Chapter 7: Shared Bath
The walk from the equipment alcove to the officers’ quarters was a blur of grey corridors and muffled sounds. Nova was aware of Rysia’s arm around her, guiding, supporting, bearing most of her weight. She wasn’t being carried, not quite, but the distinction felt academic. Her legs moved because Rysia’s momentum dictated it. Her eyes were downcast, watching their boots on the polished decking, two pairs moving in a slow, synchronized shuffle. She was too empty to feel shame about the fresh padding Rysia had put on her, or the damp fatigue pants in the duffel slung over Rysia’s shoulder. The humiliation on the range had been a white-hot brand. This was just ashes.
They didn’t speak. The only sound was the sigh of the climate system and the distant, rhythmic thump of machinery from the ship’s deep core. They passed a pair of techs who nodded curtly at Rysia and didn’t even glance at Nova. She was part of the landscape, a piece of damaged equipment being escorted to maintenance.
Rysia’s quarters were in a quiet spur of the habitation deck. She palmed the lock and the door slid open with a soft hiss.
The room was exactly as Nova remembered from her few, strictly supervised visits: painfully neat, borderline sterile. A single standard-issue bed, tightly made. A plain metal desk with a terminal, a data-slate, nothing else. A small private bathroom door, ajar. The air smelled of recycled air, antiseptic cleaning solution, and underneath it all, a faint trace of Rysia’s soap. It was the room of someone who lived temporarily, minimally. A caretaker’s post.
“Sit,” Rysia said, her voice gentle but leaving no room for debate. She guided Nova to the edge of the bed. The mattress was firm, unyielding.
Nova sat, her hands in her lap. She stared at a faint scuff mark on the grey deck tile between her boots. She heard Rysia moving in the small bathroom—the clank of the tub faucet, the rush of water. It was a different sound from the showers in the communal pilot bays. Softer. The echo was closer.
Rysia reappeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She’d shed her utility vest. “Water’s running. It’ll be warm, not hot. You’re already in shock.” She crossed her arms, studying Nova. “Can you get undressed, or do you need help?”
The question was purely practical. Nova looked down at her hands. They lay limp, palms up. She willed them to move. They twitched. That was all. The simple task of unfastening her fatigue jacket felt like decrypting a complex missile guidance system. Her brain sent the signal, but the connection was down.
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
Rysia pushed off the doorframe. “Okay.”
She knelt on the tile in front of Nova, her movements slow and deliberate, giving Nova every chance to protest, to muster a scrap of defiance. Nova just watched, a passive spectator in her own body. Rysia’s fingers were deft. They found the hidden clasps of the jacket, popping them open one by one. The sound was loud in the quiet room. She peeled the fabric back from Nova’s shoulders, easing it down her arms. The cooler air of the room kissed Nova’s sweat-damp undershirt, raising goosebumps.
Next came the boots. Rysia untied them, not yanking, but pulling them off with steady pressure. Then her hands went to the waist fastener of Nova’s fatigue pants. Nova flinched. A tiny, involuntary spasm.
Rysia paused, her hands resting on Nova’s hips. She looked up, meeting Nova’s downcast gaze. “This is just care, Nova. Nothing else. I need to get you clean.” Her voice was a low, steady vibration. “You’re shivering. The grime and the sweat and the adrenaline crash… it’s poison. We’re washing it away.”
Nova gave the slightest nod, her chin dipping maybe a centimeter. Permission. Surrender.
Rysia continued. The pants, the socks, the damp brief. All removed with that same clinical efficiency. When Nova was sitting there in just her thin undershirt and shorts, Rysia stood and offered her hands. “Up.”
Nova took them. Her own felt like ice. Rysia pulled her to her feet, steadying her as she swayed. Then, without preamble, Rysia grasped the hem of Nova’s undershirt and pulled it up over her head. The cool air was a shock against her bare skin. Nova crossed her arms over her chest, a reflexive, useless gesture of modesty. Rysia paid it no mind, simply disposing of the shirt and then hooking her thumbs into the waistband of Nova’s shorts, easing them down her legs.
