Chapter Summary: The Butcher isn't the only predator that enjoys the night.
Author Notes: Welcome back! Please enjoy!
Shrike strides along the dock, oddly light on her feet despite the profound sense of rage roiling within her. Rather than making her footfalls heavy, it carries her forward with a brisk determination, instead. She makes barely a sound. An experienced hunter on the prowl, through and through.
Her shroud isn't even needed. Not yet. Though the moon casts her pale light upon the world, Shrike's silhouette blends into the night with ease. She moves as the shadows do: a trick of the eye beneath the gentle starlight, her shape almost formless, shifting and subtle. This is her domain, and none can deny it.
Not a single living soul should've noticed her.
That is, not unless she was actively being watched.
For while her boots make only the slightest of sounds in the night air, the reverberations traveling down through the dock and into the water tell a different story entirely.
She pads along at a brisk trot, utterly oblivious to the strikingly bright eyes tracking her as she moves along. The water distorts her image, loosening her edges as shimmering oil on the surface, yet those eyes recognize her all the same.
How could they not? They saw her just this morning, so loyally at attention by her master's side.
Only now… Piercing irises glimmer in the submerged moonlight, looking almost like lures as they track her with all the patience of a natural-born predator. What they see blows his pupils wide in deadly curiosity.
Where could Crocodile's little assassin be heading off to at this time of night? And for what reason, he wonders. Especially if it has anything to do with the disturbance that drew him out here in the first place. All that yelling and thumping had been loud enough to wake even him, and to say he's displeased to be up at such an hour would be an understatement.
But there is one silver lining to this inconvenience. Just one.
As ornery as the racket's made him, this situation has gifted him something quite delectable: Her.
The opportunity to get the jump on this brat.
After everything she's done to insult his pride and bring upon him such untold humiliation? This is only what she deserves. What he's most rightfully owed.
He can imagine it now: the terrified shriek that'll tear from her throat as he pounces on her. How her eyes will widen in horror before slamming shut, instincts commanding her to look away. To submit to the inevitable and just accept her fate.
Oh yes, revenge will be sweet. Sweeter than those infuriatingly saccharine smiles she was throwing about this morning. Sweeter than those mockingly gentle bouts of laughter, tinkling like bells or birdsong as she flitted about putting on a show for him.
It's about time this brat learned a lesson in humility… and that he is the last one she should dare play around with. The thought teases him into a wicked grin, and a jet of bubbles puffs out his nose in amusement before he can stop himself.
The horror is immediate.
He flails, desperately trying to cover the rapidly rising bubbles with his body. They merely slide out from under him, as bubbles do, continuing their ascent to the surface as if he hadn't attempted to waylay them at all. He can only watch anxiously as they stream upwards, too fast now for him to catch.
Has he ruined his plan before it's even begun? Someone of her supposed caliber will definitely notice them; such an obvious sign of life lurking beneath the waves. A utilitarian bastard like Croc' would never keep her around otherwise. It doesn't matter what title he deigns to give her- attendant, aide, secretary -what she truly is is obvious to anyone: an assassin.
There's nothing that can be done about the situation now, though. The bubbles reach the surface in seconds, popping with a churning gurgle as soon as they touch air. A gun might as well have been fired.
Or so he thought.
For it somehow escapes Shrike's notice entirely. She continues onward, not a single pause in her step or look cast over her shoulder.
He can only stare up at her murky form in bewilderment. 'How?!'
For such an obvious sign of life to have not even turned her head? As honed as her survival instincts are, sharpened through years upon years, decades even, of living with only herself to watch her back, she simply just didn't notice.
Has everything about her skills… been a lie? Just a bluff?
He shakes his head. No, no. That's not it. He knows she's more perceptive than this. There's no way she isn't. Someone like Crocodile would've ditched her long ago if she wasn't, as much as his obvious feelings for her would say otherwise. It's because of her utility that she caught his eye in the first place. Even someone like him was able to figure that out, easy.
Is it a trap, then?
Or… something else?
He eyes her warily, suspiciously. It's clear she's wired up, that much is obvious. What with her rigid posture and strides both too long and quick to be casual. Except… he watches her a few steps more, to confirm.
