it's such a simple thing, really, bringing each other coffee. it's something you do for friends, for colleagues you like, simply because you felt like being kind.
grace has brought more people coffee than he could ever even attempt to remember, and yet it's somehow different with her.
he asks her exactly once how she likes her coffee — black with a splash of milk, don't you dare put sugar in it — and it's easy to remember, really. but he also remembers which coffee machines on the vat are her favourite, which brands she prefers, which ones he should avoid unless he wants her to be pissed off for the rest of the day.
i need both, she said, and she does, unless they're stuck together for hours on end and he keeps bringing her a new one just as she is about to run out. a sixth sense he subconsciously developed specifically for her, knowing when her cup is empty.
it's an excuse to see her because she never treats him like an annoyance, even when she's busy, even when she has so much to do she's drowning in it all.
it's a way to check in on her, to nudge her into taking a break, into eating something, maybe even into a nap. she never sleeps enough, never eats enough, but sometimes she will when he asks her to, when he bribes her with a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin.
it's saying thank you for trying to save the world, it's what makes her look up and smile, it's the least he can do for her.
without fail, she thanks him. every single time. for the coffee. for caring. for seeing the human behind the saviour and deciding that she is so much more important than the greater good. she carries the world and he carries her.
grace brings her coffee, and she touches the back of his hand when saying thank you. she smiles, just a little, just for him, and it's enough.
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