WolfScales shipping gift drabble: Unspoken

Neither of them had ever been much for terms of endearment.  Killer Croc had his reasons, and Eva Thompson had hers.  And in spite of the fact their working relationship had slowly begun to unfold into something a little more personal, neither saw fit to address the other by any sort of pet name.  It just wouldn’t have felt right.
So it was with a lack of enthusiasm Eva announced her return to the underground lair.
“Hey, I’m back.” She said, just loudly enough for her voice to carry and echo around the walls.  Glancing around, she was unsurprised to find that Vic, Sam, and Freddie were absent.  The three of them seemed to come and go on whims—as much their own whims as those of Croc himself—and more likely than not, they were out to find that new CD that Freddie had been jawing about for a week, some sombrero band or something.  Rolling her eyes at the thought, Eva deposited the oversized trench coat on the back of a careworn recliner and shook out her matted, drenched hair.  Croc responded from across the room with a mild grunt.  This wasn’t entirely unusual; he wasn’t given to talking excessively unless he felt it was necessary.
Eva heard the small television set warbling as commercials played, and so disregarded little else except her stomach grumbling.  The small galley kitchen was just around the corner, and she headed there, preparing to fix a snack.  She didn’t always care for chips and salsa, but at the moment, she felt it would hit the spot.
“Hey,” she called again, pulling a couple of bowls down from the near-empty cupboards, “Croc, I’m getting out some chips and salsa.  Want any?”
Her ears caught another non-committal grunt.  Frowning, she poured the salsa as her mind worked.  Typically, he wasn’t given to eating chips and salsa.  Really, the only reason the stuff was around was due to Freddie and Sam being exceptionally fond of the stuff.  What was up with his response?  Puzzled, she finished collecting the snack and left the salsa jar and chip bag on the counter, leaving the kitchen to find Croc.
He was of course, perched on the old, stained sofa before the TV, his yellow eyes transfixed upon the images flickering on the screen.
“Infomercials any good?” She asked by way of starting a conversation.  He grunted for a third time, inching down along the couch to leave her some room.  Furrowing her brow, Eva walked around and sat next to him, offering up the bowl of chips.  Croc didn’t turn to even look at it, but just took the bowl and held it level with his lap, on his knee.  Eva watched him for a moment, but then looked to the TV as he turned it up.  The news was covering a trial proceeding.  At first, she couldn’t tell who the trial was for.  The camera focused on the judge.
Then, it turned, and she saw a child-sized figure with blond ringlets handcuffed on a chair stacked with several phonebooks for her to sit on.  A shudder went down Eva’s spine, and she had to set the bowl of salsa on the floor to avoid dropping it.  But if Baby-Doll’s appearance startled her, it was nothing compared to the effect it was having on Croc.  A single glance at the reptilian man said enough; his clawed hands were shaking, his shoulders were hunched uncomfortably, his eyes looked ringed with red, and she could hear his teeth grinding.
For several long minutes, they watched the trial.  Mary Dahl was accused of kidnapping, attempted murder, vehicular assault, and theft.  She didn’t deny the charges or plead not guilty, but rather proceeded to work herself into a hysterical fervor, accusing the law and the public of being the reason she was what she was, why she did what she did, and not bothering to show her any compassion or understanding, as she deserved.
Before long, Croc muted the set, though his eyes never left the screen.  They appeared bright and glassy, and when he spoke, there was a vulnerable quality to his voice Eva had never heard before.
“Kind of strange, hearing her speak like an adult.  I know she is, but she doesn’t talk like that much.  Always acts like she’s six years old.” He muttered.  “Used to bug me all the time.”
As Eva watched, he pulled a disgusted face, baring his teeth slightly.
“She called me ‘Crocky-wockle.’  I hated it.”
The werewolf woman grimaced, feeling the hair on the back of her neck rise.  She hated it, and she hadn’t ever had to hear the child-woman say it.  It just sounded degrading.  He took in a deep, agitated breath and let it out slowly and raggedly.
“She tried to kill me.”
Her eyes widened as she looked at him, and a somewhat guilty look flashed over his face.
“I know why.  I was planning on ditching her after some of our heists, ditching Gotham altogether.  Wasn’t going to let it hit her until I was gone.  I didn’t like being around her; she felt too clingy, too needy.”  He stated, sounding distant as he shut the television off, and set the chip bowl on the floor next to the salsa.  A second later he hugged his arms and lowered his head, his eyes seeing nothing as they stared at the floor.
“Never thought I’d get scared of hearing some lovey-dovey pet name in my life.”
This quiet mumble pierced Eva, her chest becoming painfully tight.  In that instant, she realized what he was really saying: Croc was explaining to her why he didn’t want them to call each other by terms of endearment.  It frightened him.  This towering, powerful man with  incredible gifts, a mind everyone underestimated, and raw strength and talent was one of the most deadly and feared criminals in Gotham City… and he was afraid of being given a pet name, because of what one woman had done to him.
Silently, Eva inched closer to him and, on an instinct deeper than human levels, nestled her head on his shoulder and wrapped her hands around his upper arm, gently stroking his scales and staring at nothing.  He glanced at her, half-startled, but relaxed somewhat.  For a long time, the silence stretched on, broken only by their breathing.  And then at last, Croc leaned into her too, resting his head on hers.
They didn’t need stupid pet names.  And they never would.