I humbly request Zavala x Caiatl, where he wants to court her very politely and researches what flowers to gift her, but maybe flower gifting isn't a thing in the Cabal culture, so she's surprised and amused and he scrambles to explain and she's like, yes, I'm taking these flowers Right Now. Also welcome to this nice ship (and fandom!) deck :D
(here you go :3)
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The airlock hisses. Zavala’s ears pop as the pressure rises, just enough that one of the Cabal can be fully comfortable with their pressure suits and armor off. Torobatl was a high-gravity world; though they can go out into lower-pressure places without suits, it takes time to adjust and always carries some discomfort. In their private spaces, the pressure is always high enough to make anyone else uncomfortable.
Zavala doesn’t mind. It’s worth any discomfort to have the honor of being here. He’s not even in his armor: he’s in civilian clothes. Most of the Vanguard have never seen him dressed down like this. And yet he has no issue presenting himself in this manner to someone who was, not that long ago, an enemy.
He glances down at the gift in his hands. A small potted plant, a delicate orchid with five teardrop petals around a ruffle of red and yellow marking the center of the flower. It’s small, but beautiful. It seems right.
The doors open and Zavala steps out into a hot, humid receiving room. He’s glad he chose a loosely knitted sweater for this visit. It’s the perfect environment for an orchid, or so the botanist told him.
It’s not a lavish room by any means. None of the decadence one might expect judging by the stories of the previous ruler of the Cabal. Very nearly Spartan, with bare metal walls and floor and a table and chairs designed for meetings not comfort. Zavala does wonder about what might be beyond the other door—even more private quarters, presumably—but that’s not something he’s ready to ask.
But there are plants. What look like ferns and mushrooms and flowers, a riot of colors foreign to Zavala’s eyes, all carefully attended in pots. These are relics of Torobatl’s swamps and rainforests, survivors of terrible tragedies. It was their presence that inspired the gift Zavala carries now.
Standing at the window looking out at the stars, Empress Caiatl turns to look at him. Her tusks lift slightly, her version of a smile. “Welcome, Commander,” she says warmly.
Zavala inclines his head a little. He smiles back. It feels…natural. “Empress.”
She crosses the room to recline in a Cabal-sized chair, and gestures at one better sized for Zavala. Sensible: since Saladin joined her council, they must have made some accommodations for his height. “Please, sit.”
He does, holding the orchid carefully in his lap. Now the nerves are setting in—but Zavala perseveres. He’s faced far worse than this.
“You look well,” he says, glancing her over. It’s still rare to see Caiatl without her armor. The wounds she sustained in their fight against Calus’ forces have healed perfectly. “Have you…do you feel you’ve recovered?”
“I have not been sleeping well,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Have you?”
“No.” Zavala shakes his head. “Overcoming nightmares seemed easy when we confronted them face to face, but…”
“It’s less easy when alone and unarmored.”
“Yes,” Zavala says.
It’s…nice, to be able to be honest like this. The Young Wolf and Crow endured the same trials, and they are all three bound by Light, but the two of them are young. They haven’t lived with their fears and regrets as long as Zavala has. Besides, even with the deeper ties of Light, even though they’ve both seen him at his worst, Zavala can’t speak to them of this. He’s still their commander.
Caiatl has a long life of fear and regret behind her. She’s his equal in stature. They’re allies. And…
“What is that?” Caiatl asks, breaking the silence.
“An orchid,” Zavala says. “A flower from Earth.”
She leans forward to peer at it. Her golden eyes catch the light even in the pleasantly dim room. “Very beautiful.” She looks at Zavala. “It would fit well in Torobatl’s forests.”
“That’s why I brought it,” Zavala says. He lifts the pot slightly. “Flowers like it grew in Earth’s rainforests. I thought…you might like it.”
Caiatl smiles again. “Is this a human custom?”
“Yes,” Zavala says. “Gifts of flowers are traditional.”
“As a celebration?”
“That and as…as gifts of friendship.”
Friendship.
He can practically hear Safi laughing at his ineptitude.
That wasn’t what he wanted to say. He wanted to say more. For days now he’s still felt the weight of Caiatl’s hand on his shoulder every time he’s alone, a touch so tender that it nearly brought him to tears. Zavala couldn’t remember the last time someone reached out to him that way. With everything they’ve shared, the difficulties and respect and understanding, this gift is something more than friendship.
“I see,” Caiatl says.
Is that…timidity?
From her? Caiatl confronted the corrupted ghost of her father without an ounce of fear. She commands armies with confidence that anyone should envy. She carries so much power that even her enemies are tempted to bow to her—Zavala, of all people, should know.
But now, here, she sounds almost shy.
He places the orchid on the low table between them, giving the pot a light push toward the middle. The petals of the flower tremble slightly. “This is for you.”
Caiatl reaches out and, with stunning gentleness, brushes a massive fingertip over the flower. How someone so immensely strong can be so delicate, Zavala doesn’t know. But there it is.
“A fine gift,” she says. She meets Zavala’s eyes. “Thank you.”
It strikes Zavala that her eyes are the same color as the orchid.
“It’s my pleasure,” he says quietly.
“Is there a language to flowers? A code, perhaps?”
Zavala shrugs. “I’m sure there is. I don’t know it, though.”
“I will look into it,” Caiatl says, low, “so I can appropriately return the gesture.”
They talk of other things, then, but Zavala almost doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s distracted by the way Caiatl keeps looking at the orchid, thoughtful and considerate. It seems like she’s distracted, too. When he leaves, Zavala finds himself lingering on the threshold, looking up at Caiatl, reluctant to go. Her gaze is locked on him until the doors close behind him. Zavala has no doubt that she will be returning the gesture.
Three days later, a courier arrives at Zavala’s office to deliver him a single red rose.
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