aboard Integrity, flagship of the Open Circle Armada, eight months before the Fall
Padmé is thirty-four; Anakin is thirty-two
The voice of the medical droid is tinny and kind of flat, but she finds it oddly soothing. It probably says more about her mental state than it ought to, but then, she's not feeling terribly introspective at the moment. She actually feels sort of blank and hollowed out, and far, far calmer than she knows she ought to. The droid's voice is a metronome in the back of her mind, and though she knows she should be listening, she finds it vastly more productive to count the number of times its voice clicks and compare that to the number of times she really should have stopped all this before she decides there's no point anyway. There's probably some sort of Jedi saying about hindsight she should know, but she's not a Jedi and she's never cared for platitudes.
Eventually the droid stops talking, either because it's realized she's no longer listening (or never was) or because it's reached the end of its lecture and is waiting for her to leave. She slides off the bed and back into her shirt and murmurs thanks and makes her way out of the med-bay and back into the hallway. The ship is still technically in its night cycle so the lights are low and the hallway is empty, which pretty much never happens and technically means she should go back to bed but instead she heads to the mess. Mostly because she can't really go back to sleep right now, but also because it's not quite morning and if she's planning on making through the rest of the day with her usual amount of alertness (and she is) then it's imperative she get the hottest mug of caf she can find and also probably food.
It's not until she's actually there with her mug and her food that she realizes that a) caf is probably number one on the list of "Things to Not Eat" that her doctor just spent 40 minutes telling her about and b) that the smell of her food is actually making her more nauseous (which is sort of remarkable considering her condition lately anytime before midday is permanent nausea) and that actually sitting here in the mess is pretty much the last place she wants to be.
She attempts to tamp down on a sudden spike of irritation as it occurs to her that her current state is permanent (at least for a couple of months), and that she, quite obviously, is going to have to find some other method of facing the morning that doesn't involve copious amounts of caf, which pretty much means she'll be more intolerable than usual. She can picture his grin at that, all self-satisfaction and teasing and even though he's not even here right now she still sort of wants to punch him because this is all his fault anyway and he has absolutely no right to smile like that at her, at least not this early. (And she ignores the part of her that whispers that maybe he's died out there anyway and she won't ever have to see that grin again because even though she wants to punch him she also sort of really needs him right now).
She doesn't really pay attention to where her feet are taking her, because lately her body seems to act of its own accord and she's kind of getting used to the idea that she's no longer in charge. She almost hesitates when she finds herself outside of Bail's door (a glance at her chrono tells her that she's been walking long enough to ease the clock to just after acceptable times to be awake) but he's always been an early riser (it's just her luck that most of the men in her life are perpetual early risers with sunny dispositions at hours when most people aren't even close to contemplating consciousness) so she knocks anyway.
The door slides open a second later, and if he's surprised to see her he doesn't show it. Instead, he lets her in without a word and kindly says nothing about her current state (hair loose, sleep pants barely hugging the sharp angles of her hips, shirt-which doesn't technically belong to her-bagging around her elbows and sliding almost to her knees) but he does offer her a seat and a cup of caf, which she declines for a glass of water instead. He takes a seat back behind his desk and she settles on one of the chairs in the front and for a while they just sit there in silence while Bail works on finishing whatever report he's currently filing, and she works on not vomiting all over his desk.
She runs the words over and over in her mind, but in the end there is really no way to say this other than just to say it, and even though she's a politician and she's sort of built her life around finding just the right way to say even the worst things, she just goes for it. Trust in the Force or whatever (and even though she sort of hates them, Jedi platitudes have their place.)
"I'm pregnant."
There is silence, which is actually sort of what she expected. Bail's never been one to speak quickly, and even though she usually appreciates the fact that he always takes the time to think before he answers, she's raw enough right now (and sort of scared enough to admit) that she really, really needs him to speak.
He takes the silence to carefully save whatever work he's been doing and then just as carefully push his almost empty cup of caf to the side before he meets her gaze. She tells herself it doesn't matter what she sees when he looks at her, but somehow the blank expression is worse than disappointment or anger or resignation or whatever because this thing she just told him matters and he doesn't look any different than he did the night before when Lieutenant Eaton gave him the latest dispatch from the Senate.
