Be Careful What You Wish For

by Barbara Watson

  “Thank you,” she said gently, a quizzical look coming to Owen’s face. “For loving him,” she answered. “For missing him. For helping us get home.” She reached over and took the Admiral’s hand in hers. With that, the subject of this little heart-to-heart conversation reappeared from the far end of the room.

  “Tonight’s menu is 100% leola root and pleeka rind-free,” he said for B’Elanna’s benefit. “Trust me, Dad, that’s a good thing. Are you two hungry?”

  Owen helped his daughter-in-law to her feet and was glad when she took his arm. “The three of us are famished, right B’Elanna?” he said as he nodded toward his granddaughter. Tom smiled.

  “Yes sir,” she answered before correcting herself. “Owen.” Maybe this would be easier than they thought.

  Tom had outdone himself, taking full advantage of the unlimited replicator access his father’s ship provided. Their dinner included several courses, all perfectly prepared. They spent the next two hours talking about Tom’s sisters, his mother, and the restoration of her prized flower garden at the family home on the water near headquarters. It was a ‘family dinner’ conversation B’Elanna could have imagined the two men having a hundred times on lazy Sunday afternoons. Except she knew that had never been the case. At least not in the past decade, and probably not ever.

  She enjoyed just watching Tom’s face as he got his father’s perspective on the men in his sisters’ lives, the latest canine addition to their family, and a very funny story about a family friend’s adventures in orbital skydiving. They also heard for the first time of the Parises’ learning the news that Voyager had been located—intact and with most of the crew alive and well—long after they’d all been declared dead. It was a rollercoaster ride of a conversation, and she knew it was going a long way toward repairing the decades of damage to this relationship.

  As she watched the Paris men reconnect, B’Elanna also began to mentally track the regular contractions she now knew her abdominal pains to be. She would concentrate as each one came and went, carefully adjusting her breathing to keep this little secret to herself. Labor went on for hours—or even days—she knew, and she didn’t want to interrupt this most important of reunions unless she was sure it was time.

  At one point, though, she thought she was going to cry out in pain, and quickly excused herself from the table. When she hadn’t come back in what seemed like a very long while, Tom got worried enough to check on her. He had barely gotten to his feet when his combadge sounded.

  “Voyager to Lieutenant Paris.” He recognized the EMH’s voice and responded, but was confused by the doctor’s next words. “What are you waiting for?!” His friend was clearly annoyed and practically shouting.

  “What are you talking about, Doc?” Tom asked, before mentally connecting his wife’s disappearance with his friend’s urgent message. “Oh, no,” he said under his breath as he took off for the bathroom door. “B’Elanna!”

  He found her slumped against the bathroom wall, panting out a rhythm as the agony of the contraction overwhelmed her. B’Elanna could take an enormous amount of pain before complaining, so her inability to answer him let Tom knew how badly she was hurting. “Doc, I’ve got her. She’s having contractions.” Tom was shocked at what he heard next.

  “She’s been having them for over two hours!” the doctor scolded. “You need to get her back here immediately.”

  Owen couldn’t believe this was happening. “Let me get our doctor,” he said as he started to call out over the com.

  Tom stopped him, “No, we’ve got to get her back to Voyager.” This was crazy, the Admiral thought, when there was an excellent Vulcan physician just two decks down. Tom could sense his father’s hesitation.

  Owen wasn’t sure what to do. Voyager’s Doctor—no matter how much he had exceed his original programming—was a Mark 1 EMH, the only one still practicing medicine. “But the facilities...”

  Tom cut him off, “B’Elanna and the baby will be in the hands of the best physician in the galaxy, who also happens to be a good friend. Besides, the Doc is the baby’s godfather. There’s no way he’d let anyone else deliver her. And, frankly, neither would we.” He saw the fear in his son’s eyes. “Dad, please...”

  Owen called out to his transporter chief. “Three to beam directly to Voyager’s sickbay,” he called out. He saw the look of relief on his son’s face as they began to shimmer away.

  They materialized in the surgical bay, and Tom quickly lifted B’Elanna onto the bed. He moved to the control console and entered the command to reconfigure the unit into a maternity table. Owen moved himself out of the way, watching from a respectful distance as the Doctor covered his daughter-in-law with a sheet and removed her boots and trousers.

  “Have you called Sam?” Tom was asking.

  “She’s on her way,” the doctor said barely looking up from his readings. The physician’s pinched brow concerned him. “Why did you wait so long to get her back here?” he was practically spitting at Tom.

  “She didn’t tell me,” he heard his son say in self defense. “Are they okay?” Tom asked nervously.

  The doctor’s tone turned gentler when he realized Tom was not to blame. “Your daughter is fine: a strong heart rate and her blood oxygen level is normal.” He glanced at the face of the young woman on the bed. “Your wife, on the other hand, has probably had better dinner dates.” Only the doctor’s sarcasm told Tom that he shouldn’t worry. This was likely normal labor pain, and not life-threatening. B’Elanna was still panting, her eyes closed tightly, as she tried to will her way through the agony.

