(A/N): I'd never really given thought to this pairing until I traipsed the internet, searching for new ships to ship; I figured if someone were to write about these, they'd really have to capture a unique dynamic between the two of them. That being said, I'm definitely, definitely not saying I've achieved that with this fic, but I'd like to hear what other people have to say about it, and I'd definitely appreciate some constructive criticism-it is obvious that this story is not perfect and I want to improve it as best I can.

That being said, go head and take a gander!

In the halcyon days of bloodshed and war that he was so accustomed to, emotion—and to add, entanglement—were not companions he considered appropriate for war, nor ones he ever expected to assume as he approached battle.

Smoke plumes in the corner of Grievous' vision while rubble peppering the ground by his feet, mechanical talons embedded in the harsh, unforgiving dirt stained with blood and death, trembles. He does not. In the sky, blaster fire streaks through the air and ships, unforgiving sentinels of the sky, shriek across in warfare.

Here, he is content. Over the crest of the canyon he stands at the summit of, he watches as thousands of bio-mechanical creations crafted for killing indulge in what they do best (and dimly, unconsciously realize afterwards the irony of how he refers to himself as well in that statement). Here, he need not concern himself with the petty philosophical and moral quandaries that other men trouble themselves with. The battle is approaching him, and he is only all-too-eager to partake in it.

He is waiting. The ground vibrates, a harsh, guttural roar of a beast perturbed by the crossfire that rages on it. With calculating eyes he scans the carnage below to appraise and discern with the fine eye of a murderer admiring his handiwork. Unconsciously, he does not realize he is also searching for a certain figure as well, until the tell-tale lekku dart past his vision and his neck angles, to better catch the movement before it is lost in the masses of bipedal warfare.

It is Shaak Ti, a master to twice avoid him and thus twice avoid death; he is only all too ready to offer it to her once again. A thrill of adrenaline shoots up his arched spine. His hands go to pause where trophies of past handiwork remain, until he realizes that they were already there, in the heat of the desire for conflict and his even more base desire to be involved in it. Again, he searches, for the familiar flash of lekku that instigated a shock of desire through him.

Desire for what? Other men would speculate, but Grievous is not one of them, and he disregards the thought with passing disinterest. All that matters now is the promise of a fight.

Again, he finds her face through the horde, and he notes with passing interest and mounting apprehension mingling with adrenaline that it is nearing, closer and closer with each glimpse that he manages to catch. He comprehends, as he watches the erratic pattern, that it is nearing his position.

The Jedi is coming for him. Respect at such bravado, to perilously seek out he, along with a clashing urge to diffuse such bravery, to tear it to shreds, mingle and amalgamate. He reveals two lightsabers, one for each hand, through his cloak that he diffuses with the slightest whim, and it unsheathes itself with a hum of raw light and energy. So Grievous waits for his prey, his combatant, his adversary.

He can be patient. He can permit emotion, if it is but irritation and bloodlust, to come. He watches as Shaak Ti nears, graceful in her approach to death, eyes that look to his, and dare not dart away where lesser, frightened Jedi would. He remembers in another passing thought how other warrior of her kin—for that is what they are, no? Warriors on opposing sides for causes they once justified but now only use as a thin veneer for justification into slaughter—when other warriors of her kin saw him coming and saw the death in his eyes, they flinched and looked away before the final, killing stroke. They were utterly paralyzed by the fear they so sought to deny through years of training.

And he remembers how twice, she had seen that in his eyes, and stared unflinchingly back.

Respect once more churns Grievous' stomach, evoking something deeper but not unfamiliar, baser than rage and carnage. He cannot identify it, nor does he wish to. He waits as she approaches, nearer now, almost there. She glides up the precipice with inhuman ability, trained with grace and poise that not many could recreate—a killing machine crafted with finesse. In the moment before she ascends, preceded by the hum and purr of a lightsaber unsheathing itself, he feels a crest of emotion swell over him. It is abruptly ignored, something to consider later, if ever.

And then she is there, and the wait is over. Now they can engage in battle. He notes, for an even a brute, a monster, and a murderer such as he, can note beauty, and he sees it in her. She holds her saber before her in defense and her composed face subtly breaks with emotion that all the tranquility in the world could not repress.

She speaks, and he allows her the moment to do so, lips parting and framed with lines of age that belies her appearance at first glance—she is not naïve. And neither is he.

"A pleasure to see you again, General." She says with bitterness well-deserved. He is unimpressed at her display for banter yet cannot resist indulging in it for the moment before combat.

"Come to meet your fate, Jedi?" he snarls back in a harsh growl as he raises his sabers and does not allow the chance for a reply, opposed against one worthy of fighting him, and one worthy of surviving (if his unshakable pride would allow it). She reciprocates with energy and force that would cow lesser men. But Grievous is not a lesser man, and willingly immerses himself in the battle that he knows she immerses herself in as well.

For entanglement and the even more compromising companion of emotion that it is associated with it was something he did not foresee, even if it is expressed humbly through the exchange of conflict. And even more troublesome, is the desire to wait for it to approach yet again, in the same similar and familiar form on opposing sides of a meaningless, yet compelling war.

What only lessens the burden of this realization is the fact that Grievous knows, of course, that it is also, whilst compromisingly damning, the same as well for Shaak Ti.

(A/N): I figured a viewpoint from a surly, uninterested yet attracted Grievous would somewhat alleviate the fact that this ship is, by all definitions, very, very cracky; I also figured the best way for him to justify it is by excusing his emotions for wanting to fight her again as he clearly is not one for introspection and considering his 'lovey-dovey budding emotions'. I have yet to consider if I want to do one from Shaak Ti's perspective.

Thoughts? Comments? I'd love to hear it; thanks for stopping by!