"How long have you known?" he asks, in a tone that reveals nothing more than that he needs time to think about what to say, and that the answer to this particular question, at least, doesn't matter.
"Less than an hour. I haven't been feeling well, but I just thought it was stress or..." she trails off. Stress or nothing really. She hadn't known what it was, this feeling in her gut, but she'd known, she'd known it was more. She'd waited this long because she was scared. She doesn't say it, but she knows he can tell she's lying.
She knows what he's thinking, can imagine the way he feels, but Bail's got a smoother sabacc face than she does and he gives away nothing he doesn't want to. It's only their years of work together that allow her to guess at the feelings behind the mask, but right now the nausea is worse than before, and she's also fighting the sudden and overwhelming urge to cry (and there is only one man who has made her do that, and given that he's the sole cause of this current situation she'll be damned if she lets another man see her tears).
"It's Anakin's?" It's more of a statement and less of a question, but the fact that he felt the need to voice it anyway makes her mad, and the spike of irritation is enough to rid herself of any urge to cry.
Her chin lifts, and something in her chest hardens, tightens, because yes she's made mistakes, and Force knows this is probably the biggest but she'll be damned if she lets him trivialize this. Trivialize her, as though she's irresponsible enough to have some sort of fling with someone in their crew and let this happen. (Someone else she should say, because like her tears there's only one man who could ever make her forget all the careful lines she draws).
"Of course." Her voice is controlled and hard and the flash of pride that she feels at the straightness of her spine and the fact that her gaze has never once moved from his is enough to further her resolve. She's made a mistake, the second biggest one she's probably ever made (because the first will always be kissing him in the hanger bay that day the first time she thought he died), but she's not about to let him make her feel like that.
"Thought you broke that off."
"We did." She pauses. "It's not like I planned this." Her voice is steady, but even she can feel the edge of defensiveness creeping into her tone. Bail is probably the only one who can make her feel like a stupid teenager again, young and raw and terribly unaware of the universe.
He doesn't say anything for a while, and she sits in reproachful silence. When he does speak, it's slightly softer. "What are you going to do?"
He doesn't give much away, but just that little bit is enough. She bites the inside of her lip, hard, because the urge to cry is back, and when she speaks, her voice is small. "I don't know. It's not like I planned this. I was careful, we were careful, I just..." She trails off, and for the first time, she glances away, focuses on the stitching on the collar of his shirt, because she can't look at him. Not for this. He's the closest thing she has to a father, but right now she's absurdly grateful for the desk between them and the way he hasn't reached for her hands. She doesn't need his pity. She needs his advice.
"What should I do?" It's whispered, low and desperate, and she can't quite hide the way the tears make her voice rough, and she's sure even he can hear the desperation now. She suddenly feels like she's 15 again and he's the only thing standing between her and the universe.
"Get rid of it." His voice is steady, and devoid of emotion. It's not deadened, not harsh-it's his senator voice, the one he uses when he's making a point he knows can't be argued. Calm, focused, clear.
It takes her a minute before she can speak. "That's your advice? Get rid of it?" Her voice catches on the last word, because it's not an it. She doesn't have the Force and right now the thing growing inside her is little more than a clump of cells clinging desperately to the lining of her uterus, but it's not a thing. It a miracle. It a tiny miracle and it's hers, this thing, this child she's carrying. But more than that, it's his, its theirs.
He shrugs. "What other advice could you possibly want? I'll assume Anakin isn't aware-"
"Of course not, I only just-"
"-which actually makes the whole thing decidedly more simple. You have time before he gets back, and the medical droids can perform the procedure easily enough. If you-"
There's a roaring in her ears, and her face feels hot. "That's it? That's your advice? Get rid of it before Anakin gets home, like it's trash?"
It's subtle, but there's a glint in his eyes she recognizes as irritation, bordering on anger. "What exactly do you want me to say? Congratulations? I'm happy for you? Did you want me to start making plans for requisitioning baby clothes and supplies so we can set up some kind of nursery?"