Oh ho, she is distracted! It's her gaze that tips him off. For while she stares straight ahead, eyes scrunched into a scowl, her focus is settled a million miles away. She sees without really seeing. Same as how her strides, so seemingly full of purpose, are taking her nowhere in particular.
Any other night, she would've long noticed him.
Tonight, though, it's clear her mind is elsewhere.
Elsewhere, and elsewhen, even. Whereabouts and whenabouts known only to her. If he could see inside, take a peek into the chaos swirling about her mind, even he would be struck dumb by what he'd see.
For her mind is in places and times no one would ever think to consider.
It's suffering, languishing in her captain's office, still fighting a war against herself and against phantom lips and touches making her feel terrible and wonderful all at once.
It's enraged, an hour into the future, where her knuckles bleed as she fights down ruffians who thought they'd spotted an easy fuck but walked into the biggest mistake of their lives.
And then, it's filled with despair and regret, a year ago back at Vigo's estate, desperately telling herself to come back a different night to prevent herself all this pain and heartache.
Or wishing she were dead entirely.
She's everywhere and everywhen but right where she is, right now. A fact that's more than obvious now that he's seen through the false pretense of focus contorting her features.
How careless. All she's done is left herself an easy target, absolutely no idea as to the danger swimming beneath her very heels. Any other night, she'd have sensed him already.
Tonight is not that night, it seems.
For in the absence of any obvious danger, it appears she's written off the subtle noises around her as harmless. Each little change in the water lapping at the docks is only from the wind. Same as the snapping of the rigging going taut, or the hollow thunks of wood on wood as gangplanks shift against the pier.
All natural noises. All irrelevant distractions. All such foolish assumptions to make. Someone with such an illustrious role as Crocodile's personal assassin should have far more care than this.
Catching her will be all the sweeter for it.
He surfaces slowly, practically silent. What little noise his head makes as it breaches the surface is negligible, easily passed off as the wind stirring about the waves. Still, he waits a second, and then a few seconds more, holding off on his approach until he's doubly sure the sound escaped her notice, as slight as it was.
As expected, his prey strides forward none the wiser. She continues on just as oblivious as she was before. Only then does he take the time to approach, emboldened by the knowledge that the little birdie's mind truly has flown the nest. He draws up closer, slowly swimming forward careful not to make even a single sound. So close, even, that he practically swims right alongside her. She'd so obviously see him if she bothered to actually look.
But, no. Her eyes remain trained far ahead, both in time and in place.
This is the perfect opportunity for him to pounce, and yet… something stops him.
An iron tang strikes his senses. It's not as cloying as a major wound would be, certainly not enough to trigger his predatory instincts. Still, it is enough to catch his attention. His nostrils flare from the stench now that he's closer, the source of it undeniably being her.
Yes, now that he's closer, he can see it too. Each step she takes is punctuated with a slight jerk, a certain stiffness. So slight, even, as to be imperceptible to all but the most observant eyes.
The brat is injured.
His eyes narrow, this revelation making him doubly curious. Now he really must see where she's heading off to. Such a small woman going into the night, by herself, at this hour, with actively bleeding wounds?
She's only made herself a target, and recklessly at that.
As much as he'd like to trail her, though, there's no guarantee she'll stay along the water's edge. The sounds of the water shifting, even as he swims right alongside her, may have avoided her notice so far. But the sound of his feet on solid ground? Every step would sound her alarms as violently as if he roared right in her ears. Even as distracted as she is, she's not so careless as to not at least be passively scanning for signs of more sentient life. Sounds that'd trigger her warning bells, unlike the gentle lapping of the waves.
But the more he muses over his plan of attack, the more Shrike's determined strides quickly bear her away from him. He has to do this now. Before she turns away from the water and out of his strike range. He won't get another chance.
His cue to strike comes only seconds later: the shifting sound of her footfall. Right as she reaches the end of the jutting pier, her step changes from hollow wooden thud to that of the solid stone wharf.
'-Now!'
He dives. Deep down into the depths he plunges, the added distance between himself and the surface needed to build up the momentum needed to strike. A stream of bubbles follows as he does so, clinging to his arms and body only to quickly detach and rise back upward.
They surface with a violent churning, much louder than the quiet gurgle from before.
And this time, it doesn't escape her notice.
