A/N: Some sensitive, triggery subject matter ahead. Please be forewarned.

Chapter Eleven

"Morning sickness" is a vile and evil misnomer. No one warns you that it can be an all-day affair, and that the waves of nausea can often strike without warning. I lean my head against the cool rim of the commode and pray for death. When I hear the tentative tap outside the fresher door, signaling that Anakin has been outside the entire time I've been vomiting, I groan inwardly and check the automatic impulse to tell him to go away.

He still doesn't know.

I have tried telling him several times, but with each attempt the words lodge in my throat. It's not that I fear he will blame me. How can he? After all, it was his passionate dedication that put us in this mess in the first place. No, the thing that frightens me most is the fear and disappointment and sheer unhappiness that I know will follow when I tell him. I'm not sure he'll be accepting. I'm not sure he won't want me to terminate the pregnancy after all. And that uncertainty is what causes me the most anxiety and keeps me from sleeping at night.

It has been nearly three weeks since we returned from Naboo, and I feel like I've been drifting about in a fog. My pregnancy still doesn't feel completely real to me. I know that there's a baby growing inside of me, but the concept remains rather abstract. Other than tender breasts, my frequent need to urinate, and the near constant nausea, I haven't noticed any real dramatic changes to my body. I could almost convince myself that some sort of mistake had been made were it not for the conspicuous absence of my monthly bleeding cycle.

Initially, when I first learned of the pregnancy, I did have the brief, wild compulsion to terminate it just as the medical droid had so dispassionately suggested. My feelings had been spurred by pure panic. I hadn't contemplated any implications beyond Anakin's potential reaction. I kept envisioning his complete emotional breakdown over the news, and the thought of telling him literally paralyzed me. But as terrified as I was, and as lost and alone as I felt, I knew I couldn't decide something as irreversible as termination on my own.

There was also the undeniable truth that I didn't dare admit to myself then nor can I do so now. At least, not out loud. Yet, I do know on some level, whether I allow myself to face it then or not…I do want this baby. As surreal as this feels for me right now, that undeniable truth glimmers beneath the surface of all the fear, panic, and uncertainty, just waiting to break through.

But I'm not ready to deal with that tremendous realization. Not yet. Not until I've figured out a way to convince Anakin that this isn't a total disaster at all, but a blessing. That was the reason why, after I had been given the news that day, instead of telling him immediately I'd returned to my parents' house and acted as if nothing significant had happened.

Silence is a limited option, however, and I know that. Anakin is a former Jedi and a powerful Force user. He is also incredibly perceptive. I know that he senses something is wrong with me though he cannot pinpoint exactly what it is. I feel him watching me closely, puzzling over my strange behavior, and the knowledge unnerves me. He's pressed me for answers numerous times since we've returned to Tatooine but, rather than taking the out he unknowingly offers to me, I have evaded his gentle probing every time.

On some subconscious level, I wonder if I am waiting to reach a point in this pregnancy where it will be too late for us to do anything about it. Then he'll be forced to accept it because he won't be left with any other option. I know that makes me selfish, and I feel awful to even contemplate manipulating him in such a terrible way, but I can't deny that I've entertained the thought. The guilt and shame caused by my deception makes it difficult for me to even be in his presence these days.

Physical intimacy with him has become impossible for me. Not only because I am almost constantly ill, but also because I know that I'm lying to him every time we're together. I feel like a fraud and I'm undeserving of his love and devotion.

And so, I've been more inclined than not to push Anakin away and rebuff his overtures at lovemaking. Though I'm quick to cite my unsettled stomach as the culprit for my lack of interest in sex, I can tell my rejection hurts him. He takes it personally, and why wouldn't he? But there is no way for me to explain to him that he isn't the problem. I am.

Now he's out there, being the dutiful, dedicated husband sweetly concerned for my well-being while I am keeping a life-altering secret from him. I've never felt lower in my life. I stifle a groan as my stomach pitches anew.

"Padmé?" Anakin asks through the door, "Are you alright? Should I come in?"

"No. I'm fine, Ani. Give me a minute."

I listen carefully for the sounds of his retreating footsteps outside of the fresher and, when I am certain he's gone, I push to my feet to rinse my mouth in the sink. As I do, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. Haggard doesn't even begin to describe my appearance. My hair is pulled back from my face in a messy bun of dark curls. My eyes are shadowed with dark bruises. Despite the unremitting brilliance of Tatooine's twin suns, my features lack any significant color. In short, I look awful. Vaguely, I wonder how much of that has to do with the pregnancy and how much is a manifestation of my own guilt.

