Title: Laundry
Author: Ima Pseudonym
Genre: Star Wars
Pairing: none
Rating: PG
Summary: Obi-Wan is subjected to cruel and unsual punishment. (No, not like that... Sorry.)
Disclaimer: Lucas owns... much to my dismay.
Notes: Feedback is appreciated.
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The Deljians were closing in on the two Jedi, fast. The older of the two wore a look of grim determination, as he fought his way backwards towards the exit of the exotic palace. The younger, clearly his padawan fought with an injured arm. It looked serious. He might lose the limb. Just as they were nearing their freedom, one of the guards cut them off. Fending off several shots at once, the older man knew this was it. Just one more man made the difference. He couldn't fight them all. But it was at this darkest instant that his padawan showed an astounding knowledge of the Force, and leapt clear over his master's and the guards head, lopping off the arm that was tensed to fire. "Good work, Obi-Wan..." the man said, relief and gratitude written on his face. "All in a days work, master..." said the youth, as modest and humble as any Jedi could hope to be after such an amazing stunt-
"Excuse me. Do you have change for a credit?" Obi-Wan blinked, staring at the creature in front of him. It held out what could loosely be considered a hand. "Oh yes, of course." he exchanged the credit for a number of coins, and tried to smile sincerely as it glided away. Frowning, to have been distracted from such a pleasant daydream, he leaned back in the hard metal chair.
If there was anything in the entirety of the universe that was more boring than the endless negotiations he'd spent the past three weeks suffering through, it was the laundry mat. Slouched down in a position that would call for reprimanding, in and of itself, he played with one of the coins, using the force to levitate it a few inches above his palm. Qui-Gon would certainly not be pleased if he could see him now. Of course, Qui-Gon hadn't been pleased with him when he'd punished him to this nightmare, either.
The day before had signaled the end of the tedious disputes between several star systems. The largest system, Caffren L'May had been setting heavy taxes on the imported goods from two surrounding systems, while the tariff for other more friendly systems was much less. It had all come to a head when the two mistreated systems had stopped trading with Caffren L'May. In retaliation, a loose blockade had been set up around their primary manufacturing planets. When things started to look the worst, and the other systems were choosing sides, it was decided they would take the case before the senate. The senate had more important things on their agenda however, and that was when the Jedi council intervened, offering their services. The systems reluctantly agreed, and Qui-Gon, and his apprentice, were then assigned to peacefully settle the matter. It took weeks of mind-numbing talks, but finally Qui-Gon had Caffren L'May agree on a trade bloc that all had found reasonable.
When everyone had been dismissed, late into the night, and were shaking each other's hands... and/or hand-like appendages, Obi-Wan had been ordered to wait in the front lobby of the large, and unbelievably uninteresting building where the negotiations were held. So he had gladly escaped, and purchased a java juice from one of the machines lining the wall. Sitting by the large archway leading to the conference rooms, Obi-Wan listened to everyone congratulate one another for close to an hour. Halfway through his second java, with extreme boredom settling in, he glanced around the corner to ensure Qui-Gon wasn't about to show up. Satisfied that his master was still cornered somewhere, he let his drink rise up into the air. It wasn't playing around, after all... It was practice... From his point of view. A few minutes of concentration later, and he was pleased to watch the can still hovering, albeit a bit shakily. Perhaps he had been concentrating too hard on the can, because he never noticed as Caffren L'May's Prime Minister appeared beside him from the other room. "Just wished to thank you again, young Jedi!" he started jovially, until the can upended over him. Obi-Wan's eyes widened, impossibly, but his profuse apologies were drowned out in the enraged fit the Prime Minister began to throw. Something about imported silk. Ruined...
The events following that were quite unpleasant. Qui-Gon had to first calm the upset being, and ensure him the garment would be repaired/replaced, and then he actually led Obi-Wan away by the ear to another secluded room, where he'd lectured him for half an hour. Afterwards, they returned to the Jedi temple, and Qui-Gon explained what his punishment would entail. Firstly, he was not to attend the gala the next evening, which was to officially celebrate the successful negotiations. That in itself seemed bad enough. To suffer through the monotonous talks, and be forbidden from the one thing that might have been enjoyable about the whole affair. But if it had just been that, he would have considered himself lucky. He was ordered an extra hour of meditations every day for the next month, since he "Obviously had trouble concentrating." Or at least that's what he thought Qui-Gon said. His mind was, truthfully, on his nice warm bed, and sleep.