Shrike's step stutters at the sound, a little jump as the noise takes her by surprise. Shock washes over her features for but a half-second. Her eyes widen, brassy irises glinting in the moonlight, before redoubling into a suspicious scowl even deeper than the one that'd been etched there previously.
Below the waves, he ascends quickly, the surface rapidly drawing closer as he propels himself upward. Her wary frown hurtles into focus just the same, along with the image of her hand instinctively moving to grab something at her waist...
Too little, too late.
The water erupts before she fully realizes what's happening. Even with having seen the signs, it catches her mostly unaware. Her mind had still been parts elsewhere, leaving her with a reaction time far too sluggish to move away in time. All she can do is shriek as the seawater rains down upon her and douses the already slick pier.
The frigid downpour is a brutal reminder of the reality happening right here and now, tearing her out of her head with all the gentleness of an icicle lobotomy. It instantly soaks through her pitifully thin clothing, and the sudden cold seeping into her very bones would've made her gasp had she not already been startled to hell and back. She's left speechless. Even sound has been left frozen in her throat.
Panic overrides each and every aspect of her training. All her efforts from the past year, of sharpening her senses and skills, just melts away. It all turns to sludge beneath the fear washing down her skin just as the water does.
Instinct takes over. The desperate kind.
Shrike flails as she scrambles to pull a blade free in defense, but her drenched clothing fights her at every turn. The wool lining of her jacket's greedily drunk up each drop of seawater, and the garment now hangs off her shoulders with the weight of a whole other her. She desperately bats and pulls at the fabric but the panic has her hands shaking too violently to properly cast it aside.
It's amusing, really. He merely watches her struggle all the while, a wide grin on his maw as he savors the panic-stricken expression on her face. Her eyes rapidly flicker between her sodden torso and his silhouette, now rapidly solidifying as the mist finally begins to clear and reveals her assailant to be-
Her voice cracks beneath the sheer octave of her scream.
"DEI-MOS!"
She roars his name, staring at him wide-eyed and slack-jawed with her entire body so tense as to be quivering all over. But even as much as her screech would've cowed the rest of the crew, Deimos, meanwhile, can only bounce and grin in giddy excitement.
Grin as much as an utterly massive bananagator can, anyway.
At the flip of a switch, the shock on her face abruptly changes. To say she looks outraged is only the start of it. Shrike looks downright pissed.
"What in the HELL are you doing?! You scared the shit out of me!" She hisses at him with all the venom of a cornered pit viper, the tone curdling her words just as sour as the expression on her face.
But Deimos merely returns a hiss of his own, the sound crackling low and deep. Far deeper than little Phobos' will ever reach. In spite of his downright menacing appearance, the noise somehow only comes across as mirthful. Playful, even. Evidence of just how excited and proud he is to have finally turned the tables on Shrike and startle her for once; what with the number of times her shroud has sent him nearly leaping overboard in surprise.
Giddy as he is, though, it's clear that Shrike is anything but. Sure, he seems to have spooked her pretty good. That was his intention, but even so… He cocks his head to the side, giving her an inquisitive look as the anger fails to relax off her features. It can't have made her this upset, could it?
But as he looks Shrike over, the woman continuing glaring at him with those ferociously narrowed eyes, irises glinting like sharpened slivers of bronze, there's no doubt that it has.
This is… unexpected. Does she really hate being startled this much? Though a bit hypocritical on her part, he now feels a bit guilty for frightening her so.
'Too far?' He coos again in the absence of any response from her. The sheepish, inquisitive trill strikes a jarring contrast against the dozens of knife-sharp teeth lining his maw, each one several inches long. His is a maw big enough to swallow even someone of her size whole.
As if he ever would, though. Not her.
Who would give him all those deliciously accursed belly rubs then, if she were gone? As much as he finds even the fact he enjoys them to be so insulting- a proud beast like him turning to mush beneath her fingers? Humiliating! -never would he dream of going without them again. It's an indignity worth suffering, this girl, what with her wicked fingers and silent footsteps startling him every other day.
And a wicked temper, too, apparently. One he hasn't ever been at the mercy of.
"Do you have ANY idea what time it is? What made you think this was a good idea?!" She spits, pure acid coming from her lips. The infuriated glare she gives looks much the same as she sounds. Her citrine eyes, practically the same pale hue of his own, pierce into him with an expression she's never before aimed at him: rage.
