like clockwork.
RATING: G FOR GENERAL AUDIENCES.
yelena x reader ; from the tumblr prompt: you don’t know how to use the coffee maker and i always help you but i saw you using it perfectly by yourself and yet you still ask me for help.
warnings: pfft. nada.
a/n : just a lil thing before my brain shuts down for the night.
i do take requests but please give this a read before doing so!
Yelena Belova, your prettiest coworker, knocks on the door to your office every morning at nine-fifteen sharp.
“Hey. Sorry,” she says every morning, smiling sheepishly as she lingers in the doorway. “Can you help me with the espresso machine?”
You’ve shown her how to use it countless times, walked her through the process until she threatened to break the machine with her bare hands, hell, you even wrote down step by step instructions for her once. Yet still, like clockwork every morning, there she is asking you for your help yet again.
“Yeah,” you say every morning with a smile, “I gotcha.”
Every morning you go with her to the little kitchenette at the end of the hall and go through the process of fixing her coffee while she leans up against the counter and watches with with a look that is equal parts appreciative and awed. You pull a blank shot, tamp the grounds while it brews, and when the water’s good and hot you pull a real shot into the Scooby Doo mug she uses every day.
She thanks you every morning with a dreamy smile and a squeeze to your arm before heading off to her department, leaving you to grin and chuckle to yourself while you return to your office.
You and Yelena have had this little routine since the day after you got hired.
It never changes and you’d never change it, the number of times you’ve shown her how to use the machine notwithstanding.
And then one day you’re working late, you’re behind on paperwork, and you’d rather camp out in the office until long after the sun’s gone down than come in on the weekend to catch up. By ten you figure you’ve got another two hours to go before you can cut and run and go topple into bed at home. By eleven you’re yawning, furiously blinking the dawning sleep from your eyes as you pore over yet another expense report.
You reach for a soda in the mini-fridge beneath your desk and find it empty.
“Son of a bitch,” you mutter to yourself, knocking the door shut with your foot and slumping back in your chair. A moment later you decide aloud, “One shot couldn’t hurt.”
You head down the hall and into the kitchenette only to find out that you aren’t the only one working late.
Yelena doesn’t hear you come in.
She’s got her back to you and a pair of headphones over her ears and she's singing softly under her breath. And she’s making coffee. All on her own, without error, like she’s done it a thousand times before, like she doesn’t come ask you to do it for her every morning.
Takes you a moment to put the pieces together and when you do a cheeky grin spreads across your lips. You’ve got a theory, and it might just be because you’re getting real sleepy, but you believe in it, so before she has the chance to notice you you slip back down the hall and into your office.
The next morning, like clockwork, Yelena Belova is at your door wearing a sheepish grin and saying, “Hey — can you help me with the espresso machine?” and you’ve never been so pleased to be right.
