Notes: Written for Delwin for the Title Exchange. She requested a story titled either "Toast" or "Stealing Home." I went with "Toast," and ended up with some Paris-Torres family fluff.

The toast popped up and Tom Paris smiled proudly at the perfectly browned bread produced by his beloved, old-fashioned, replica toaster. He transferred the bread to his daughter's favorite plate, a pink one festooned with a cartoon targ, and turned towards her bedroom.

Tom carried it down the hall and knocked softly outside Miral's door before activating the mechanism to open it. The door swished open quietly and Tom looked in at his daughter. The five year old glanced up at him miserably from the bed and groaned rather theatrically.

Walking into Miral's bedroom, he smiled down at her encouragingly. They had just returned from a visit to the Doc, and though he'd treated her upset tummy, Miral's five year old brain wasn't quite ready to feel better just yet. Tom knew well enough that she just needed a little comfort.

"So," he began, "how's my little Klingon warrior?" She groaned miserably and Tom sat down next to her on the edge of the bed, reaching out to stroke her hair. "Think you can eat something?" Miral didn't answer, choosing instead to curl against her father, laying her head on his thigh. Tom sighed and continued to stroke her hair soothingly. "Come on, sweetie. I bet you'll feel better if you can eat something." But Miral just whimpered and shook her head.

They stayed that way a little while, Miral curled against her father while Tom stroked her hair and waited for her to tell him what was wrong. Finally she spoke. "Daddy?"

"Hmm?" He looked down at her and pushed her thick dark hair behind her ear. She looked back up at him imploringly.

"Don't tell Mommy."

Tom's brow creased in confusion. "What do you mean, honey?" She burrowed her head back into Tom's leg and when she spoke, her voice was too muffled for him to understand anything. "Come on, baby," he tried again. "What's wrong?"

She turned her head the smallest amount possible while still allowing her to peak one eye up at her father. "Don't tell Mommy I got sick."

"Wha- Miral, why would you say that?"

Miral hid her face again against him again and whimpered. "Klingons don't get tummy-aches."

Tom's heart sank.

"Oh, baby. Miral, come here." He scooted further onto the bed and pulled Miral into his arms, taking a moment to hug her tightly before speaking again. "Why would you say that?"

"That's what everyone says," she replied matter-of-factly. "Klingons don't get tummy-aches because they have an extra stomach." Tom sighed. Miral didn't have all of the redundant organs of a full Klingon, but she had inherited her mother's two stomachs. In Tom's experience, that second stomach had never seemed to keep B'Elanna from gastrointestinal distress and he'd have been surprised if it had been any different for their daughter.

"Well, that's just not true, Miral," he began. "Your second stomach helps you in some ways, but that doesn't mean they both can't get sick." He rubbed her back soothingly. "You know, Mommy gets tummy-aches too."

"Really?"

"It's true. I remember when she was pregnant with you, there was a period where she had to get hypos from the Doc every day or she would have been throwing up constantly. And when it began to pass, and she didn't need the hypos anymore, the only thing she wanted to eat was Daddy's Special Toast."

"Really?" She pulled back and looked up at her father hopefully.

"Mm-hmm. It made her all better. And I bet, if you try some, you'll feel better too." He gave her his most charming smile. "Do you want to try some?"

Miral smiled and nodded and Tom sagged with relief. He grabbed the plate from its perch on Miral's nightstand and sat back against the wall, pulling Miral next to him. Once they were settled, he offered her the plate and she picked up one of the pieces of toast. She hesitantly began to nibble at the bread, but quickly moved to bigger bites.

Halfway through her first piece of toast, Miral looked up at her father. "Daddy, do Klingons eat toast?"

Huh. Tom hesitated. "Well, I actually don't know." He knew that they had bread, tIr ngogh, but he couldn't remember if he'd ever heard of it being toasted. Although he didn't see why it couldn't be. I need to ask B'Elanna. Looking down at Miral, he saw that she was still looking at him. "Miral, even if it isn't Klingon, that's okay, you can still enjoy it. You are part Klingon and part Terran, just like Mommy. It's okay to be both at the same time. And that means you can eat toast and still be my brave little Klingon warrior." After he was finished, he waited nervously for her response.

Miral took another bite. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," he assured her.

She smiled up at him, satisfied with his answer. "Good. Because I really like pizza too."

Tom laughed out loud and squeezed Miral against him, dropping a kiss on top of her head. By the time she was done eating the second piece of toast, it was obvious that she was feeling better. She handed him her plate and Tom placed it on her nightstand.

But he didn't realize quite how much better she was feeling until twenty kilos of preschooler slammed into his back. He reached around, pulling her off of his back and thumping her gently against the bed. "I've got you!" he cried. Miral giggled and kicked her legs as he tickled her. When he felt her hands pushing up on his chest, he flipped over dramatically, arms and legs flailing wildly as he landed on his back. Miral followed after him, climbing on top of him. "Ugh! You've got me!"

Miral grinned, eyes flashing, as she raised her hands up over him, holding an imaginary bat'leth in her hands. "BIjeghbe'chugh vaj bIHegh!" she cried.

"I surrender, I surrender!"

Miral's hands came down together to thump him on the chest and Tom coughed.

"Miral!"

Tom and Miral both looked up in surprise at the door. B'Elanna stood in the doorway, and for a moment, Tom worried that she would be upset by the rough play. Even today, she sometimes struggled when she thought things might be getting "too Klingon."

But as Tom stared at his wife, he realized she was trying to hide a grin. Schooling herself into a more serious expression, she continued. "Miral, you should really keep your arms bent when delivering the death blow."

Tom looked back up at Miral, still sitting on his chest. She grinned and raised her arms back up, elbows bent. With a guttural cry, she delivered the death blow.

Notes: "BIjeghbe'chugh vaj bIHegh!" means "surrender or die!" in Klingon.