His nostrils flare again, inhaling until his lungs just about burst. The smell of blood is stronger than ever.
Something is wrong. He may not be as smart as Phobos, but Deimos realizes it immediately. His little prank couldn't have caused this level fury, not when she's already smelling of raw wounds, and definitely not when it involves himself. In any other case, she would've been cooing and praising his sneakiness just as soon as the initial shock wore off.
Because, more than anything else about her, even as much as she tries so very hard to hide it: Deimos knows that Shrike is kind.
To him and Phobos at least. He's seen her hiss and snap at her crewmates, but to them, she's only ever given candied babytalk and warm smiles. This is the woman that joins him on deck in the middle of the night, when all the rest of the world sleeps. They bask in the moonlight together with little Phobos curled up in her lap as she murmurs secrets and stories only they will ever hear. Her eyes go glassy when she's like that, some scene in her mind haunting her while she confides in them with such terrible melancholy.
He doesn't fully understand the words she speaks, but he intuits their sentiment all the same.
Such awful sadness.
Shrike is a somber human, bittersweet in a way. She tries so hard to be tough, lashing out and picking fights when deep down she's filled with a sorrow and loneliness that makes even Deimos' reptilian heart ache. To he and Phobos both, she's ever only shown kindness and affection and, when alone, a gentle disposition that would've made any of the others do a double take.
But the woman before him now? Staring him down with eyes filled with hatred and rage? Her knuckles white, fist shaking as she grips a dagger tight enough to crack bone?
That iron tang tickles his sensitive snout once more, in the way that only the fresh kind can. What's more, judging by the puffy redness of her eyes, it's clear she's been crying; a look he's grown uncomfortably familiar with, those sleepless nights sometimes drawing from her tears no one else has ever seen.
Something is definitely wrong. Very wrong.
Shrike needs help, and he wants to be it.
Deimos gives her a high whine. Though with his great lungs it sounds more like a growl than the sound of concern he intended. He takes a step closer in the hopes of reaching the poor girl with a gentle snout nuzzle.
But all it does is make Shrike roll her eyes with a scoff, and he stops mid-step. His tail swishes about anxiously, and even just the movement of the great appendage in the air is enough to disturb the water's surface. She huffs at him then, taking a step backward to reestablish the distance between them. Oh, how one little step hurts him so.
If Shrike were in a better mood, she'd be joking about how funny it is to see such a ferocious beast pouting, of all things. Right now, though, she's much too angry to joke about anything. The displeasure radiating off her is palpable, even as she gives her knife a little twirl before roughly shoving it back into its holster and crossing her arms over her chest.
"What? Why are you out here? You better have a good reason for this." She snaps at him, words sharp enough to nearly make him flinch. The usual soft demeanor she usually addresses him with is conspicuously missing. It's left a cold void behind in its absence that rather makes him wish he hadn't gone through with this silly prank at all.
'No! She needs help!' That's right! Wishing he were anywhere else right now is not the right way to think about this!
If he hadn't of jumped her, he wouldn't have realized she was in trouble. She shouldn't be out here so late and alone and smelling of blood. He needs to get her back to the ship where she belongs, protected by the crew and by Crocodile who he knows would fight the whole island off to keep her safe.
But first, he has to know why she's out here in the first place. Something dire must have happened to have driven her off the ship so recklessly.
He hisses at her gently, doing his best to imitate the soothing sounds she's made to him before; when he's been upset, like when Phobos ate the rest of his treats. His own golden eyes inquisitively blink at her the same question she's just demanded of him. 'Why are you out here?'
It doesn't work, of response she does deign to give him is anything but an answer. Instead, she merely scoffs at him, lip twitching as she huffs a noise of disgust.
"I don't have time for your games, Deimos. Go back to the ship."
That last word she punctuates with enough sharpness to make him cringe; a "shhh" with enough edge to cut the very air, and an "ip" as abrupt as a smack to the face. The command in it is undeniable, so very much like his master's.
And yet, it's somehow colder. Cruel, almost.
Never would Deimos have ever dreamt that Shrike, that melancholic woman so full of smiles for him, would ever make someone like Crocodile look gentle in comparison.
But those golden irises continue glaring at him, like daggers piercing through his scales. Her boot taps impatiently against the wharf all the while, and each hollow clap nearly makes him flinch.