  As the captain of a starship full of families with children, Owen Paris had been present at the births of several babies. But he never remembered seeing a single contraction go on for so long. He had never watched a half-Klingon give birth before, he realized.

  He also couldn’t help but marvel at the fluid way his son maneuvered around the surgical bay, assisting the doctor without instructions and seeming to intuit the physicians needs without being asked. Apparently, he was a highly-skilled medic, his father realized. Still, he knew Tom’s appropriate role in this situation was as supportive husband and expectant father. He hoped this ‘Sam’ Tom had referred to was coming to assist.

  As if the universe were reading his thoughts, the doors open and a young blond woman hurried past him. “I’ve got this, Tom,” she said as she took her station. Tom instantly dropped what he was doing and took his place at his wife’s side. Whatever actions he and the doctor had taken, B’Elanna’s face had started to relax slightly, and her breathing slowed to a more normal rate.

  “So,” he heard his son say with mock annoyance as he brushed the hair out of his wife’s eyes, “we’re doing this the Klingon way, are we?” He thought for a moment that Torres might spit in his face. Instead, she grabbed Tom’s hand hard enough to make him visibly wince. Owen noticed that he didn’t let go, though. “B’Elanna, why didn’t you tell me you were having contractions?!”

  The look on her face was amazingly gentle for the pain she had just been in. “I didn’t want to spoil your evening. I thought I could handle it.”

  Tom just laughed. “What am I going to do with you?” he said as he leaned over the bed. His kissed his wife on the forehead, just before another wave of pain shot through her. “Doc—” The EMH answered him before he could ask.

  “Her body is counteracting the effects of the medication. It’s normal in Klingon births. I’ve been prepared for this.” He adjusted a hypospray and injected B’Elanna’s neck. Almost instantly, she began to relax.

  “What was that?” Tom asked. He noticed the Doc looking exceptionally pleased with himself. “A little treatment of my own creation,” he said proudly. “I’ve just tricked her body into switching from her Klingon to her human autoimmune receptors. It will stop her body from fighting off the painkillers. She’ll be able to tell she’s having a contraction, but the pain won’t be so severe.” He turned his attention to B’Elanna. “Feeling better?
” he asked a little smugly.

  She had to admit that she was. “Is it over?” she said, still dazed and misinterpreting the relief she now felt. Tom and the Doctor exchanged knowing glances, their medical training telling them exactly how far B’Elanna was from being done. “Soon,” Tom lied into her ear. “It will all be over soon.”

  Seventeen hours later, her parents thoroughly drained and exhausted and her godfather beaming into her squinting eyes, Miral Kimberly was officially declared the newest member of Voyager’s crew.

  Owen had long-since been joined by Kathryn Janeway, Commander Chakotay, and Mister Neelix, but the rest of the crew had been barred from all of Deck 5. He, along with these closest of friends, had taken turns walking B’Elanna around the deck between contractions, pouring coffee into Tom, spotting for Samantha so she could check on Naomi, and congratulating the doctor on his mastery of hybrid human/Klingon physiology. Seven had even joined them for a few moments, taking a turn holding onto B’Elanna as she paced the deck. But her friend soon realized that she could be more assistance to the couple by covering for Torres in getting that integrity field repaired and getting them on their way again. Icheb, barred from his new home in the sickbay biolab, had offered to help.

  Moments after the first cries rang out from newly-filling lungs, Neelix had the pleasure of making the announcement to the rest of the crew. “Attention everyone: it’s a girl,” he said, symbolically and to no one’s surprise. “Miral Kimberly...ah...,” he looked at the couple, who then looked at each other. Somehow they’d forgotten to have this conversation. “Miral Kimerly Torres-Paris,” Neelix improvised. “Mother, father, and baby are all doing just fine.”

  ‘It’s all in the delivery,’ Seven thought, amusing herself as she heard Neelix’s final ‘baby update’ over the newly-repaired com system from her station in Main Engineering. She looked up to see Lieutenant Carey smiling at her. She found herself returning the grin. “From the crying in the background, it sounds like she has her mother’s sunny disposition,” Joe kidded.

  “And her father’s loud mouth,” Seven added, surprising Carey with her willingness to joke with him. In that moment, listening to Neelix ticking off the baby’s weight, length, and other distinguishing characteristics, the two joined their ninety colleagues in a moment of unadulterated happiness.

  In her first brief minutes in the full glare of the sickbay lights, this tiny little girl was handed into the loving arms of her sleepy parents, and, in the process, helped some very tired, beaten-down people reflect on the potential for a new and happier future. It was a life-affirming moment for a crew who had seen too much death.

  Though it was only early afternoon, Owen Paris was well into his second day without any sleep. After kissing his granddaughter and congratulating his children, he transported back to the Scobee to get some rest. Before he headed for the bedroom, however, he took a moment to sit at his desk. He stared at the framed picture of a much-younger Tom Paris as he opened the datafile.

  “Annie Paris, you won’t believe the day I’ve just had,” he said, composing a message for his wife. “Oh, and incidentally,” he said as if an afterthought, “you’re a grandmother again.”

