"Obi-Wan." It was a warning.
"Sorry, Master," Obi-Wan ground out through clenched teeth. His wrist strained against the handle of the hairbrush, and he felt as though if he pulled any harder, something would tear; whether that would be the brush's handle or Qui-Gon's hair, he could not say. He relinquished his hold and sighed in frustration.
"What is their spit made out of? Duracrete?" Obi-Wan smeared more of the strong-smelling soap across the mat in his master's hair. Where his apprentice couldn't see, Qui-Gon allowed himself a grimace at the stench.
"So it would seem," He said with uncharacteristic bile.
They were supposed to be on a quiet, relaxing diplomatic mission. They'd spent the last year and a half entrenched in messy squabbles and half-wars across the galaxy, trudged through shallow hell and back and suffered more than one long stint in the healer's wing. Even the council had begun to take pity on them. So here they were on a nice cushy mission; a peaceful day-long trip to an outer core world, followed by would be a short half-week mission overseeing the annual senatorial summit. The jedi's presence here was a decoration more than anything else, a matter of ceremony. They gave advice when prompted and protection only from the too-terse replies of other politicians.
However, in the fashion that only the Jinn/Kenobi team could manage, they ended up finding trouble anyway. Their host world was a terrestrial, green planet, bursting with life. The local culture embraced their surroundings, leaving even their centers of state to be framed by dense foliage. Some of it had been tilled into old and magnificent gardens. And yet, even in these carefully trimmed expanses, nature remained untamed.
It was Qui-Gon's heaven. Unfortunately for him, Heaven didn't much like him back. He had acted as any responsible Jedi should've when he dove to save the senator's toddler son from falling into a ground wasp's nest, but unfortunately even with the Force on his side, catching the boy had sent him into the clay-like mound.
And here he was: sitting cross-legged on the floor of the 'fresher, swollen, burning hands smeared with bacta and bandages, a towel about his bare shoulders, his apprentice cursing creatively at the half-dried wasp mud stuck in his hair. He should've been reprimanding Obi-Wan for his strong application of the Huttese language, but he found he couldn't fault the boy. Two and half hours they'd been here, and there still appeared to be a rock growing out of Qui-Gon's head.
The dust and and soap-covered pebbles of clay on the floor around him told Qui-Gon that they had made some progress, but it was slow going. As he had the thought, a new strand of hair fell into his face, freed from its clay bonds. Carefully, Obi-Wan poured more water on him, careful to direct it away from his eyes. A drop or two found their way there anyway, and Qui-Gon wiped his brow.
"Sorry, Master."
A few more chunks of clay bumped off his shoulders, and Qui-Gon made the mistake of entertaining hope. Obi-Wan groaned softly.
"This is ridiculous," the padawan accused, and Qui-Gon suddenly had a mental image of Obi-Wan taking a hammer and chisel to his master's head. He turned his eyes toward his apprentice. Obi-Wan's imaginings, no doubt.
"It can't be that bad yet. You've made progress." He brushed some clay off his knee with a sticky, bacta-red hand.
"I've been having to use the force to pull this brush through it."
"I see," Qui-Gon didn't see, but he did feel. He winced. Obi-Wan continued to exude a steady frustration for several quiet minutes. "And what do you suggest we do, padawan mine?"
Obi-Wan, who had been kneeling on the hard floor and holding his arms up to work for nearly three hours, fidgeted uncomfortably before letting his arms slap against his sides in resignation. "There's nothing for it. We'll have to chop it off."
Qui-Gon turned his head and glared. "You're not cutting my hair, my very junior apprentice."
Obi-Wan had meant it as a jest, but the annoyance in his look was real. "Master, it's like stone. I've used most of the soap we have and it's hardly half gone."
Only half? Really? "Well then I suggest you be more judicious with the rest, Padawan." Which sent a flare of anger through the Force. Still, Obi-Wan obediently went back to his work, brushing and chipping and scrubbing. Qui-Gon willed himself to go into something like a meditation, ignoring the painful pulls and tugs.
Obi-Wan's anger faded after a while, now resigned to the rest of his task. After a while, though, a smile began to creep onto his face. Qui-Gon sensed it.
"Something funny?"
"Well, no, just…" Obi-Wan leaned back momentarily to shake out his hands chip clay from underneath his fingernails. "What would you look like with short hair?"