Deimos can't help but shrink backward beneath that glare. He, a massive beast that could easily swallow her whole, that any other human would've run from at first sight, retreating from her? A woman a third his size? Anyone else would've called it preposterous.
But to him, though, who's never before received from her such wrath, it's anything but. All he wants to do is swim away, hide from that glare until the kind Shrike with the soft eyes comes back with soothing apologies and gentle fingers.
But he can't. He knows he can't.
Not when it's obvious she's hurting and needs help. Even if he's not exactly the best shoulder to cry on- if he really even has them -he's the only one around right now to be it.
Whatever emotional hurt she'll inflict on him will only be temporary. This is just a pain he'll have to endure.
For her sake.
Rather than leave- as she clearly wishes him to do -he musters up all the courage he has to quickly take a step towards her, before she snaps at him again. He begins to dip his great head, aiming to nuzzle his snout into her torso as he knows she likes. A kiss, in a way, same as how she'd call his tail about her figure a hug.
Only, this is a different Shrike. The things that normally would have her bubbly and affectionate only seem to annoy her now.
"Ugh!" She makes another disgusted noise, hands shooting outward to catch his snout rather jarringly. Her palms press flat onto the tip to keep him from getting close. "Knock that shit off, now."
The gentle firmness with which she usually scolds him is nowhere to be heard. All that's left is equal parts frustration and scorn, and the look she glares up at him with conveys an annoyance that's downright aggressive.
"No, Deimos! Just, no! Get out of my way, I don't have time to play with you tonight!"
Shrike's tone hits him like a whap to the snout.
She sounds so… just so bitter. What's happened? 'Why? Let me help, I want to help!'
He presses his snout against her hands harder, dipping it slightly to angle his eyes closer. At this distance, the smell of blood is stronger, and he finally realizes the scent's origin as coming from the tops of her boots. 'Leg injuries? Foolish girl! You need rest!'
But she's not interested.
"Just be a good boy, and-"
All she does is attempt to push past him, taking the opportunity to deflect his snout away entirely so she can slip past.
"-head back to the ship!"
But, he doesn't budge.
Right as she attempts to move past, he angles to the side.
And his tail comes swinging around.
Deimos has long had issues recognizing his more… prodigious… size. Ever since he started to grow- really grow -there's been a nigh endless slew of mishaps aboard the ship. Everything ranging from bruises to broken railings to even people flying overboard has been a common fact of life for those among the crew.
So when Shrike sees that veritable wall of green tail rapidly advancing towards her, she knows she's in for a world of hurt. Her hands shoot up in some defensive instinct, but it's fruitless. Tissue paper might have been more of a help than her pitiful defense.
Girthy as a tree trunk, the massive appendage catches her hard enough to stop her dead in her tracks. She goes skidding backward before being lifted off her heels entirely, kept only upright by the fact she'd latched on rather than letting it bowl her right over.
Though he hadn't meant it to have been so forceful, his clumsiness, as always, has done far more harm than good. The impact of his tail squeezes from her a winded gasp as it catches across her entire torso, the size covering everything from chest to navel...
...With the brunt of it being taken by the area where her delicate, scar-tissue riddled lungs sit.
He freezes immediately, heart practically stopping as he realizes what he's done. The air is silent save for the subtle breeze and lapping of waves.
Exactly what he doesn't want to hear.
She should be coughing, grunting, grumbling, yelling at him what with how mad she's been. Silence from her is the worst possible thing after a hit like that.
He feels her twitch- a chest spasm -and that's all the sign he needs to move.
Shrike can't breathe.
He immediately moves to withdraw his tail, but she's latched onto it with a death grip. She's practically draped herself over it, arms wrapped over the top to grip into the sensitive underside while her chest twitches against the spines. Only the tips of her toes still touch the ground. Pulling away from her now would just shred her delicate skin- the ridge and scales on his tail brutally sharp at the edges- and send her crashing to her knees. Right now, another impact is the last thing she needs.
Especially with the smell of blood still faintly wafting from her boots.
