The BLTS Archive - Instinctual
by Sigrid (sigridthehaughty@yahoo.com)

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DISCLAIMERS: Standard disclaimers. Voyager and the characters are not
mine, since they are the property of Paramount/Viacom, but the story
is mine. Do not archive without my permission.

SPOILERS: Dark Frontier and Day of Honor, mildly

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"Computer, please cite the current individuals in Holodeck One."

"Ensign Thomas Eugene Paris is in Holodeck One."

"Computer, what is the time?"

"The time is 2006 hours."

Six minutes late. Seven had arrived promptly at 1958 hours, for her
reserved holo-deck time, only to find that it was currently occupied.
She had waited patiently for two minutes, but as the start time for
her reservation had come and slowly slipped by, she found herself
standing more rigid, lips pursing in frustration, as she held the
PADDs containing the Doctor's social lessons. But she had learnt the
value of patience, and resisted the urge to override the lockout on
the holo-deck controls. She did not wish to alienate Ensign Paris, he
had proved himself a friend to her over the past two years, and she
did not want to damage that friendship.

Strange, at the beginning of her trip on Voyager, she had not been
able to acknowledge the importance of friendship, of savouring those
close to her, of appreciating the kind gestures of others. But two
years on this ship, this... collective, had taught her much about
humanity.

"Computer, time."

"The time is 2010 hours."

Ten minutes. Deliberating with herself for a moment, she tapped her
commbadge.

"Seven of Nine to Ensign Paris."

"Ensign Paris is currently unavailable," the computer intoned flatly.
She breathed a sigh of frustration, resisting the urge to ball her
fist. Instead she stepped toward the control panel, extending her Borg
hand as she did so, reaching for the panel. It was notoriously easy
for her to bypass Voyager's security systems. She could not understand
how the ship had survived so long with these in place, although she
acknowledged that her superior decoding and hacking abilities, as
Mister Paris and Harry Kim frequently referred to them as, were
probably due to her unusual existence as a Borg drone. At the
beginning, she would have said bluntly that the systems were
unacceptable, too simple to override. Now, she suggested improvements
to Lieutenant Commander Tuvok or Commander Chakotay, who frequently
took her words under advisement.

A few moments, and her task was completed. Stepping back from the
control panel, the doors opened to her presence, and she stepped in...

. . . and found herself on a grey street, late at night. The buildings
were non-descript, of rather poor construction, and the road she stood
on was poorly lit. Around her, a few people shuffled. Across the
street, she saw a group of women, obviously inebriated, singing, arms
wrapped around each other's waists, one holding a bottle in her hand.
Resisting the urge to explore, she looked about her, finally spying a
large bar down the street, its lights still on, notes of light piano
music straying through the doors.

She walked briskly there, pushing open the door and stepping inside.
Immediately she noticed the change in temperature. It was warm, almost
hot. There were some people milling about, none of whom she
recognised. Seven surmised that they were holographic. Walking around
the pool table, interrupting a shot that a Bolian with an
uncharacteristic facial moustache had set up, she finally spied Ensign
Paris sitting alone by a window, accompanied only by a bottle of amber
liquid, and a glass, empty. As she watched, the man reached across and
pulled the bottle toward him, looking at it for a moment, before
setting it down and looking out of the window again.

The emotion on his face was shockingly visible. Even Seven's usual
impassive manner shattered when she saw what she thought might be
traces of tears on the cheeks of her fellow officer. For a moment, she
debated fleeing, unsure what was expected of her in this position, but
for some reason she was never able to explain, she remained frozen on
the spot, as Tom, aware of someone watching him turned warily, his
eyes widening when he saw who the watcher was.

"Seven," he said, as levelly as he could, while brushing the sleeve of
his shirt across his eyes. "I... I had something in my eyes..." he
stopped, silenced by the inadequacy of his lie. Seven remained where
she was, conscious that she had interrupted a private moment for the
pilot. Forgetting her own reserved holo-deck time, and the reason why
she had broken through the privacy lock, she half-turned, as if to
walk out.

"Perhaps I should leave."

Tom remained silent for a moment, conscious of his state and Seven's
discomfort. He was tempted to let her go, the struggle was obvious in
his eyes, despite his attempt to mask it. Seven took his prolonged
silence as agreement, and quietly turned to leave.

"Wait," the pilot voiced behind her. "Stay, a while." Then a sudden
thought occurred to him. "Did I overrun into your holo-deck time...
perhaps I should go..." although the tone of his voice suggested he'd
rather do anything but.

Seven nodded her head. "That was my initial reason, but I can always
reschedule. I was planning to go over some of the Doctor's lessons. He
believes I have not been putting in enough practice, and that I should
be trying harder."

