AN: Sorry for the delay, RL, and all that. We are meandering a bit, but life is like that sometimes ;)

Kathryn

ooo

It doesn't take long to solve the mystery: Mom calls this evening.

"Phoebe's in the hospital," she announces, and my mind starts racing. She puts up a hand. "She'll be fine, but she needs surgery."

"What kind of surgery?"

Mom gets an "I don't know how to put this" look. "To start, it's not what we thought. Let's just say we jumped to conclusions and went off the cliff, so to speak." She pauses for a moment to let that sink in. "It's her gallbladder. The doctor told her it needed to come out, but she wanted to put off surgery … Nico's statue installation in Wisconsin; she had a commission to finish. She was being treated, but an infection set in."

"Is that what finally got her into a hospital?"

"Not exactly. I stopped by the studio this afternoon and found her on the floor. She didn't want an ambulance, so I called a friend at the Sheriff's Office. He came by, and we got her into his hovercar."

"Did she say why she didn't mention this?" Tom asks.

Mom actually chuckles. "Said she didn't want me and Katie nagging her about it." I'm about to snark when Tom briefly raises an eyebrow — a reminder that I've had to be dragged into Sick Bay.

I can be there tomorrow evening," I begin, and she shakes her head. "You have your hands full. She needs a couple of days to get the infection under control before they can do surgery. She's coming here to recuperate; that's when I'll need you."

We finish the call, and I sit for a moment and pinch the bridge of my nose. "When we were thrown into the 20th century," I begin, "what were those broadcast dramas that Neelix talked about?"

He thinks for a moment. "Soap operas!" he says.

"Thank you … my family is a soap opera. I apparently forgot that while I was gone."

Tom wisely doesn't answer, just puts his arms around me. "I think most families are soap operas. Phee will be OK; that's the main thing," he murmurs as I settle against him.

"Remind me not to jump to conclusions, will you?" I murmur back.

He chuckles, then kisses the top of my head. "Let's just say you didn't have all the information."

ooo

It's been a long day. I transported from Mom's house to Daystrom to make the morning briefing. Nothing new at the moment, so I can work from home.

Tom's wrapping up a project, so I decide to take Miri to lunch before she goes to daycare. I didn't see much of Squirt over the weekend, and I've missed her.

Miri, bless her, is very concerned about Phee, and I spend most of the walk to the deli assuring her that Aunt Phee was getting better and she liked the Get Well drawings, which she mentioned during our calls.

We had just started to eat when Nico walked in.

He catches sight of me and smiles uncertainly, though, from his body language, he's not sure whether to run out the door or duck. Miri settles the question: She bolts out of her chair yelling, "Uncle Nico!" and tackles him around the knees.

Nico gives her a hug and brings her to the table. Fortunately, I don't have to fake a reaction: Phee assured me during our talks that Mom and I don't need to phaser him, so to speak. And she was all right with us being friends. However, I am … disappointed in him.

We make small talk until Miral gets impatient and pulls on Nico's sleeve. "Aunt Phee is sick!"

Nico frowns. "That's too bad," he begins.

Not the reaction Miral wanted. "She was in the hospital!" Nico's head jerks up, and he looks at me for confirmation.

"She had surgery, but she's going to be fine," I tell him.

He looks shaken. "Wow … I'm sorry to hear that." He pauses for a moment. "Tell her I said hello, will you?" He pats Miral's shoulder, then walks out of the deli without ordering.

Dani watches Nico's retreating form, then leans over the counter to look at us. "Kathryn? Everything OK?"

"We're fine," I tell her. "I'm not sure about Nico."

ooo

"So," Tom asks when we finally get a chance to talk, "what's going on with Phee?" Fortunately, Miri is playing Flotter, meaning she's too busy to pick up our conversation, even with the door open for safety.

How to put this … "Some of it is dealing with another person's quirks. She says they have different ideas of cleanliness," I begin, and try to hide a smile when Tom gulps.

"They could hire a cleaner," he suggests, and I nod.

"She also can't understand why a man who can do intricate sculptures can't make the replicator or the vid work. Guess he can cuss in various languages, too."

Tom just grins, and I waggle a finger at him, "I know, I know," I say, "but she says she 'won't be his mommy' and her time is just as valuable as his."

I take a sip of wine while I gather my thoughts. "Where Mom was wrong … and I'm just as wrong for not challenging her … is that Phee wasn't afraid of commitment. She was seeing an underlying disrespect. She says that anything she suggests is greeted with a 'Yeah, but' answer. And she says his penchant for 'correcting' her has gotten worse."

"He said she refused counseling, but do you think it would help? Though I'm not one to talk," he says.

I'll leave that statement alone. "Apparently, she's tried to talk with him, but nothing changed. So, she doesn't have much hope for counseling," I say. "Obviously, we don't know the whole story. But I have to give her credit for respecting herself enough not to move in with him."

"Well, I know what it's like to live with someone who criticizes everything you do," Tom admits. "Though it is odd, considering he really respects you."

"Is it me or the uniform?" I ask, which sounds cynical, but I've run into that.

"Maybe it's the job," he says. "He said that running the Romulan project takes some guts."

"I don't know about guts," I sigh. "We're trying to save lives."

"A few billion of them," he replies softly. "You know, we put on the uniform for different reasons. In the beginning, I didn't know, and I suspect you didn't either, what that really meant.

"For you, I know the realization came earlier. For me, it wasn't until Voyager that I realized that wearing the uniform meant making hard choices … even if it meant ignoring your personal needs or risking your life to protect your crew and others."

He pauses; Flotter is nearly finished. "For seven years, I watched you do all those things," he continues, "so don't tell me you don't have guts, my dear. I know better." He kisses the top of my head and moves toward the holodeck.

"Tom," I say, and he turns. "Have I ever told you how much I appreciate not having to explain those seven years to you — and vice-versa?"

"You have, and I hope I have, too. But that's just part of what's between us," he says softly, then winks and steps into the holodeck.