Because care for my appearance has been ingrained in me my entire life, I take a few minutes more to make myself as presentable as I can before finally exiting the fresher. Anakin is standing in the corridor, leaned casually against wall with his arms folded, waiting for me. I momentarily falter in my steps at the sight of him.

"You look pale," he observes as I start past him.

"Well, I just vomited out my entire breakfast in there," I reply wearily, "I think that's expected."

He's on my heels as I shuffle into the kitchen to forage for more food. That is yet another thing no one warns you about pregnancy. You can spend several minutes vomiting up all the contents in your stomach and afterwards you will still be hungry enough to eat an entire bantha. And I am. Anakin watches incredulously as I tear into the leftovers from that morning's meal with gusto.

"What?" I ask him around a mouthful when he continues to stare.

"You're eating again." He eyes the food spread out before me with a dubious frown. "A lot."

"I'm hungry."

"I just thought you'd have no appetite with how sick you've been lately," he considers thoughtfully, "This is the most curious illness I've ever seen." I swallow hard against the hunk of bread that threatens to lodge in my throat when he adds, "I think you need to see a healer."

"Anakin, I don't need a healer."

"You haven't been well since we returned from Naboo," he says, "What if something was wrong with that injection? What if that's the reason you're sick?"

He is not going to drop this easily. Under different circumstances, his solicitous interest would be endearing to me. I'd want to reward him with sweet kisses for his gentle concern. But now his attention makes me want to snap at him in annoyance because his worry feels like intrusive prying instead. I know I'm hardly being fair in my assessment. He is my husband after all. Given the circumstances, it's completely natural for him to take an interest in me.

While I can acknowledge I've been under great amounts of stress, I still cannot fathom why my moods have been so volatile lately. I often feel cranky and short-tempered, and I have no idea why. Maybe I'm projecting due to the guilt…

Sighing inwardly, I make a concerted effort to quell my fear and frustration and cross the room to peck a quick kiss on his lips. I can tell by the way his eyes flare that the affectionate gesture is surprising, though not at all unwelcome, and his reaction makes me sad. It's clear that spontaneous kisses aren't something he's come to expect from me in recent days.

"Try not to worry," I entreat him softly, "If I'm not feeling better in a week, then I'll see a healer."

"You promise?"

I force a smile at him. "You have my word."

Satisfied, he presses a sound kiss to my forehead. "I've got to go. I'm late again."

"When aren't you late?" I tease him dryly.

Since returning to Tatooine, Anakin has decided to take a side job in Mos Espa for a local junk dealer named Agis Krull. He is a no-nonsense Gamorrean who tolerates Anakin's habitual lateness and general unreliability for two reasons. First, Anakin was indisputably the best mechanic in the Outer Rim. It was known far and wide that he could fix anything and, consequently, patrons flocked to Agis for repairs and brought him in great deals of money. No sane sentient would complain over that outcome.

Second, even with Anakin's decision to step away from Jabba's business holdings and hand over tentative control to local bounty hunters (at least in appearance), he is still viewed as one of the most powerful and feared men on Tatooine. I'm sure Agis Krull finds it both disconcerting as well as an honor to have Anakin work for him at all. I suspect that is the reason he's so willing to let Anakin to make his own hours and to come and go from the shop as he pleased.

"I have no idea how Agis hasn't fired you yet," I murmur, mystified.

Anakin flashes me a gleaming smile. "What can I say? I'm a treasure." He laughs at my answering eye roll. "Are you still joining Mom in Mos Eisley for your door-to-door campaign?" he asks after stepping away to begin gathering his gear for work.

I'm surprised that his question isn't peppered with the usual disdain. Anakin thinks it's a silly plan to canvas the city and local townships to speak with the residents personally about the changes they would like to see on Tatooine, but he's been generally supportive of our efforts. While our safety was a concern at first, especially because Mos Eisley had a reputation for being a "wretched hive of scum and villainy," or at least it had been before Anakin's "cleansing," Shmi and I haven't had any trouble since she began her campaign for senator. She has two opponents who are vying for the seat as well, but they aren't nearly as organized as she is.