Nova stood naked in the middle of the room. She felt wildly exposed, more than she ever had in the cockpit. The Razorfalcon was armor. This was just… flesh. Weak, failing flesh. She kept her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the wall past Rysia’s shoulder.
Rysia didn’t comment. She turned back toward the bathroom. “Come on. Water’s ready.”
The bathroom was tiny, all polished steel and white ceramic. Steam curled from the half-full tub, fogging the mirror. Rysia hadn’t just turned on the tap. She’d added something—the air smelled faintly of lavender and something medicinal, a calming balm.
What happened next froze the air in Nova’s lungs.
Rysia didn’t gesture for Nova to get in. Instead, she turned to face her, and her own hands went to the fastenings of her uniform. The top came off first, revealing a plain, tight tank beneath. Then, with the same unselfconscious efficiency, she stripped off her pants.
Nova had seen Rysia in gym gear before. She knew she was strong. But this was different.
Rysia’s body was a map of a different kind of war. A long, puckered scar ran from just below her right collarbone down across her ribcage, pale and vicious against her olive skin—a laser burn, poorly treated in the field. A cluster of smaller, circular pockmarks dotted her left shoulder and upper arm: shrapnel. A newer, pinker line bisected her abdomen above her hip. But the most startling thing wasn’t the scars themselves. It was the sheer density of muscle, the powerful definition of her back and shoulders, the coiled strength in her thighs. This wasn’t a gym body. This was the physique of someone who had hauled wounded comrades from wreckage, who had fought hand-to-hand in zero-g corridors, who had carried full-grown adults for miles. It was a testament to survival, written in flesh and sinew.
Nova’s breath caught. Her own body felt childlike in comparison, small and soft and unmarked by anything but internal decay.
Rysia met her gaze, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Not shame. Not pride. Just fact. “Easier this way,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “You can’t be trusted not to slide under and drown right now.”
She stepped into the tub first, the water sloshing around her calves, then her thighs as she sat, reclining against the sloped back. She held out a hand. “Come here.”
Nova’s legs moved. She stepped over the high lip of the tub, one trembling hand on Rysia’s offered one for balance, the other still awkwardly trying to cover herself. The water was blissfully, perfectly warm. It was a shock that didn’t hurt. She sank into it, the heat immediately beginning to seep into the deep, cold places the EI and the shame had left behind.
Rysia guided her, turning her, until Nova’s back was against her chest. Then she simply pulled her in, wrapping her arms around Nova’s midsection, locking her in place. Nova was enveloped—in the water, in the heat, in the solid, unyielding strength of the woman behind her. Her head lolled back against Rysia’s shoulder. A small, broken sound escaped her.
“Shhh,” Rysia murmured into her damp hair. “Just be still.”
One of Rysia’s arms remained locked around her, a living safety belt. The other hand reached for a bottle of shampoo. Nova felt strong, clever fingers begin to work through her short-cropped hair, massaging her scalp. The pressure was perfect, firm and knowing. It unraveled a knot of tension at the base of her skull she’d thought was permanent.
“Breathe, little star,” Rysia whispered, her voice a low rumble Nova felt through her back. “Just breathe. In… and out.”
Nova tried. Her first breath shuddered, catching on a sob. The second was deeper. The third began to find a rhythm matching the slow, circular motions on her scalp. The smell of lavender and clean soap filled her nostrils, drowning out the phantom scents of ozone and her own fear.
Rysia worked in silence for a while, rinsing the shampoo with a cupped hand, then starting on a conditioner. Her touch never strayed, never became anything but purposeful and clean.
“Petrova believes in you,” Rysia said quietly, her words just for the steam-filled space between them. “More than you know. She didn’t reinstate you out of pity. She did it because you’re the only one who can do what needs doing. The PPC shot proved that.”
“I failed,” Nova whispered, her first words since the alcove. They sounded rusty.
“You had a systemic reaction to extreme stress. A documented side effect of the technology that lets you do the impossible. We manage it. We don’t apologize for it.” Rysia’s voice was firm. “Jax is an arrogant prick who’s never had his mind interfaced with a nuclear reactor. His opinion is noise.”
“Everyone heard…”
“Everyone heard a commander give an order to a specialist. That’s all. The rest is in your head.” Rysia’s hand stilled for a moment on her head. “And we’re working on that, too.”