But with them locked into this position, he can't see the look on her face- can't see her cheeks turning dark as she fights for air, the way her eyes glaze over as tears pool at the corners. Even as he awkwardly contorts into himself, all he can see of her is the back of her upper body rigidly clinging to him. Her face is turned slightly- he can see the hint of her chin, marred by an hours-old bruise revealed in the moonlight -but her hair obscures whatever expression she may have. The ashen strands fan over her face, damply clinging together like tendrils of pale lichen across his tail.
There's no way he can help her in this position, or at least gather her up safely to leap back up to the ship with and scratch for help. Pulling away isn't an option, though, not unless he wants to hurt her worse than he already has.
Gently, gently, he dips to relax her to the ground. Her legs don't even attempt to lock as her feet touch down to terra firma, limply collapsing beneath themselves instead. He lowers her until he physically can go no further, his tail firmly squashed onto the ground with her pooled on her knees.
It's only then that she makes a sound. Just several seconds have passed at most, but time has passed like hours just waiting for that single wheeze to pierce the silence. The high and desperate sounds wrench his heart but the relief they bring is immeasurable. He rumbles at her tenderly as he feels her relax, almost melting across his tail as her chest eases the stranglehold on her lungs, and her fingers relax their grip on that sensitive patch underneath his tail.
The odds that she'd find one of the few spots on him missing scales- battle wounds from a nasty fight -were karmic, but the few moments of stinging discomfort were nothing compared to the agonizing guilt riddling him now.
He whines as he attempts to reach his snout to her, his thick body at odds with itself as he's forced to awkwardly contort himself inward. It's a tight fit, and his neck cranes painfully, but he manages a rather ungraceful nudge of the side of his maw against her temple. As much as he wants to take her and hop back on deck, moving her in this state might only make things worse. Nor does he dare roar for help. Knowing what enemies Crocodile has, even as close to the ship as they are he wouldn't dare make such a risky move when she's currently unable to defend herself.
All he can do is sit and wait. And remember. He can't help but think of the first time this happened, some many months ago…
She'd been so small and frail then, only a few weeks out from when she'd first joined them. Still so distrustful of everyone around her, she'd taken to scuttling about the ship like some sort of stowaway, seen only when she'd allowed it.
A rarity to all the crew… Except for the gators.
He still remembers when those hauntingly golden eyes first met his, almost the same hue if not even a bit paler. They'd popped wide full of wonder, definitely not the reaction of screaming and running away others usually have. Even so, he paid her no mind then. Just as with the others, so long as he wasn't bothered, she was safe from his temper.
But she'd had other plans. The naive girl- so hurt by other people as to think animals faultless -had dared approach him down in the hold. His lair.
Only, with her wary disposition, she'd had that little trick of hers turned on to slip past anyone that might've attempted to warn her away. Even as clever and wily as she is, the poor girl hadn't exactly thought of the consequences of sneaking up and suddenly appearing before a beast as ornery and territorial as he is.
In the confines of the hold, his tail had swatted her right into the hull in his startled backpedal. It wasn't until she'd been rushed off by a rather annoyed Daz that Deimos truly realized what'd happened, and noticed the carve of meat she'd stolen from the kitchen for him. It'd fallen to the floor in the scuffle, still wrapped in the butcher paper faintly smelling of her natural scent.
No one had scolded him, of course. Why would they? Shrike had been the fool to approach the massive, unquestionably dangerous bananagator in his lair. Crocodile had given him a minor talking to- "Don't eat her, at least. She's useful." -and his words seem to callous towards her compared to the obvious affection he has for her now.
Funny enough, the only lesson Shrike learned from the incident was not to startle him. It did absolutely nothing to scare her away from him at all. Hell, she came back down not even a full day later, sneaking out of her sickbed to find him once more. She'd been smart enough to knock that time, at least, but as soon as she made her presence known, she'd trotted in like nothing had even happened. Little Phobos had even been with her, following right on her heels looking up at her like she was the most interesting thing in the world.
And in a way, she kind of was: the sickly girl completely unafraid of the beast that almost killed her, there to reassure him, of all things.
"It's okay, I scared you. My fault." Her soft voice rasps, throat raw from the coughing fit that'd been ravaging her lungs. "That wasn't a good first impression, I'm sorry."
She reaches a hand out, then, bony fingers trembling just from the effort of holding themselves aloft. He can smell the sickness on her, fainter than that first week but still enough to tempt his predatory instinct. She is weak. Easy prey.