Mos Eisley still couldn't be considered a bastion of safety and security, but it is better than it had been. There is some semblance of law and order that prevails in the city now and that is mostly due to my husband and his unorthodox methods for enforcing justice. In fact, most residents are willing to listen to Shmi and I simply because of our association with Anakin. I don't resent that fact, however. Whatever gets Shmi to her senate seat is fine with me.

"Yes," I reply in answer to Anakin's question, "I'll be meeting up with her within the hour. We're planning to canvas most of the city and some of the neighboring towns, but we should be back here by the evening."

"Take it easy," he urges, "Sit down and take a rest if you need it. Don't push yourself."

"I will take care of myself. Trust me."

He pulls me into his arms for a lingering kiss and for an instant, just a moment of respite, I let myself be comforted by his steadying embrace. For once, in these last dizzying three weeks, it doesn't feel like my entire world is going to implode. I cling to him desperately and bury my face in the folds of his tunic, inhaling his pure, distinct scent that is all Anakin.

"I love you, Ani." I need to say the words, need him to hear them even if I've been abysmal at expressing it lately. "I love you so much."

"Hey," he laughs, gently stroking my chin to coax my eyes back to his, "This isn't a forever goodbye. I'm coming back, you know?"

"I know."

"We should do something special tonight, if you're up for it," he suggests, cradling my face in his hands, "I want to take you out to dinner."

I squint at him. "Are you asking me on a date?"

"Yes. I believe I am. Husbands are allowed to ask their wives on dates, are they not?"

"I'm not sure. But regardless of the rules, I say yes."

"Good," he replies with a ready smile before dipping his head to kiss me one last time, "I'll see you tonight. I love you."

Only after he's gone does my smile fade. The gloom that has punctuated my existence for these past three weeks settles over me once again. Without Anakin's dynamic presence to distract me, I can no longer ignore the immutable fact that I am deliberately withholding the truth my husband. It hadn't started off as intentional deception, but it is certainly starting to feel that way. I need to tell him the truth. I know this. And I need to do it soon.

I make it into Mos Eisley by the early afternoon. The small business that Shmi has been using as her campaign quarters is already bustling with activity. The undercurrent of excitement for impending change that bubbles forth from every life form present is palpable and infectious. It is good to see the residents of this dusty, forgotten planet filled with the hope and happiness that they will finally be able to direct the trajectory of their own futures and those of their offspring as well. And Shmi Skywalker is at the center of it all, making devout promises that I have every certainty in the world she will keep.

"Padmé!" she greets jovially when she spots me, "I'm so happy you made it, my dear! We have much to accomplish today."

I thought Shmi would be upset when she learned of my and Anakin's elopement on Naboo. I feared that she would think I had disregarded her advice entirely, and that it might adversely affect our relationship. But, as it turned out, my fears were without merit. Although Shmi continued to maintain her misgivings about whether Anakin and I were truly prepared for the responsibility marriage would bring, she seemed genuinely happy for us, nonetheless. She'd accepted me as her daughter-in-law with relative ease, probably because she had already viewed me as such long before Anakin and I officially became husband and wife.

As she closes the distance between us now, her face wreathed with a wide smile, that smile falters a bit when she gets closer to me. "Oh Padmé, you look terrible," she announces without preamble.

"Thank you, Shmi. Your compliments are both heartwarming and encouraging."

She chuckles at my derisive reply. "Hmm…I see Ani's dry sense of humor is starting to rub off on you."

"Sorry," I mumble in chagrin, "Ignore me. I'm grumpy and tired. Please don't take my sour mood personally."

Shmi studies me pensively for a beat before abruptly taking hold of my shoulders and steering me towards a tiny office tucked away in a far corner near the very back of the room. "Come with me," she says when I start to bleat in protest, "You and I need to have a long overdue talk."

Without further explanation, she leads me into the office. She's careful to seal the door once we're inside and then motions for me to take a seat on an empty stool. I watch in silence as she brews a cup of tea, which I assume is for her until she presses the steaming cup into my hands instead. Puzzled, I favor her with a questioning look, and she explains, "It has fresh ginger root and mint. That will help with your nausea."

"Thank you," I murmur, taking a grateful sip.

She props her hip against the desk, watching me thoughtfully as I do. "So…" she begins in a deceptively casual tone, "…how far along are you in your pregnancy?"

I set aside the tea with a strange calmness that belies the complete and utter panic rolling around inside of me right then. "How long have you known?"

"Since a week after you and Ani returned from visiting your parents," she says.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Why didn't you?"