She guided Nova forward gently, tipping her head back to rinse. The water streamed over her face, and for a moment it felt like she was crying without the tears. Then Rysia sat her back, reaching for a washcloth and a bar of plain, unscented soap.
The washing that followed was the most vulnerable experience of Nova’s life. Rysia’s hands were everywhere, scrubbing away the dried sweat and grime of the range, the salt of dried tears, the lingering psychic residue of humiliation. She washed Nova’s back, her arms, her chest with a thorough, impersonal tenderness that was somehow more intimate than any lover’s touch could have been. There was no desire in it. Only a profound, absolute care. When the cloth passed over her lower abdomen, over the flesh that had betrayed her, Rysia’s touch didn’t hesitate, didn’t soften with pity or harden with disgust. It was just another part of the whole that needed cleaning.
Nova let it happen. She closed her eyes. The heat, the strength at her back, the relentless, kind efficiency of the hands on her skin… it was dismantling her. The defiance, the rage, the brittle pride—they softened, dissolved, and swirled down the drain with the soapy water. What was left was a hollow core, but a clean one. An empty vessel.
Eventually, the washing stopped. The water was cooling. Rysia shifted behind her. “Can you stand?”
Nova nodded. This time, her body responded. She pushed herself up, water sluicing off her, and stepped out onto the bath mat. She was immediately wrapped in a large, warm towel that had been hanging on a heater. Rysia emerged a moment later, quickly drying herself with another before pulling on a soft pair of sleep pants and a loose tank.
She led Nova, bundled in the towel, back to the main room. From a small storage locker, she pulled out two things: a fresh, thick disposable brief, and a pair of Nova’s own soft sleep shorts and a tank top, brought from her quarters. She dressed Nova as efficiently as she had undressed her, the actions so routine they felt almost ceremonial.
Then she pulled back the tight covers on the bed. “In.”
Nova crawled in. The sheets were cool, starched. Rysia tucked the blanket around her, then walked to the desk and dimmed the main lights, plunging the room into a soft, grey twilight. Nova expected her to leave, to go sleep in the rec room or something.
Instead, Rysia came around to the other side of the bed. She slid in beside Nova, her weight making the mattress dip. She didn’t touch her at first. She just lay on her back, staring at the ceiling.
After a long minute, she turned on her side, facing Nova. In the dim light, her scars were soft grey shadows.
“You called me ‘Mommy’,” she said again, her voice barely audible.
Nova stiffened. “I was out of my mind.”
“I know.” Rysia reached out. Not to pull Nova close, but to gently touch her cheek, turning Nova’s face toward her. “But I need you to understand something. In that alcove, when you were breaking apart, you weren’t reaching for your caretaker. You were reaching for me. The person. And I caught you.” Her thumb stroked Nova’s cheekbone. “So tonight, you’re not a Mechwarrior. You’re not even my charge. You’re just a girl who’s been hurt too much, in a world that asks too much. And I’m the person who’s here.”
She opened her arms, an unmistakable invitation.
Every shred of Nova’s training, her identity, her bruised ego screamed at her to refuse, to turn away, to rebuild her walls right now. But she was so tired. And the hollow, clean place inside her ached for that solid, simple warmth.
With a shuddering sigh that was the final surrender, Nova shifted across the narrow space. She curled into Rysia’s body, fitting her head under Rysia’s chin, her forehead against her chest. Rysia’s arms closed around her, one strong hand cradling the back of her head, the other a solid bar across her back.
The last of the tremors stilled. The harsh rhythm of her breathing softened, syncing with the slow, steady rise and fall of Rysia’s chest. The scent of clean skin and lavender filled her lungs.
“Sleep, little star,” Rysia whispered into her hair, her lips brushing Nova’s forehead. “I’ve got the watch.”
For the first time in memory, Nova didn’t dream of fire or failure. She sank into a deep, black, and blessedly silent sea, anchored fast to the one immovable thing in her crumbling world. Outside, the ship hummed towards the Kelso Fringe, towards the war. But in that sterile room, for a few stolen hours, there was only peace, and the profound, terrifying safety of being held.