"Perhaps I could do with some of them," Tom said, absently, before
reaching to the chair next to him, and pulling it out. "Here, sit."
Holding up a hand at her assumed protest, he continued to speak. "Yes,
I know. You don't like to sit. But please, just this once..."

"I will comply."

"Good."

Seven walked over, sitting straight, setting the PADDs on the table
and surveying the scene around her.

"Is this your creation?" she finally asked, the silence becoming
uncomfortable.

He smiled, as he looked about him, indulgence clear in his eyes. "Yes.
I used to visit this place when I was in the Academy, and after...
well, after the accident."

"Accident?"

His smile disappeared, his face closing off. "Yeah," he said shortly.

Seven looked about her again, realising she had triggered a bad memory
for her... friend. Before, she might have asked about the accident,
but now, she kept silent, waiting for him to speak.

"Its called Sandrine's. The street outside, is from a place called
Marseilles, in France, on Earth."

"I am not familiar with the city of Marseilles."

"Perhaps I'll take you on a tour sometime."

Her eyes widened. A note of respect entered her tone.

"You have reproduced an entire city on the holo-deck? That is
impressive, Ensign."

"I would have thought that you saw this as a waste of time. And call
me Tom, Seven."

"Tom," the ex-Borg rolled the name around on her tongue. It was short,
efficient. "Short for Thomas."

"I never really liked that name. Only my father used it."

"Did you not get on with your father?"

He smiled slightly, as if hearing a joke. "We weren't the model father
and son. What about you?" Suddenly he winced, realising the faux pas
he had just made. "Oh jeez, look I'm sorry, I should have thought
before I spoke, I'm sorry, Seven..."

She shook her head to reassure him.

"Do not apologise, En... Tom. My memories of my parents are limited. I
was only six years of age when we were assimilated. I remember... I
remember being on the ship with them, of being read stories by my
father, stories of the Borg, of other explorers... I regret that I did
not have the chance to develop more memories of my parents." She
looked down, attempting to disguise the sadness that she was sure
would be showing in her own face from the man sitting opposite her.
Memories of her father on the Borg Cube still haunted her, at night,
as she regenerated. She found it increasingly difficult to hide the
effects of her interrupted rest, when the images got too much, and she
was forced to disconnect from her alcove. The Doctor has already
commented on the rundown of some of her more sensitive Borg implants,
going as far as to suggest that the Captain be notified, to allow
Seven more time for regeneration. Seven had protested, knowing that
she could only shut away the memories by occupying her mind with other
tasks. She was not always successful, but slowly, she was learning to
deal with her feelings concerning the Borg. She suspected that it
would take a lifetime.

But she was determined.

"I'm sorry, Seven."

She looked up. Usually, humans attempted to disguise their mistakes,
their tactlessness with excuses. "I wasn't thinking," or "perhaps we
should talk about something-else." The Captain often stating that she
hid her feelings behind a mask. She had replied that that seemed to be
common of most humans. She hadn't gone as far as to accuse the Captain
herself of doing just that, but the implied statement had registered.
Humanity wasn't perfect.

Everyone had something to hide from. She had always believed that Tom
was a prime example of humanity's attempt at hiding from itself the
darkness inherent in all.

Perhaps that pre-conception was undeserved.

"Thank you, Tom."

"I guess compared to you, my problems are 'irrelevant'." Ordinarily,
Seven might have assumed that Tom was poking fun at her, but she felt
somewhat different tonight. Perhaps it was the setting, but she felt
almost at one with the person sitting beside her, as they stared out
of the window. The long silences between speech no longer felt
uncomfortable. Both were lost in their own thoughts.

"What are your 'problems', Tom?"

She had said his given name again. Ordinarily, she would have been
uncomfortable displaying this level of familiarity. She was unsure
what had changed, in such a short space of time.

He sighed, his arm reaching out to grasp the bottle. He ran his hand
over it, savouring the coolness of the glass.

"B'Elanna and I have decided to break up."

"You have terminated your relationship," Seven clarified. Tom glanced
at her, and then leaned back, his hands leaving the bottle. It was as
if the bottle was acting as some sort of anchor, a crutch... was that
the correct word for it? Seven was unsure.

She was acting differently tonight. It concerned her, slightly.

Not as much as it should have.

"Yeah, well, B'Elanna has decided to terminate things."

"I was under the impression that you and Lieutenant Torres enjoyed a
satisfactory relationship."

"We did. That was the problem."

"Explain."

Tom placed an elbow on the table, leaning on it heavily as he faced
Seven. "It was satisfactory, Seven, but it wasn't anything-else. It
wasn't like that at the beginning, it was different. It was crazy, it
was passionate, the sex was..." he blushed, Seven noted with some
amusement. "... well, you know..." he winced again, blushing even
harder. "Well, perhaps not..."

