Bucky flinched, looking down, shoulders hunching and metal fingers flexing. It was fucked up, he realized. Somehow, that hadn't even really penetrated, how thinking of it as leverage first and foremost was wrong. He wasn't Steve - he didn't have that instinct anymore, the thing that knew when something was just flat out wrong. He should have known that.
The thing was, it couldn't be a kid to them. She was going into a death arena that she didn't really want to come out of. It would die with her. If she came out and it survived somehow, then it would be a countdown to the kid growing up and waiting for its name to be called. Bucky had liked kids, once. He still did, even if he didn't trust himself near them anymore and he'd never wanted them because of the looming threat of the Games. But with what they were, he couldn't hear pregnant from someone like Natasha and not just see what it meant.
He was fucked up, and it probably wasn't what she'd wanted to hear from him. "I didn't-" he started to say and then stopped. "Sorry." It could be though. It could be a story. If it were Bucky, he'd have used it. In a world where he was Natasha, where his weapons all had to be wrapped up in pretty and feminine, if that had been what he'd been given to use, Bucky thought he would have. He didn't know what that made him, but it wasn't anything he didn't already know. He shouldn't have put it on her though.
And it was Clint's. Fucking hell. Bucky wondered if Clint had ever told her. "You told me," he said. "You wanted me to know." There was a reason. He'd just jumped to the wrong place. "Tell him," Bucky said. Clint would want to know. And he'd take himself out to save her anyway. Bucky thought he might like ... the illusion. The thought that he might have saved her and his kid and they might live out into a revolution and a changed world. It was fairy tales, but it might be something. And if she told Clint, she could use it with the sponsors, too. "He would want to know."