[It takes him a moment for everything to settle, for his head to stop spinning, for the misty haze to lift, a spring wind to blow it away little by little--
the second his head feels clear enough to think, there's only one thought echoing in his mind.
He has to find Art. There are flashes, nothing concrete, strange half-memories, words he remembers hearing but can't remember where, when, how-- but he knows Art was there, whatever happened.
His relief at seeing him sleeping there is short-lived -- everyone else he's seen waking up around them seems hurt, bandaged, bruises and cuts marring their arms and faces. Art... he looks like a statue, carved from marble, cold and unblemished.]
Art? [Bucky settles at his side on the canopy, shaking his shoulder lightly.] ... you hear me? Christ, just be okay.