Almost the Same Thing

Selenia stirred on the cot, the hard surface creaking under her as she sat up, the blanket’s coarse weave brushing her skin. She rubbed her face, the cleaner feel of her cheeks a faint surprise, and a spark of hope flickered—Jace hadn’t beaten her for sleeping here. Gav would’ve, his fists quick to punish, but Jace had left her be, even draped this blanket over her in the night, a small difference that settled in her.

The hold’s air carried a chill, but her body, naturally running at 39°C, remained steady, unaffected by the cold. She pulled the blanket closer, its faint scent a comfort, and stood, her bare feet meeting the cold steel floor. The lights were on, the neon strip above casting a steady glow over the hold’s cluttered space.

She took a step, her eyes tracing the area—crates stacked unevenly, edges dented from rough use; the workbench with the box where the tools were locked away on the port wall, a small hatch beside it, chipped and unassuming, leading to the ship’s crawlspace; the starboard bulkhead with recessed bunks, their padding stained. A low grunt from the cockpit broke the silence—Jace, already up. She paused, her head tilting slightly at the sound, her fingers tightening on the blanket’s edge.

Her gaze caught on the crawlspace hatch again, a faint pull stirring—her instincts, drawn to the idea of circuits and repairs. She stepped closer, the blanket trailing behind her, her small frame a shadow against the steel walls. The station’s drone seeped faintly through the hull, a distant hum beneath the ship’s own rhythm. Her eyes shifted to the sink, its dented surface catching the light, the faucet’s drip a quiet call. Last night flickered in her mind—when Jace had taken her, the first time she timidly cleaned herself, a small act of reclaiming. She moved toward it, her steps careful on the steel, the blanket still draped over her shoulders, a space where she’d begun to find her own small freedoms opening before her.

Selenia stood at the sink, her fingers brushing its rim, lost in the memory of last night—Jace’s hands, her grip here, the first time she’d washed herself. The faucet’s drip faded into the background as she stared at the dented steel, unaware of the cockpit hatch groaning open, the heavy thud of boots approaching. Jace appeared behind her, a cigarette’s ember glowing, smoke curling lazily through the hold’s dim light.

“You’re awake,” he grumbled, his voice low, a man unaccustomed to sharing his space.

Selenia’s shoulders twitched, her synthetic pulse spiking as she spun, the blanket slipping slightly. Her wide eyes met his, then dropped, wary, her bare feet shifting on the cold grid. Jace’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before he reached out, peeling the blanket open with a rough hand. His eyes traced her tattered JBU—its frayed seams, the grime clinging to it—his brow furrowing slightly, a silent note of her state. She stiffened, clutching the blanket’s edge, her breath shallow.

“Strip,” he said, his tone flat, his intent unclear. She froze for a heartbeat, the command heavy in the air, but she had learned to obey. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an invitation. She moved to comply, her hands trembling as she slid the blanket off her shoulders and pulled the fabric of her JBU off her body.

The cold air bit at her exposed skin, but she made no move to cover herself. She expected him to use her again, the same rough, abusive way Gav, or his crew, would—quick, violent, without care—but Jace didn’t touch her. Instead, he picked up the dirty garment, his fingers brushing the grime-covered fabric, inspecting it for a moment.

“The sonic shower’s on the fritz,” he muttered, his voice gruff, but his gaze still on the clothing in his hands. “Piece of junk. Don’t bother with it.” He paused, then gave a half-nod toward the sink. “You can use that. Just don’t waste all the water. Tank’s low.” His boots scuffed against the steel floor as he turned, heading toward the rear hatch. He added over his shoulder, “I’ll be back soon. Don’t touch what you shouldn’t.” The hatch groaned open and hissed shut behind him, leaving her standing there, naked and exposed, with nothing but the blanket at her feet.

Selenia bent slowly, her fingers brushing the coarse fabric as she picked up the blanket, pulling it over her shoulders. Her synthetic pulse slowed, the quiet of the hold settling around her like a fragile shield. No ****. No aggression. Just his gruff authority. The small freedoms she had found in his actions—the cot, the blanket, a space where she could breathe—it still felt fragile, but they were hers. She had to hold on to them, even if only for a moment.