There is no easy answer to that, so I ask another question instead. "Have you said anything to Anakin?"

"Of course, I haven't said anything to him," she reassures me, "That is hardly my place. But you should know that he has questions, Padmé, and he is beginning to mistake your distance for something else entirely."

"Like what?"

"Like he thinks that you regret your marriage," she clarifies, "Or, worse yet, that someone else might have caught your interest. You know how wild Anakin can be with his thinking."

"Wonderful," I mutter, both dismayed and exasperated that Anakin would so readily jump to such a radical conclusion.

"Is there a reason you're hesitating to tell him about the baby?"

"Only the assured likelihood that he won't want it," I reply with a careless shrug.

"Are you sure about that?"

"I'm absolutely certain," I tell her, "I told you before, Shmi. Anakin admitted to me outright that he doesn't want to be a father at all."

"And that hasn't changed?"

I shake my head and stare down at my hands, misery overwhelming me. "He is not going to take this news well."

I'm expecting her to commiserate with that declaration, to offer some sage advice on how I can gently break the truth to Anakin without sending him spiraling into self-recrimination and despair, but instead she says in a rather implacable tone, "He's going to have to get over it." Stunned by her unusually unsympathetic response, I simply regard her mutely as she continues, "You didn't make this baby on your own, Padmé. He is equally responsible, and he needs to deal with that."

"But he doesn't want it," I emphasize.

"Did you become pregnant deliberately?"

"Of course not! I would never deceive him that way, Shmi!"

"Then I say again, he's going to need to get over it. I love my son, but he can be terribly myopic and self-centered when he feels frightened or vulnerable."

"It's not that simple, Shmi," I mumble gruffly, though I don't deny the veracity of her statement.

Shmi comes to kneel before me and gathers my bunched hands in her own. She doesn't speak again until I finally find the courage to meet her gaze. "I know it isn't simple," she whispers, "I know the deep anxieties that trouble my son. I know this news is going to distress him beyond measure. But you are his wife, and you need his support, and you shouldn't have to go through this alone, Padmé."

Her kindness and staunch support are my undoing. Suddenly, I'm blubbering uncontrollably, curiously without the serene, rigid composure I've always prided myself on. The loss of emotional control only adds further to my anguish. "I…I thought you would hate me," I sob out pitiably.

"Why would I hate you?"

"B-Because I've b-been lying t-to him…"

"That's probably not the best idea," she acknowledges wryly, "but I can understand your hesitation. Ani isn't always the most reasonable person when confronted with matters he'd rather avoid." She wordlessly passes me a tattered piece of cloth and waits for me to collect myself before she asks, "Have you told anyone else about your pregnancy at all?"

I shake my head. "You're the first."

"Oh, Padmé," she cries softly, "Have you been carrying this burden all on your own this entire time?"

"There was no one else I could talk to about it."

"You can talk to me," she invites gently, "You can always talk to me, my dear."

I don't realize just how much I've needed to hear those words of reassurance from someone until I feel myself sag with relief, as if I've suddenly been freed from an unbearable weight. The stress of keeping this secret from Anakin coupled with my inability to share my conflicted feelings with anyone regarding this pregnancy has taken an emotional toll on me. I'm spent in the aftermath, feeling more tired than I have ever been in my entire life. I close my eyes as the fatigue settles over me.

"Seven weeks," I whisper once I'm able to find my voice again, "You asked how far along I was before. I'm seven weeks pregnant."

Shmi nods. "The nausea will be bad for some weeks to come," she warns me, "but it should go away completely after the sixteenth week."

"That's what the medical droid on Naboo told me as well."

"What else did he say?"

"That I should take a daily vitamin supplement, get plenty of rest and follow-up with a physician in four to six weeks."

"Have you made an appointment?"

A sudden spark of irritation flares with her question. "I can hardly do that with Anakin in the dark, now can I?" I posit tautly, "I can't plan for six weeks ahead! I barely know what I'm going to do from day to day. Besides, I'm not even sure what kind of medical care I can receive here on Tatooine."

"Beyond a healer and a midwife, not too much," Shmi replies with unreserved candor, "It may not be the care you could receive on Coruscant or Naboo, but it's care nonetheless, and you need it."

"But how am I supposed to do that when Anakin doesn't know?"

"There's a very simple solution to that, my dear," Shmi replies, favoring me with a cheerless smile, "You tell him the truth."