“Get cleaned up,” Tholme says, hushed. “I’m going to make us something hot to drink.” Quinlan, too tired to protest the mothering even at nineteen, acquiesces, stumbling into the bathroom and slapping the lights on with clumsy, gloved hands.
For a long few moments, he just stands there, staring at himself in the mirror. It’s been a long mission, made all the longer by the echoes rattling around in his head. Everything he touches burns, even his clothes. Fucking hell, he can feel the first time he wore this tunic, when he fell down the stairs in the back of the library and skinned his elbows. Bant had laughed so hard, but it seems like the fabric’s only held on to the pain.
He’s so tired.
“Quin,” Tholme calls, muffled. “Do you want tea, or Hoth chocolate?”
Quinlan blinks the grit out of his eyes and tries to startle himself into moving. Somehow, it works. “Um. Hoth chocolate, please? Thank you.”
“You are welcome, Padawan.” Tholme sounds tired, too.
Stiff and slow, Quinlan peels his gloves off. There’s no point in saving them, so he throws them in the bin, dried blood and all. Underneath, the wraps are mostly clean, but Quinlan can smell the sweat from here. Washed, then.
He tugs at the knots on his wrists and lets the wraps fall to the floor, then pulls the tape off with his teeth. A lot to wear all at once, but he’d only put the outer gloves on on the transport home, when it had all gotten to be too much.
Stripping and showering takes much of the rest of his energy, and he’s got half a mind to just curl up on the bathmat and cry. He’s going to, actually, until he notices that Master Tholme’s come in and left him a new set of pajamas, still in the box.
They’re soft and clean and feel like the way Master Hume smiles at him when he tears through the knees of another pair of leggings. Suddenly, everything is a little bit easier to deal with. Drying his hair isn’t such an ordeal when he’s warm and dry and more sleepy than tired, and when he puts his bonnet on, he feels safe nights and lazy mornings instead of pain or grief or exhaustion.
Quinlan takes a deep breath and opens the door, not yet steady enough to forgo slipping his sleeve over his hand to turn the knob. “Master?”
“Quinlan,” Tholme answers, rounding the corner with a steaming mug held in both hands. “You look tired, Padawan.”
Quinlan laughs. “Yeah, well. Hell of a mission.”
Tholme smiles, heading for Quinlan’s bedroom. “That would be an understatement. Come, let’s get you to bed.”