's sake (still? it almost feels like a sad assumption, but it's an effort he can't not make) than out of real certainty.] I'm not going to die.