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Quinlan likes dishwashing duty.
Out of all of the kitchen duties that initiates are assigned, he prefers dishwashing duty. Most of the others don’t—Bruck hates it with a virulent passion, and even Luminara wrinkles her nose at the hot water. Dishwashing duty is hard, soaking dishes and cutlery in hot soapy water, scrubbing pots and pans. It’s easier to be assigned chopping duty, or serving duty, or even mopping duty, as boring as it is to mop the floors around the commissary for hours.
But Quinlan likes dishwashing duty the best.
They’re offered gloves, to keep their hands protected from the hot water, but Quinlan likes to wash the dishes barehanded. He likes to touch them, feel the imprints of the Jedi who’ve just eaten. He whispers what he learns to Obi-Wan, who always stands, shoulder-to-shoulder with him, when Quinlan volunteers for dishwashing duty again and again.
He wraps his hands around a spoon, catching a glimpse of a Bothan padawan, practically falling into their soup. They’re tired, from a long day of training, but as the spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl, they slump—not forwards, but backwards in peace. The Force shimmers within them, happy, and Quinlan can feel the exhaustion of a day’s hard work easing with a good meal. It fills his belly, as if he’s sitting, side-by-side with Obi-Wan on his right and Luminara on his left, scraping the last of midmeal off his plate with a smile.
Obi-Wan smiles when Quinlan tells that story, and leans into Quinlan a little more.
He pulls a knife out of the dish pile, and tells of a Master who’d finished a mission—negotiations on a planet in the Core, a neutral mediator between two local factions. It was a good mission, an easy mission, but it was good to be back, in the temple, with a warm meal and the company of fellow Jedi.
“That’s why we serve,” Obi-Wan agrees, and his smile is broad as he scrubs at a plate. His hands are bare as well, even though he doesn’t have any talent in psychometry.
“If you’re not going to wear gloves, then I won’t,” Obi-Wan’d said stubbornly, the first time Quinlan pulled off his gloves to touch the dishes and cutlery in the sudsy water.
“Your hands will prune,” Quinlan had protested.
“So will yours.” Obi-Wan’d been missing a tooth. It left a gap in his smile. “I’m not going to let your hands be the only ones that prune.”
(Bant, on Obi-Wan’s other side had rolled her eyes. “Human skin is weird,” she’d said. Obi-Wan and Quinlan had turned betrayed eyes to her. “Quin’s Kiffar,” Obi-Wan had said, in unison to Quin’s “I’m Kiffar!” Bant had rolled her large eyes and said, “Near enough. You both have pruning skin.”)
So now, Obi-Wan also scrubs his portion of the dishes without gloves. The monk on duty has given up trying to make them wear gloves, and Quinlan’s bare fingers catch at Obi-Wan’s beneath the suds as they fish in the sudsy water for another plate to scrub. He gets a flash of Obi-Wan, the peace, the joy at being able to help, and Quinlan grins as he fishes out a plate of his own.
A Twilek knight used this plate, he tells Obi-Wan. It was a long mission, a hard one, only in the mid-rim, but the journey had felt longer than it should have been. They’d had to help resettle refugees, and there were so many hungry, and even now, it hurt to eat and to think of those thin cheeks and grasping hands.
Obi-Wan frowns, ready to take the plate away. But Quinlan shakes his head, keeps his grip firm, and lets himself sink into the memory.
The knight had helped build houses for the refugees. Helped get them food. Gotten the local charities to donate toys for the children. Made sure that everybody had clothes. Talked to the government about aid programs. Sent word to the Senate aid committees about a new settlement that needed assistance.
They’d worked hard, and now they were back in the temple. And they were glad to be back, relieved to have a full meal, but every bite was filled with guilt that they couldn’t do more.
Obi-Wan’s eyes are wide as he takes the plate from Quinlan to finish scrubbing it.
“That was a bad one,” Quinlan says. He lets his hands brush against Obi-Wan’s, take the brightness and joy and peace from serving and lets it steady him.
Obi-Wan’s cheeks puff in thought. He finds a bowl, runs his fingers around the curve of it, and hands it to Quinlan. “Try this one.”
Quinlan takes it.
A Pantoran knight had just finished eating from this bowl, and Quinlan smiles at the brush of peace and joy that emanates from the bowl. There’s no guilt here, just ease. The comfort that comes from a warm meal filling the belly. The steady relaxation of being safe at home again, surrounded by friends and family. Quinlan gets glimpses of the Pantoran turning to the Human beside them, the two of them laughing with the joy of a successful mission, of being back safe and sound.
“That’s a good one,” Quinlan says, and leans into Obi-Wan’s shoulder to begin to describe what he saw.
“It was a Pantoran knight…” Quinlan says, as he scrubs. “And she’d just gotten back from a mission, and she was happy to have a warm meal and be safe at home.”
Obi-Wan leans back. He’s smiling. Shoulder to shoulder, they wash the dishes, and with each plate, with each bowl, with each piece of cutlery Quinlan tells the stories of Jedi at home to rest: full and at peace.