The cold floor felt sharp against her bare feet as she moved back to the sink. She reached for the faucet, her hands shaking slightly as she turned it on, letting the thin stream of water trickle out. She cupped her hands beneath the flow, gathering the cold water before splashing it over her arms, then her neck, her face. Each motion was deliberate, slow, careful. She couldn’t waste the water, couldn’t afford to, but the act of cleansing herself, of choosing how much to use, felt like a small reclaiming.

She stopped the flow often, mindful of the tank, her hands wiping away the grime, the residue of a life lived under Gav’s cruel touch. She dried herself with the blanket, the coarse fabric scratching against her skin as she wrapped it around her, her fingers lingering at the edge of the cloth. When she had finished, she remained naked beneath it, the air of the hold cool against her damp skin, but she didn’t care. The small act of washing, of taking control over this space, was hers now.

Selenia sat back on her cot, knees pulled to her chest, the blanket still loosely draped over her shoulders. She could feel the weight of the silence in the hold, the faint hum of the station, the steady thrum of the ship’s heartbeat beneath it. Naked under the blanket, she waited for Jace to return, her thoughts tracing the strange difference in him. In her two years alive, Gav’s touch had meant pain—his hands a claim, a punishment, her body a thing to trade; Jace’s restraint, his gruff allowance of the sink, felt like a new language, one she might learn to understand.

She wasn’t sure what it all meant, but it felt different. And for now, that was enough.

Time passed slowly in the hold. The low hum of the ship had become background noise, steady as breath. Selenia sat still on the cot, knees drawn in, the blanket loose around her. The air had warmed slightly, or maybe she’d adjusted. Her damp skin had dried. She hadn’t moved much since the wash.The hatch groaned open again.

Selenia startled, just a flicker, her grip on the blanket tightening as she sat upright on the cot. Jace stepped in, a crate held against his chest. He didn’t speak, didn’t look at her—just crossed the hold with his usual heavy-footed gait and set the crate down on the workbench.

The ship was quiet except for the soft shuffle of his boots and the dull scrape of items being shifted inside the crate. He started unpacking supplies—tins, spools of wire, a battered multitool, a stack of ration packs, one slipping off and clattering to the deck. He didn’t curse. Just picked it up and kept going. One by one, he placed them aside with a kind of methodical care that didn’t match his usual gruffness. She watched him from the cot, unsure if he wanted something from her—or if she should stay out of the way. But he didn’t say anything.

Then he stopped.

His hand hovered for a moment over the last contents of the crate. He didn’t look at her as he motioned for her to approach with a jerk of his chin.

“Come here.”

The words were low. Not harsh. Not kind either. Just there.

Selenia stood. The blanket shifted down her shoulders as she approached, bare feet near-silent on the cold floor. She stopped beside him, her posture small, head bowed slightly—watching, not meeting his eyes, wary.

Jace reached into the crate and pulled out two items.

First, her JBU. Cleaned. Folded tight. The black-and-white fabric still bore its scars—creases at the seams, spots where the stitching had been hastily mended—but it was no longer foul with grime. The Jutarek logo across the chest was faint but intact, and the leotard’s gleam had mostly returned, as though scrubbed with industrial soap and just enough care to keep it from falling apart.

Then the shoes. The simple white canvas slip-ons, standard-issue for ASHs. Not new. The soles were worn smooth in spots, and the edge seams were just starting to fray—but they were clean.

Jace held them out together, one in each hand. His gaze never quite landed on her.

“Here.”

Just that. No commentary. No preamble. No acknowledgment of what it meant.

Selenia reached out slowly, taking the bundle from him with both hands, her fingers brushing the edge of his calloused palm. She clutched the shoes and folded uniform to her chest.

She didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

Then Jace turned back to the crate, picking it up to put it away, already onto the next thing. As if what he'd done wasn’t anything at all.

But it was.

And she stood there, the blanket slipping down her back, holding something that, for once, felt like hers. Or at least, no longer covered in someone else's filth.

It wasn’t freedom. But it was clean. And in a life where almost nothing was hers, that was almost the same thing.