[When he hears his own name, Art frowns and doesn't quite manage to start right away. He had a hand to his forehead, on the spot of the only gunshot he actually remembers, the one that killed him immediately before the other five on his chest followed. Now it's healed with not even a sign of a wound there anymore save for some trace of blood still in his hair, however washed out by how wet it is otherwise.]
[Even with his reaction time slowed, though, it does soon hit him to turn to the source of the voice he heard just as Bucky is still coming toward him. Art's eyes widen just so, and however shaky he might be on his feet, the strain in standing up is not nearly so bad that he can't put the effort to close that distance sooner. Or so he tells himself in pushing up and on. The state Bucky himself is in doesn't escape him at all, even disoriented as he is.]
Wait.
Stop, it's -- it's all right. [Art reaches him with a stumble, his hands reaching out as if to slow him from moving further like he'd been doing. For his sake? Not okay. So he says it's all right, has to tell himself it is as much as Bucky to be able to say it at all. But... it is true, isn't it? Everything was healed. No need to worry.] I'm fine.
Bucky. [Closer now, he's whispering like he can't quite manage to raise his voice more.] You're... What happened? [The question sadly applies to them both, and Art knows it.]