"I am aware of the concept of passion, Tom, and the nature of human
sexual intercourse."

"Right, yeah, of course you are.. I mean, you're programmed with the
knowledge of thousands of species."

"The databanks have also proved helpful on this subject."

Tom's eyes widened. "You've been searching the databanks."

"Is there a problem, Ensign?"

She had reverted back to his rank, retreated into formality, he noted,
with some sort of sadness he couldn't quite understand. He hastened to
gain back the sense of companionship, friendliness with the former
Borg... *beautiful Borg*

Had that thought really entered his head? He shook himself, wishing he
hadn't drunk those two glasses of whiskey. He tried to get the thought
out of his mind, but he found it difficult. He groaned inwardly, as
long forgotten dreams threatened to reassert themselves. Damnit, why
did this have to happen *now*?

"No, I was just surprised that's all. I hadn't realised that you were
collecting information on the subject." He hoped that he had recovered
quickly enough, as Seven eyed him curtly for a moment. Then,
apparently satisfied with his explanation, she relaxed marginally,
gesturing to the bottle.

"Is that alcohol?"

"Its called whiskey."

"Ah. An alcoholic beverage."

"Would you like to try some?"

"I have an extremely low tolerance for alcohol. I drank a glass of
champagne after the slipstream drive had been completed, and the
resulting... experience was disconcerting. I believe I told people
what an inspiring mentor the Doctor was, and that we were one. It is
not an experience I'd like to repeat."

"Probably wise." Paris said, more to himself than her, as once again
he looked at the bottle.

"You cannot decide whether to risk the effects yourself, Tom."

"You should be a counsellor, Seven. You seem to read other people
well."

A compliment, hidden, but still apparent.

"I have learnt to. It is a beneficial skill."

"Could you read our relationship?"

"Between you and Lieutenant Torres?"

He nodded. "You didn't seem to be surprised."

"I was not surprised at the termination. Although I confess I have had
no first-hand experience myself, I recognised that your relationship
had been losing the emotion and bond that had been apparent in the
first few months of your relationship. When Lieutenant Torres took to
deliberately injuring herself on the holo-deck, it was clear that you
had not been spending a sufficient amount of time together. As time
has progressed, your relationship seems to have changed to one similar
to the one you enjoy with Ensign Kim."

Silence.

"I am sorry, Tom."

He nodded, wiping at his face with his sleeve. Finally he looked at
her.

"You saw all that? Why did it take me so long?"

"Perhaps you were unwilling to face the reality of the situation. I
have found that humans have a tendency to hide from their problems,
their less-than-ideal realities. It is something that I am
unaccustomed to. The Borg could not hide from themselves, we were all
one mind, one thought. There was no reason to create an ideal reality.
Problems such as yours simply do not exist in the Collective. I...
wish I could offer a more 'human' view. Perhaps that would be more
helpful..."

"I don't think it would, Seven. It would just be more hiding, right?"

"Perhaps, you are right. Have you reached a decision?"

"On what?"

"Your drink?"

He looked at it once again, surveying the liquid as it flowed around
the bottle he spun lightly, as he grasped the neck. He got up without
warning, calling softly for a recycler. He threw the bottle inside,
the atoms caught and swallowed up before the crash of shattered glass
could be heard. Seven watched him, turning as she did so.

"You're an incredible woman, Seven."

She stared at him, shocked by his sudden compliment.

"I am merely Borg and human, a 'hybrid', according to the Doctor...
there is nothing 'incredible' about me. Perhaps unusual."

"You see so much, know so much, and yet you cannot believe that simple
fact."

"My superior sensory and analytical abilities were caused by my time
in the Collective. It is not something I have developed. I have not
had to work for this. They were bestowed upon me."

"Perhaps," he said quietly. Then he smiled. "Do you dance?"

An unidentifiable feeling, similar to apprehension, coursed through
her.

"I have never attempted to do so."

"There's a first time for everything." He held out a hand, and she
took it, uncertainly, rising gracefully. Tom was only a few inches
taller than her, and she found that a comfort. The ability to make eye
contact was important for her. She felt more able to trust. She was
unsure of the scientific concept of that, she just knew it was true.

Instinct. As a human, she relied upon this more and more. She had only
experienced instructions in the Borg. Thousands of voices, millions of
drones, speaking as one voice. There was no room for thousands of
individual instincts. Thousands of thoughts, swallowed up in the
network, the chorus of voices...

Could she hear her father's voice, her mother's? Sometimes, as she was
regenerating, she believed she could. She could pick out their voices,
in the midst of the others...

If only...

"I am not familiar with the etiquette of this activity."