"I don't care to find out." Qui-Gon warned him without opening his eyes.
"I know, I just… wondered. Hmm." Obi-Wan gathered Qui-Gon's wet locks into a ball and held it up off his neck. He squinted, imagining.
"Obi-Wan," another warning. The apprentice let the hair fall down.
"You wouldn't look bad, master," he meant it. "You just… wouldn't look…"
"Good?" Qui-Gon asked with a small smirk.
"Like you," Obi-Wan clarified, brushing. After a few strokes, "Have you ever had short hair, master?"
"When I was your age, perhaps."
"Ah." That made sense. The padawan cut was a notoriously unflattering but unilaterally accepted cut amongst male, human jedi. "So did you… just… never cut it after you were knighted?" It was meant to be a joke.
"That is precisely what I did, padawan," Qui-Gon responded, taking amusement out of Obi-Wan's embarrassed surprise.
"Oh." Brush, brush. Clay fell down like a rock slide.
"How's it going?"
"Against all precedent of the day, well, actually." A few more brushes, not quite as painful as they had been. "You may be able to scrub the rest out yourself," Obi-Wan said, rubbing forgivingly soluble clay remnants between thumb and forefinger. When he pulled back and began wiping his hands, Qui-Gon stood and looked into the mirror and at the clay-dusted floor.
"Well done. Thank you, padawan."
Obi-Wan only nodded, picking up what parts of the mess he could. He stood and washed his hands.
"Perhaps you will let your hair grow long when you're knighted," Qui-Gon said, straight faced. Obi-Wan barked a laugh.
"I will not," he said. "This thing is ridiculous," he turned his head to see his own nerf tail in the mirror.
"Hmm," Qui-Gon hummed pensively. He reached out with his less-injured hand and took hold of the leather tie securing the tuft of hair. Without ceremony, he yanked, and Obi-Wan suddenly had half-long hair.
"Hey!" the younger Jedi protested. He hated the padawan style; he only took it down when he needed to wash it. Qui-Gon ignored his irritation and combed down the crimped locks with his fingers.
"You see?" He glanced at Obi-Wan's annoyed, mulleted reflection. "You look more like me already."
"Hmm," Obi-Wan played along, and squinted at his reflection and his master's. "I'm no where near grey enough," he declared. Qui-Gon quirked a dangerous eyebrow. Obi-Wan was immune. "Wait a moment," the younger brought his padawan braid – now long enough to reach across his face – and wore it on his upper lip like a mustache. He frowned into the mirror and made his voice lower than normal. "Here and now, Living Force, the Council's opinion is bullocks," his voice normalized. "I think you're on to something, master."
"Obi-Wan."
Obi-Wan dissolved into laughter, his mustache falling back to its place on his right shoulder. Qui-Gon yanked on it fairly hard.
"Ow," the apprentice said, smiling. Qui-Gon shoved the hair tie into Obi-Wan's hand.
"You'll be cooking for a month for that stunt, you brat," He pushed Obi-Wan out of the 'fresher, pinching the back of his neck. Obi-Wan hunched out of the grip and smiled that smug, dimpled grin as he looked at Qui-Gon's hands. "I thought I'd be stuck doing that already," he said. Qui-Gon drew himself up, mustering dignity despite his matted, soaking hair, shirtless chest, and half-bandaged hands.
"Cooking, cleaning, and meditating on your impertinence all the way back to Coruscant."
Obi-Wan scowled, but accepted the punishment with an obedient bow. The look on Qui-Gon's face had been worth his 'impertinence'. "And what will be the subject of such a long meditation, oh my master?"
He expected some suitably Jedi rite of contrition, but what he got was a cheeky "The exact nature of your post-graduation haircut, my very vain apprentice." Obi-Wan must've looked suitably surprised, because Qui-Gon smiled. The elder waved at the kitchen.
"Now go make tea. I need to wash up before the dinner tonight. And please re-tie your hair, Obi-Wan. You look ridiculous."
Making a face at the closed 'fresher door, Obi-Wan retied his nerf tail and skulked over toward the kettle. Please. Like he'd ever wear a mullet. The Sith Lords themselves would have to return before that would happen.
Obi-Wan shook his head sourly and went about preparing their tea.