39. "Don't cry." (P/T, Miral P.)

(Author's Note: This story takes place after "Endgame". The blood pie scene is borrowed from Kirsten Beyer's "Full Circle".)

/

"Don't cry, sweetie," said Tom for what felt like the millionth time, his tired voice drowned out by his daughter's screaming. "Please don't. You're killing me here."

Staying home as Miral's primary caregiver had seemed like a good idea at the time. B'Elanna had gotten a job offer designing Starfleet's new line of ships (badly needed after the Dominion War) which was too good to pass up, and as they both knew Tom was the more patient one in this marriage, he had volunteered to look after the baby. In his spare time, he was going to write holonovels, just the kind of swashbuckling adventures he'd loved as a boy and wanted to share with Miral when she got older.

He still hadn't gotten past the plot outline. Spare time? What was that?

Still, he'd thought he was getting used to the whole parenting thing. It wouldn't have been so bad today if the kid would just … stop … crying.

Her voice had that piercing, grating quality which, until now, he'd mostly heard in Red Alert klaxons. Her little face was red and scrunched up so tight, you could hardly tell where her forehead ridges ended and her frown lines began. Tom's shirt was damp with tears, spit, carrot puree, and other liquids he preferred not to think about. He paced helplessly in circles around the living room, her sticky little body squirming in his arms.

Beep-beep.

"Come in!"

Thank God, B'Elanna was home. The look on her face as she walked in the door, however, was anything but reassuring. She dropped her toolkit by the door, kicked off her shoes, threw her coat over the back of the sofa and stared at their living room with blank dismay.

It did look a bit like a war zone, he thought guiltily. Their quarters on Voyager had literally survived alien invasions looking tidier than this. Toys were scattered over the floor, the dining table showed traces of every blob of food Miral had spat out, and he didn't even want to think about the 'fresher right now.

"What the hell's going on in here?"

"I have no idea!" Tom shouted over the noise. "I tried everything, I swear. Feeding, burping, diaper change, singing "Rockabye, Baby, In The Space Dock" about a million times … "

B'Elanna's hands went to her temples. Her frown looked almost exactly like Miral's. "You didn't forget the lotion again, did you? If you don't use it, she'll get a rash - "

"Yeah, I think I know how to put on a diaper by now."

"Well, it's gotta be something!" She held out her arms and twitched her fingers impatiently. "Let me have a look."

Tom handed Miral over with an involuntary grunt of fatigue. The Doctor had warned him that Klingon babies grew faster than human ones, but he hadn't anticipated what that would do to his arms and back.

B'Elanna inspected the noisy bundle, not noticeably cheered up by the correct fit of the diaper. He remembered her looking just like this at the warp core when it was acting up, but this was not the kind of malfunction either of them had trained for.

She sniffed, grimaced, and held Miral out at arm's length. "Okay, now what exactly did you feed her?"

"See for yourself." He spread the front of his stained T-shirt as evidence. "The whole freaking menu's on here."

"Carrots and spinach, huh? That's not what I smell."

"Uh … she may have gotten into my pizza while I wasn't looking. Anchovies." He scratched the back of his head and smiled sheepishly, hoping it would get him out of trouble.

"Tom!"

"What? I turn my back for two seconds and she's climbing the furniture."

"How many times did the Doctor tell us we had to be careful with solid food?"

"It was an accident!"

"I had a long day, I don't have time for this." She pinched the bridge of her nose, and for the first time he noticed how tired she looked. He was in no mood to feel sorry for her, though. She was the one who'd spent her day with machines she understood and adults who could tell her in words when something was wrong.

"You had a long day, huh?" he snapped. "Try mine."

She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it. She snarled, spun around and stormed out of the room with Miral slung over her shoulder.

Tom shuffled over to the sliding doors that led to the balcony and leaned his forehead against the cool glass. Shuttles and hovercars flew in orderly lines over the streets of the city. He could see the tops of trees in the park below, the leaves just beginning to turn red and yellow at the edges. He took deep breaths, trying to clear the haze of anger and weariness from his head.

He remembered how he'd felt the first time he'd heard his baby crying over Voyager's comm. He'd felt like the luckiest man in both quadrants as a smiling Captain Janeway dismissed him from his post. How was it possible that, only a few months later, that little voice was getting on his last nerve? Why were those perfect moments so rare? Why did love have to be so much work the rest of the time?

Distantly, he noticed that the noise level in the apartment had changed. Miral's cries seemed to be getting quieter, and B'Elanna's own voice could be heard through them. Was she speaking Klingon?

Even at the risk of another argument, Tom's curiosity got the best of him. He slalomed around the obstacle course of toys and into the nursery.

"So … what are you doing?" he asked in his most non-confrontational voice, poking his head around the door at a safe distance. "Can I help?"

B'Elanna leaned over the baby on the changing table and held her in place, fierce concentration glittering in her eyes. "I'm making blood pie."

"You're making what now?" he yelped. "If that's a joke, it's the darkest one I've ever … "

"C'mere." She beckoned him over and grabbed his hands. "Just … do what I do. Like this."

His bewilderment turned into growing respect as his wife showed him how to make an imaginary pie on their daughter's upset tummy. They went from chopping (lightly) to kneading, spreading the crust and smoothing the edges. The whole time, she spoke to the baby in low, throaty Klingon. When B'Elanna started to baby-talk, she always dropped into a lower register, rather than a higher one as human women did. She reminded Tom of some large feline predator purring to her cub.

After some giggling, hiccuping, and a few impolite noises as the trapped gas flew out, the baby melted into a puddle of contentment. B'Elanna scooped her up, poured her into the crib and tucked a blanket over her. She turned to face Tom, dusting off her hands like a satisfied chef and smiling softly.

" … and it's in the oven," she whispered. "What do you know? That actually worked."

"Amazing," Tom whispered back. "Where did you learn that? From your mother?"

"Close. My SoSni' - my grandmother - used to do that for my baby cousins when we visited on Q'onos." She shook her head with that familiar blend of love and exasperation that always came through when she spoke of her family. "Mom used to do that with me too, allegedly. She'd guilt-trip me about what a difficult baby I was. Although, honestly … if I was anything like this, I can't really blame her."

They stood by the crib for a moment, watching Miral sleep. She sprawled out like a starfish, one loosely curled fist on the pillow, her head drooping to one side. Fuzzy mouse-brown tufts of hair stood out in every direction.

"When she looks like that," said Tom, "I could forgive her anything."

"Yeah, me too." She leaned against him. He put an arm around her and kissed the side of her head. "She's too darn cute to stay mad at. She gets that from you."

"Oh? And here I thought she got it from you."

They left the nursery on tiptoe, hand in hand, Tom mentally retracting every complaint he'd ever made. Raising a family was hard work, yes, he couldn't deny that.

But, God, it was worth every second.