"You don't have to be familiar with the etiquette. Just follow your
instincts." He pressed her closer to him, pulling their bodies into
alignment. She looked down, at her feet, as he called for music,
Bajoran, unfamiliar to her, except from the celebrations they
sometimes celebrated.

As he began to move, she attempted to match his movements.

"Seven, don't worry about what your feet or my feet are doing. Just
follow the music. And relax..." he allowed his voice to trail off, as
she nodded.

"Did you dance with Lieutenant Torres?" she felt the need to ask,
suddenly.

"Sometimes. We never did the simple stuff. It was full on from the
start. Not like this..." Realising how his words were sounding, Tom
tried to pull back. "Perhaps we shouldn't..."

"Please, I am... enjoying this activity." *I am enjoying the
closeness*, she almost said, before checking herself, just in time.

"You are?"

"I wish to... continue..."

It was hard, at first. Sometimes, she stepped on Tom's feet, when the
music changed pace. She ceased apologising, when he told her he had
thick feet, like thick skin.

She replied that she didn't believe that was the case.

He was silent.

As the melody drew to a close, another began, and still they moved,
closer, and closer still. Gingerly, she rested her head on his
shoulder, feeling the roughness of facial hair growth against his jaw,
smelling his cologne, derived from a sort of musk, she wondered,
absently. It reminded her vaguely of being a child again, of falling
asleep while her father told a story, but the emotion behind the
action was not of a daughter being held by her father. It was...
different. It was almost...

Sexual.

The realisation flooded her instantly. She stiffened and lifted her
head, ready to move away, when she caught Tom's eyes...

And instead she found herself moving closer, anticipating what was to
come, drawn to this human man in a way she had never experienced
before.

His lips touched hers, briefly, before retreating. Her eyes opened,
she couldn't remember closing them, and then her hand was in his hair,
drawing him closer again...

Instinct.

It was her that placed her lips upon his, parting them, tasting him.
She wanted more. The moment lasted seconds, minutes, hours... she lost
track of time, as she felt his hands resting on her back, one sliding
to her shoulder-blade, the other to her hip... she had never been lost
like this before...

She had never welcomed this feeling so much before.

And then, finally, too soon, a sliver of rational thought opened in
her mind, and she drew back. Tom's eyes were dark, diluted, only a
thin ring of blue remaining. She had caused that reaction.

She wished to cause it again.

But her mind refused to let her, and she pulled back, Tom's hands
automatically releasing her.

"Oh God I'm sorry, Seven... I shouldn't have done that..."

"I should bear half the responsibility, Tom."

"No, it was me, I invited you to stay... I knew you hadn't done..."

"I am not a child!"

The abruptness of her tone stilled him.

"People treat me as if I know nothing about the complexities of
humanity, emotion, relationships," she paused, considering her next
words carefully. "Perhaps I have a lot to learn, but that is true of
most individuals, yourself included."

"I didn't mean. . . " he faltered. "I didn't realise you felt like
that, that we thought of you like that."

"It is not something I suspect most are conscious of. Most perceived
me as a threat at the beginning. Their perceptions have. . .  altered
somewhat."

"I know the feeling."

"You were not well liked when you first came aboard Voyager." A
statement, not a question.

"That's an understatement," the man said, quietly, looking at the
floor.

Seven felt compassion for the man, still holding her, although more
loosely now. She knew something of his history. He had. . .  intrigued
her, from the time that he had protected her from the Cataati, who had
tried to attack her for her prior identity, only days after she had
first come aboard. He had said that he recognised that everyone had
made mistakes, that everyone 'had a past'. Even then, she had detected
a hint of pain, and had not questioned him about the subject again.

"I believe that you are more equipped to understand than most aboard
Voyager."

"You're probably right, Seven."

"You are breaking your own command."

Tom looked up, unsure of the change of subject.

"What?"

"You are looking at your feet. You should look at me. . .  is that not
the correct etiquette for dancing?"

He smiled. "Sorry, m'lady. I'll try to do better next time."

"I would like there to be a 'next time'. . .  sir."

He smiled again, more brightly this time, his eyes creasing. A deep
smile, a smile that touched her. Hesitantly, she reciprocated, the
motion still unfamiliar to her, awkward.

But this did not feel awkward to her.

"I would like that too, Seven." He moved back, grasping her hand,
bowing slightly. Then he peered up at her.

"May I kiss you goodnight?"

She nodded. He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing it gently,
ignoring the exoskeleton that so many found uncomfortable.

He stepped back, heading toward the door.

"Good night Seven, until the next time."

"I look forward to it, Tom."

And then he left, and she stood alone. But for the first time, in a
long time, she did not feel alone. She walked back to the table,
spying the Doctor's PADDs as she did so. Reading them quickly, she
smiled.

It appeared that she was ahead of her class, after all.

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The End