"No, that's not what I-"
"What exactly was the plan then? Did you think he was going to leave the Order for this? Set up the perfect little family on Coruscant, with you as a senator and him as what, a father at home with his child?"
"No! I told you, I didn't plan this, it just happened, it was an accident-"
"Who exactly are you trying to convince here?"
"No one!" It's an effort to keep her voice low, but her temper has always run on a short fuse. "Look, I didn't plan this, but," and she hesitates, because the only person she's asked this of isn't even here right now, and the last time she had mentioned it he'd looked desperately afraid but somehow she needs to give voice to this, "would it be so bad?"
She's imagined it in her head, a million times, the two of them on Coruscant, in a world where he doesn't answer to the Council and she's doesn't have to pretend that simply sitting next to him in their morning conferences isn't her favorite part of the day. She's imagined their life as it could be, has begged him to consider the possibilities. They could have a life together, the two of them, and she knows, she knows it would work. She could be enough, her and this baby. They could be family he'd missed, the stability he needs.
"He's a Jedi, Padme." His tone is iron, dark and hard, and this is the truth she tries not to think. "He is a Jedi, he has always been a Jedi, and he always will be a Jedi. He doesn't belong to you, he belongs to them. And if you think otherwise you are deluding yourself."
"That's not true. He left them before, once, he went to live a life with his brother-"
"For reasons we still don't know. But the Jedi let him go once, they are not going to let it happen again. Not now. I know he talks about his farm, and a promise to his brother, but for someone like Anakin, there is only one option at the end of this, and it's not with you."
She's shaking now, the edges of her control frying faster. "You don't know him. You don't know anything-"
He snorts. "Don't I? I've worked with the Jedi for years. For far longer than you have, and I can promise you, they will never let him go. They need him, as much as he needs them. But even if he went with you, do you really think they will let your child go? The child of the Chosen One?"
Fear hits her then, right across the gut and she's out of her chair, fist clenched against her stomach. "They can't. They wouldn't. Anakin says they never take a child without permission, and it doesn't matter. They don't have to know it's his-"
Bail's voice is harsh. "Of course they'll know. And when they do, they will take it. And it will cease to be yours."
She shakes her head again, backs away. "This is my. child. Mine. And I will die before I let anything, anything happen to them. Before I let Jedi so much as touch him."
She's being dramatic she knows, but she can't quite clench down on the fear that coils low in her gut, the voice that whispers that along with never seeing him again, that she will lose her child too. That the Jedi will take everything from her. That the coming months will bring about and end of more than just this war.
Bail is doesn't rise, but she knows he can see her fear, her anger, the tears gathered at the edges of her vision she can't quite keep away. His voice softens. "He is the son of the Chosen One. He's Jedi by birthright, and they would be right to take him. If he is anything like his father-"
"No." She backs away from him, feet sliding towards the door. "No, we are done here. We are done. This is my child. I don't care what you think of Anakin, of the Jedi, of me. This is my child. How can you even suggest it? Is it because you're jealous? Because you've tried for so many years and have nothing to show for it? Because your wife is barren and -" She's gone too far, but she can't think, can barely breathe.
"Enough." The steel is back, and in the small room, even sitting, he looms over her. "You're not thinking straight. Go back to your room, get some sleep. We'll talk when you're willing to be reasonable."
"I am not your daughter." The words are harsher than she intends, and for a moment she sees the pain flash behind his eyes (or maybe she imagines it), but she's angry and scared, and the shame wars with them both, and in the end, her anger wins out.
"I don't need your advice or your permission or your absolution, Senator, but I would appreciate your discretion."
She's swiping her hand across the release pad when he speaks.
"He'll destroy you."
The door swishes open and the corridor beyond is dark and silent. When she glances back, he hasn't moved, and she knows that whatever she says next will shape the course of their future. "I love him."
"But is it enough?"
She gets her answer less than nine months later, on a planet that burns, with his hands around her neck and her death in his eyes. It was never enough.