And the final blow was that the next day he was ordered to take all of the linens and clothing, between them, to the laundry mat, and wash them himself. WHILE thinking about his actions from the previous evening, and learning a lesson or two in humility. Well it certainly was humiliating. "Ugh... If I ever become cruel enough to inflict this punishment on my own padawan, I certainly won't include my undergarments with those to be handled. Obi-Wan quickly threw the clothing into the large machine. Laundry mat machines always looked as though they would make your clothing 'dirtier'. He hadn't spent a lot of time thinking about the previous evening, but he did spend a lot of time releasing his feelings of resentment to the Force. When he'd woken up this morning, there had been a note from Qui-Gon reminding him to complete his extra meditation, and gather anything and everything washable from both their rooms. He was ordered to finish before dark.
Fortunately, there were only a few loads of clothing left to do. He straightened in the chair, back popping, as he did so. Turning just slightly, Obi-Wan looked across the mat. There was a telescreen in one corner, which would have made the ordeal slightly more tolerable, except that three homeless old humanoids had been parked in front of it the entire time, watching Outer Rim drama programs. He had a sneaking suspicion that not one of them could understand the language being spoken. The dryer buzzed and Obi-Wan shuffled over to it, not bothering to fold the dried sheets, but rather stuffing them in one of the canvas bags.
Another wave of resentment washed over him, and rather than release his growing anger to the Force, he clung to it a minute, relishing in the self-richeous feeling it gave him. It really was unfair. He'd apologized, after all. The Prime Minister had simply over-reacted. And so had Qui-Gon. Had their positions been reversed, Obi-Wan was sure he would have been much more lenient. Maybe a few complicated katas, and then all would be forgiven. But Qui-Gon always went out of his way to ensure Obi-Wan felt guilty and resentful... And then guilty for feeling resentful. This was a job for droids! There was no need to send him here to do this dirty work.
His resentment kept building as he went through the second to last bag sorting the light clothing from the darker. He'd stopped a moment to admire the deep red sash that Qui-Gon had been given for settling a dispute on silk trade years ago. Possessions for the Jedi were forbidden, but it would have been rude to give away a gift. So Qui-Gon did own a number of small, but sentimental trinkets. Obi-Wan was sure he had acquired the council's permission... But then again, maybe not. He tossed it aside, and pulled out an old cloak that he recognized instantly. When he had been thirteen, Qui-Gon had been called away on a mission, leaving Obi-Wan at the temple for a few weeks. During those weeks, his friends had dared him to sneak something from his masters room. He couldn't remember, now, why they'd dared him... Or why he did it. But he'd taken the robe, and in a moment of showmanship, had paraded around his room wearing it. At the time his master had been well over a foot taller than he was, and with one thing leading to another, he'd tripped over the long folds, and hit his head on his desk. Panicking, he'd thrown the blood-stained article back in his master's wardrobe. When Qui-Gon returned from his mission, he had inquired about the bandage on his apprentice's head, and was answered (mostly) honestly, that Obi-Wan had tripped. It wasn't until later that he'd discovered his robe, and punished his padawan for the stunt in the first place, for endangering himself by acting stupidly, and finally for lying. He shuddered, remembering the punishment. And now, four years later, it seemed Qui-Gon had finally topped the robe punishment.
Obi-Wan sighed, digging through the last bag, and pulling out... Ah, Qui-Gon's formal tunic. He'd be wearing it that evening to the party. Jedi never wore expensive clothing. They dressed simply, and efficiently. But on occasions when roughly woven apparel was considered uncouth, they had formals... which were very much like their average dress, only white, and of a slightly finer material. He dropped the tunic, over-vest, and pants into the wash. They hadn't been worn in some months, and were still clean, but Qui-Gon had said wash 'everything' and the fact that it was already clean would not be an excuse. Which was partly why Obi-Wan had been here for seven hours. He closed the lid on the machine, and stretched his aching limbs for a moment, before reaching out to start the wash. As his hand touched the dial, however, a thought crossed his mind. There was a long moment in which he simply stared ahead unseeing. And then a mischievous smile overtook his face. Digging though the last pile of unwashed articles, he pulled out the red sash, dropping it in with the formal whites, and started the machine. Taking his seat on the steel chair, he turned his attention to the telescreen.
end