Dooku was, on all but the rarest occasions, the picture of civility. He was a Count by birth, a Jedi Master by trade, and a man of honor and courtesy by nature; if there was anyone who would not be caught dead with a coarse word on the lips, it was him. As far as Qui-Gon knew, his Master had never so much as whispered a profanity in any form, whether intelligible or not, from the moment of his birth.
Until now.
Qui-Gon had just entered his and Dooku's shared quarters for the night when he heard the noise. First there was a thump, followed by a yell, a sound like fabric ripping, and an almighty crash. And then he heard it, and shook his head to clear whatever debris must be in his ears, because surely he had heard wrong. Could that really have been what his Master said? It was just so unlike him, and yet...
Qui-Gon checked the Master-Padawan bond, and immediately went reeling as his mind was shoved away by the strongest, most ironclad mental defenses he'd ever sensed to date. "Master?" he called aloud instead, hoping against hope that there would be no angry outburst coming.
"Kriff! Padawan!" came the bellow again, and this time there could be no mistaking it. His Master was horribly, frightfully, blazing and hopping mad. If he was anything short of livid, he would not have just yelled that word to the entire Temple. Qui-Gon briefly considered pulling out his 'saber in self-defense, but then thought better of it as he walked over to Dooku's closed bedroom door and, with no small degree of trepidation, palmed it open.
Dooku lay there, on the floor, amid a scene of general destruction. The small nightstand was overturned, its contents strewn across the room; the covers on the pallet were rumpled and askew; Dooku's lightsaber was lying, deactivated, some distance from his right foot. Dooku himself looked a little the worse for wear; his boots were scuffed, and his favorite cape had a huge rip up the middle. Upon seeing Qui-Gon gawking in the doorway, he roared, "Well, don't just stand there, Padawan! Help me, Force take it, help me up!"
Qui-Gon hurried to comply, still marveling at the thundering strength of Dooku's rage. What in the nine Corellian hells had gotten him so angry?! As the older man was helped to his feet and had his 'saber returned by his Padawan, he seemed to anticipate the teenage boy's question. Heaving a sigh, he sat down on the pallet and said stiffly, "Forgive the outburst, Qui-Gon. I forgot myself. I know you have been very busy with the Advanced Galactic Cultures examination coming up, so you might not know that I have been having a most awful day. First Windu manages to rope me into watching the crèche all morning, which is not by any means my favorite activity. Then when I get to the refectory for lunch, those blasted droids have run out of Serenno black tea when yesterday morning they said they had enough to last the week! And then I meditate in the Gardens for a while- I guess that was the only good part. But when I arrive at the dojo for an evening practice session, Madame Nu is there, and she tells me my Form VI level four kata is sloppy. Sloppy! When she herself is better at Soresu or Shii-Cho!
"Now, Padawan, I'll admit I was angrier at this point than a Jedi should rightly be. I got back here about ten minutes ago, after Master Yoda showed up and sent both Jocasta and I to bed. I have been practicing my Form VI ever since. Until I landed a jump too hard and this thing," he gestured to his torn cape, "caught on the corner of my nightstand! It ripped, I grabbed the nightstand and the bed to keep myself from falling, but it was no use- down I went anyway. And so did the nightstand. There, I've told you what happened; now would you mind setting that stand upright again?"
Dooku was back to his usual civil demeanor. Qui-Gon obeyed without question, and proceeded to help his Master pick up the various objects that has been tossed to the floor in the tumble. Now that Dooku's durasteel shields had softened slightly, Qui-Gon could feel the dregs of his fury being released into the Force. Along with a few other words in alien languages floating over the bond, words that he doubted were any less dirty than kriff.
He would have to ask his Advanced Galactic Cultures teacher about them sometime.