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The tables in the initiate’s hall are all too small for them.
The clones have never been tall, never been particularly large, especially compared to some of the Jedi they served under. But in the initiates hall, the tables and chairs are made for younglings, who sit with their backs straight and their feet kicking against the floor. Master Yoda perches on a chair with ease, but the other Masters sit with their knees tucked to their chest as they bend over the tables.
There’s a Master at each table. The initiates cluster around them, for all that the tables are round. There’s a buzz of chatter, so different from the rumble of engines on Star Destroyers—the children’s voices are high and bright, and the room is filled with laughter.
Cody sits next to General Kenobi. His shoulders are relaxed, even as he sits with his legs tucked to his chest. The initiates cluster around them, bright and cheerful, their hands small as they scoop and fold.
“Like this,” the General—Obi-Wan says. He holds a dumpling wrapper on the palm of a hand. It’s lopsided, rolled out unevenly by another group of initiates being watched over by Wooley. With his other hand, he pinches out a bite of minced meat and vegetable filling, settling it into the center of the circle.
“Do a flower!” one of the initiates, a twilek cries.
“No a fish!” A Mirialan initiate insists.
“Now, now.” Obi-Wan chuckles. He beams at all of them: the Twilek twins whose lekku curl around each other’s, the pale Mirialan, the Iktochi hanging off of a Mon Calamari’s shoulder. “It’s Commander Cody’s first time. Let’s start simple, shall we?”
A Wookie initiate roars in agreement, and the rest of them nod eagerly.
“Who can show Cody how to fold a dumpling?”
“Me, me, me,” one of the Twilek twins chants. Her twin puts a wrapper into her hand, scoops the filling in, swipes a finger of water around the edge of half of the wrapper.
“You fold it in half,” the other twin narrates. “Then you pinch the edges. And then you fold it in little scallops so it doesn’t burst open when we cook it!”
“And so it’s pretty,” the first twin adds, tongue between her teeth as she makes the folds as even as possible.
“Scallops,” the Mon Calamari agrees happily, wriggling her webbed fingers as she goes to fold her own dumpling. “Yum.” The Wookie roars in agreement.
Obi-Wan’s eyes crinkle as he looks over the initiates. Surrounded by the children, by peace, His shoulders are relaxed in a way that Cody never saw during the war. “Now you try, Cody,” Obi-Wan says, setting his finished dumpling on the plate.
The rest of the 212th are spread throughout the room. Boil is over by the stove, checking on the cooking dumplings. Waxer has an initiate on his shoulders as he chops vegetables for the filling. Crys is at another table with a pile of initiates and a Crechemaster, learning how to fold dumplings as well.
Obi-Wan hands him a dumpling wrapper. He sets it on the palm of his hand, where it sits, a cool circle of dough.
Cody takes a pinch of filling and sets it in the middle. He dips his finger in the bowl of water on the table, carefully traces the edge of half of the wrapper, and then folds the dough in half to wrap around the filling.
“Now you press on the sides,” the Iktochi says, seriously.
Cody does so.
“And now scallops,” the Mirialan finishes, looking at him expectantly.
He scallops the edges, folding and pressing delicate folds to the seam to keep it closed. When he finishes, the folds aren’t quite even, and the dumpling itself is lopsided.
“Well done, Cody,” Obi-Wan says, setting his own perfect dumpling on the plate beside his. “And now, we do it again.”
Again and again. Cody’s knees press against his chest, the children laugh and giggle, and they fold dumplings over and over. He has never done this before, has never learned. But he learns, now. He learns how much filling to put, to keep the dumpling from overflowing once it’s wrapped. He learns how tightly to press the folds together, so the dumpling curves as if a crescent moon. He watches as Obi-Wan demonstrates how to fold flowers and fishes to the initiates around them, demonstrates how to fold them in the shape of a rosebud and a triangle. His hands were deft and experienced when they assembled and disassembled weapons, but here, in the Jedi Temple, surrounded by the bright chatter of initiates, he is still learning.
He folds until they fill the platter and it’s brought to where Boil and other initiates are cooking the dumplings. He folds until another platter is filled.
He folds until, through some unspoken signal, they stop and clean up the table. Platters are brought out: potstickers with crispy bottoms, boiled dumplings still steaming hot, and they settle to eat instead. There are rosebuds and triangles and flowers and fishes and crescent moons, and Cody cannot tell who folded which dumpling. Each dumpling was made together: from the dough, from the filling, from folding and cooling—everybody worked together, each one taking a task upon themselves, and now they share the results of their labor.
(It is not war, but it is still the same deep companionship that he learned from his brother-in-arms, from the Jedi, and he is unsurprised to see it here, in their Temple, among their children.)
“Eat,” Obi-Wan urges, and Cody does. He sits next to Obi-Wan, and eats: the sharp bite of ginger from the filling, the richness of the ground meat tempered by the light wrapper. The tang of vinegar in the dipping sauce, the heat of the chili paste that the Twilek twins spoon into the dipping sauces, the salt and warmth. He sits next to Obi-Wan and they eat until they are full with their shoulders pressed to each other’s: not in war, but in peace.