  It was almost another hour before he finished the letter, then finally settled down for a nap.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  The arrival of their last-minute guest (and the disruption she had caused in their carefully-planned schedule) put the crew almost a full day behind in leaving Starbase 32. It did give them enough time to finish clearing Decks 6 through 9, however, and Voyager’s young parents were happy to be going back to their real home.

  Tom was amazed at how immaculately their quarters had been restored. He had seen the disaster in this same room only a few days earlier, and realized Neelix and Icheb had gone to a lot of trouble. He held their daughter in the crook of his left arm as his right arm led B’Elanna to the foot of their bed.

  “I’m not an invalid,” she said to him in what had become a familiar incantation for them over the past few months.

  “I know,” he said flatly, “you’re Supergirl, able to leap tall warp cores while giving birth. Now just be quiet and sit down. Let me wait on you two for awhile,” he was almost fussing over her, she noticed as he continued. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment for a long time.”

  As soon as his wife was securely seated, Tom gently swung his left arm in front of him and took another peek at the perfection sleeping against his elbow. “Welcome home, Miral,” he said as he pulled back the pink blanket lining his daughter’s crib. He moved his right hand to scoop up his daughter’s head and pivoted her gently into both hands. B’Elanna held aside the tiny toy ships suspended over her child’s bed, and watched as Tom kneeled and laid the baby gently onto the mattress. He pulled up the covers, then sat there—on his knees—staring at the sleeping child.

  B’Elanna’s expression had quickly turned to one of wonder and amusement. “She’s going to be a ‘daddy’s girl,’ I can tell,” she said, smiling.

  Tom looked up at her and grinned. “What makes you say that?” he asked. B’Elanna’s expression softened for a moment, and she suddenly looked a little sad.

  “Because I used to be one,” she said softly. “I know all the signs.” Tom knew she couldn’t avoid thinking about her own father as she watched them, particularly in light of their decision to name the baby after B’Elanna’s mother. He wasn’t going to let John Torres ruin one more moment of his wife’s life, however. He pushed against the rail of the crib and lifted himself off the floor. He sat behind B’Elanna on the bed and put his hands gently around her before he spoke again.

  “Well, you’re my girl now,” he said pulling her back against his chest and resting his chin on her shoulder. “You’re both my girls,” he added.

  B’Elanna turned slightly to face him, and took a long look into his eyes. “Lucky us,” she said in all sincerity, and she let Tom rock her into his arms.

  After a moment, he helped her into bed—grateful that she was now letting him pamper her a little, then he changed out of his uniform and into shorts and a t-shirt. He gently scooped up his daughter before settling into bed with his wife. “She can’t sleep with us,” B’Elanna chided. “That’s why you made the crib, remember?”

  “I’ll put her down before I fall asleep,” he promised. “Besides, I was hoping the three of us could talk about something before too much time passes.” She was intrigued. They weren’t even in the Delta Flyer and Tom wanted to have a serious discussion. Must be important, she guessed, though she had a sneaking suspicion she knew where this was going. Better sooner than later, she knew, as she pulled herself up to a sitting position, and adjusted the pillows behind her back.

  “Alright,” she said gently. “What do you want to talk about?” She could see Tom struggling to get the courage to say it out loud.

  “Names,” he said finally. She wasn’t surprised. “Miral’s. And yours.” Okay, now she was surprised. She knew this was hard for him, however, and she let him finish uninterrupted. “I know I joked about this right after we got married, but I’d like you to consider us all having the same last name.” She knew he didn’t mean ‘Torres.’

  B’Elanna wanted to be careful of his feelings before she spoke. “Tom, you’ve always been ambivalent about being a Paris. You’ve said it was more of a burden than a privilege. Why is this so important to you now?” As was his nature, Tom tried to turn his answer into a joke.

  “Well, our baby has her mother’s good looks—at least she could have her father’s name.” Alright, she thought, now that he’s gotten that out of his system, the real answer shouldn’t be far behind. “B’Elanna, you’ve wrestled with your Klingon heritage all your life. You’ve tried to figure out what parts of that heritage are parts of who you are, and I think you’ve finally realized that it doesn’t make sense to run away from yourself.” He looked up into her eyes as he continued. “I think that’s what I’ve been doing: running from the Paris name and th
e pressures and expectations that went with it. Well, I don’t want to run anymore. Does that make any sense?”

  More than he would ever know, B’Elanna realized. “Sure,” she said. “I can understand why you’d want your children to share that with you. But what does that have to do with my name?” she asked, though a part of her was coming to realize the answer.

  “You’re the most important part of my family. I want to share that part of myself—not only with my daughter, but with my wife.” He knew how this boorish this must be sounding in a time when men and women had long-since moved beyond the customs compelling a wife to give up her very identity when she entered a marriage. And, despite his nostalgia for Earth antiquities, his request wasn’t in any way motivated by a desire to live in the past. “Look, B’Elanna, I know it’s a little archaic to ask you to change your name, and you know I wouldn’t ask you to give up any of who you are just because you’re my wife. But, for some stupid reason, I want this—for all of us. Does that sound shallow?”