rock bottom ain’t that hard to find
out of sight of anyone else (hopefully) with @artisticfade
he’ll blame it on the bad nights. he’ll blame it on the hours tossing and turning trying to ignore the call of the ship. he’ll blame it on days of metal working, crouching in tiny corners, ducking under overhanging parts, attempting to keep his lady together. he’ll blame it on the step where there never used to be one. he’ll blame it on the wind coming from the ventilation shafts. he’ll blame it on the other man having the gravitational field of a medium sized planet. he’ll blame it on whatever he has to blame it on just so he doesn’t have to take the blame on himself.
so here’s what happens..
he knows where the ship needs repairing, the second whatever goes wrong. he always says it’s the ship talking to him, and then tells people she thinks he’s the handsomest man aboard when they ask why she doesn’t talk to anyone else then. he always says he’s just got a knack for finding the way things aren’t working properly and fixing them. he always says there’s just something you have or you don’t, and he just so happens to have it.
it leads him through the ship’s hallways that particular day, unsure of where to go until eventually he ends up in front of the door to someone’s quarters. he spends a good thirty seconds just frawning at the thick metal-alloy, wondering what could be wrong with the door before he realises the problem is not, in fact, where he’s standing, but further onwards, inside of this passenger’s very own private quarters. and so he does what he always does; he announces his presence by kicking a foot against the door and then drops his hand on the panel to make the door open. there’s no lock that keeps him out, because he needs to be able to go everywhere just in case there’s an emergency with the ship. he makes use of this privilege more often than strictly necessary, but there’s no one knowledgeable enough around to contradict him so he keeps doing it. it’s no different now.
perhaps, then, he should blame it on karma, or whatever it is people call reaping what you sow.
“something wrong with the ship,” he says as he puts himself in motion to enter the room. “gotta just check-” he stumbles. he doesn’t know how, doesn’t know why his feet aren’t as solid as they always are. he is a warrior, a man of many battles and wars waged and won. he is not a lightfooted gungan with a knack for tripping over air, nor does he have a history of his limbs giving out on him. but right then and right there, he trips, and he stumbles forward, and he reaches out his hands for balance but it is to no avail.
here’s what happens.
he falls forward, crashlands into the occupant of these particular quarters, chest against chest, nearly nose against nose, but reflexes have him tilt his head to avoid it, and so instead they collide lips to lips, tumbling down onto the bed in an uncordinated mess of flailing limbs and unexpected kissing, and he’s too stunned by the entire shocking turn of events to do much more than just undergo the inevitable.