He doesn't, though. Or, it's more like he can't. Not when she's looking at him like that, golden eyes all scrunched up from the toothachingly sweet smile she's giving him. Who is this woman? Smelling of disease yet so bravely entering the beast's lair?
Before he even knows it, those delicate fingers touch onto the tip of his snout, so gentle and light he could believe it to be work of moths. His eyes narrow, and a warning growl begins to rumble from his maw only for her soothing tone to stop him.
"There now, is this okay?" She asks, voice indicating a caution more towards his comfort than for her own safety.
Phobos hisses at her heels, though as he looks down at the little pink one, it's clear the sound is meant more for him than this reckless woman. The meaning is loud and clear: 'Give her a chance.'
And so he does.
She begins to scratch along his scales, somehow knowing exactly the right spots. Her fingers dance along the places his short arms can never reach, easing tickling itches he didn't even realize he had. It's heaven. It's divine. His master is really the only person that dares lavish such attention on him and it's no secret how busy he usually is.
Maybe… more hands to pet him is something he can tolerate. For now, at least.
He relaxes then, sinking down to relax on his belly as a whoosh of air pushes from his nostrils in a sigh. Something about the noise amuses her, and she laughs such a sweet sound that makes him grumble.
"See, I knew you were sweet. Big, sweet Deimos. Just needs a little loving."
He… likes the sound of that. No one has ever called him sweet before, especially not someone who should be called that herself. He lets her pet all the way up to his eyes, marveling at how she approaches him and touches all along his fearsome maw without even a hint of apprehension.
It's only when she reaches his eye level that she stops, flashing him another one of those sugary smiles that makes her pale eyes scrunch up at the corners. "I just want to be your friend, okay?"
And as the warmth radiating from her begins to melt his icy, reptilian heart, he can't help but rumble in acceptance.
That moment was the one that started it all. He's grown so desperately fond of her ever since then, the human that approaches and touches him without a single shred of fear in her eyes. She'd been so small then. Sickly and thin and pale. Still pale, but not so much like his underbelly after not having seen the sun in weeks anymore.
Sickly, though? Barring the sensitivity of her lungs, "weak" or "sickly" are the last things he would call her. Even as often as she loses, seeing her spar with Daz on the other side of the hold has shown her that she's more than a fearsome enough fighter.
The painful sounding cough she makes right as he thinks that begs otherwise, though. His heart drops at the noise. It really didn't sound good, a bit too wet for his liking. Had he hurt her worse than he thought? Is she actually injured? Her wheezing has since settled down but neither has she made any move to rise.
'I'm sorry, little Shrike.' His crackling attempts to tell her, each sound laced with a whine expressing remorse and concern. He can only hope the intent comes through, that she gets the sentiment and understands it was an accident just like that time before…
But understanding has long since flown the nest, even before she stepped off the ship.
And that this Shrike is a far cry from that gentle waif that had snuck into his lair to give him a nice pet.
His only warning is a single sound of disgust. It's guttural and feral, pitching upward into a snarl at the end that has him tipping his snout downward to get a glance at her face.
Putting him in the perfect spot for the fist she already has cocked and flying his way.
It hits him right at the edge of his eye.
His vision explodes into stars, and pain radiates all up and down the side of his cranium. A cross between a yelp and a roar cracks from his throat like a peal of thunder as he rears up and away. He scuttles backward, snout swaying side to side in a desperate bid to ease the hurt still blinding him but nothing helps.
She's snarling at him all the while, spitting words he doesn't know the meaning of but the acid forming them is enough for him to understand.
"-just as bad as the rest of the traitors!"
His vision returns just in time to see her approaching. To see the way her knuckles clench into a fist hard enough her entire arm shakes. The sight of it alone hurts worse than the pain itself does.
For even in her terrible anger, even with her hurtful tone earlier, never for a single second did Deimos ever consider that Shrike would ever hurt him. Not her. Not the gentle, sweet girl that brings him snacks and treats him like a puppy, of all things.
But as he backs up towards the water, retreating away from the woman glaring nothing but hatred and death at him, he realizes that… that's still true.
Shrike would never hit him.
This woman is someone, something, else.
He turns, leaping back into the water with a heart full of despair, only able to think about where that girl with the sad eyes and warm smile has gone.
And who the monster that's replaced her is.