Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The moon sets and the sun rises. Murdoch has admittedly become Stitch’s favorite customer, whether he realizes it or not. Perhaps it’s the simplicity in his order, or perhaps the fact that he was the first person in the station house that he served. Or even the fact that he turned the absolute nightmare that was Stitch’s life around or just a moment, some six years ago. But whatever it could be, he’s happy that Detective Murdoch is the first man that he gets to make coffee for every morning.

His apron is on and his nametag secure when he starts preparing for the day. Stitch gathers his materials and cleans the endless number of espresso glasses he’s had to use the previous day. He boils tea, the Earl Grey that Brackenreid always asks for, and water in the kettle. He checks the cupboard to make sure that all the coffee filters are readily in stock, and gets the syrups ready for when Watts orders his usual. All in a morning’s work.

When he hears the sounds of footsteps growing closer, he instinctively reaches for the creamers and the simple coffee cup that the Detective prefers. And just as he expects, Murdoch walks through the door. But the man standing next to him is a new face. A beard, hair styled seemingly all over the place, and he looks ever-so-slightly roughed up.

He didn’t expect to be taken aback this early in the morning, but without his usual drink, he needs all the wake-up calls he can get.

Murdoch notices Stitch looking at them, he doesn’t hesitate to speak,

“Ah! Sam, let me introduce you to Mr. James Pendrick, he’s helped me out countless times over the years and I thought I’d finally show him our Station House’s coffee shop since he’s helping us out on a case,”

Stitch and ‘James’ see eye to eye, a friend of Murdoch is a friend of his, he supposes,

“Nice to meet you,” Stitch says, extending his hand.

“Nice to meet you as well,” James says, his handshake is firm, but cordial.

“So I assume you’ll be getting the usual, Murdoch?”

“Yes, I will,”

“And you, Pendrick, what will you be ordering?”

Pendrick seems to hesitate for a moment, scanning the modest looking menu for options,

“Does your coffee shop allow custom orders?”

“Sure, whatever I have in my supply I can add, the menu is simply a suggestion,”

“Alright, I’ll order a drink with matcha sweetened with honey, lemonade, light ice, a shot of coffee and a drizzle of chocolate,”

Pendrick’s order sounds closer to a chemical formula recipe rather than a drink, but where was he going to find ‘matcha’?

“Matcha?”

“It’s a type of powdered tea leaf from Japan, I brought some here with me,” James says, pulling out a small can, a bowl, and a whisk of sorts. Stitch feels the smooth metal against his skin when it’s handed to him. He notices the whisk and bowl on the counter in front of him,

“You simply pour a teaspoon into the bowl, approximately fifteen ounces of water, whisk it until it’s frothy and pour it into the drink, oh, and pour the honey on top of it,”

Stitch writes all of this down. He hasn’t had to do that in a while, but it brings him right back to his rookie days when he would have to write down names and drinks. He can still teleport right back to when he was writing practically every drink on the menu, when Watts would waltz right in with just the flip of a few pages.

“Alright, I’ll be making your orders, in the meantime you can wait wherever you’d like, I’ll call your names when they’re finished,”

“Okay,” Murdoch says before the two men walk off and sit at one of the tables.

When he turns around, he stares off at the metal tin in his hands with undiluted confusion; usually orders like this waited until after Murdoch’s simple order.

Stitch wastes no time with Murdoch’s drink; he could do it with his eyes closed, if he really tried. He pours the water over the coffee grounds, watching it drip into the cup. And when it’s all done, he pours in the creamer.

If only he could make some kind of pattern atop the coffee. But that will be reserved for the day when Murdoch finally orders a latte, which he can safely assume will be, at best, a long time from now.

He mentally prepares himself for Pendrick’s order. He looks at the notepad and the hastily written notes, all he can do is pray and hope for the best.

The espresso shot is prepared within a minute. He looks at the coffee and wonders if it’ll look like anything more than the result of a lab experiment by the time he’s done pouring in all of these things. He pours in the shot and rushes to get the honey, just to make sure he doesn’t forget after making the matcha.

He reaches for the lemonade, gives the jug a good stir, a sprinkle of sugar, and it’s ready. He pours some of the drink. And then he looks to the little tin.

Now comes the Matcha itself; he follows the instructions written down to the letter. He takes a teacup, pours in about a teaspoon or so of the Matcha powder, just a bit of water from the kettle, and starts to stir with the wooden whisk he was given. He doesn’t know exactly how long or how intensely he should be stirring this mixture, but he does his best until he’s sure it’s more foamy than not.

With nothing but hesitance, he pours in the Matcha mixture, the cup is a watercolor full of hues he can only assume work, assuming that Pendrick has had this drink before. He won’t ask questions. After all, he’s just doing as told. And after, he pours in the honey.

When he uses the chocolate to drizzle, he decides to be a bit playful, drawing the shape of a moon (as best he can with an unsteady hand), instead of the usual. He’s proud of his little drawing; he can only hope that Pendrick will like it all the same.

“One coffee for William Murdoch and one…” Stitch is unsure of what to call the concoction he just made, “Espresso Matcha Lemonade Hybrid for James Pendrick,” He calls out.

The two men rush to get their drinks, Murdoch is satisfied as always, and James takes notice of the chocolate drizzle atop his Matcha foam,

“The moon, you know, I’ve always wanted to go there, and I nearly did,”

“Nearly?”

“Another man went into the rocket before I could; it landed in Borneo,”

“Who was the man? And what do you mean Borneo?”

Murdoch’s face instantly changes in a way that Stitch can’t quite place, like he knows something that Stitch cannot,

“That…is a story for another time,”

Pendrick takes a sip of his drink,

“Usually, I would just make this since I don’t have time in the lab, but it’s nice to have someone else make it for a change,”

“I’m glad you like the drink,”

“Keep the Matcha powder, I’d imagine you’ll like it a lot, I have extra back home,”

“Good to know,”

“Well, we’ll be off, duty calls as they say,” Murdoch says

Stitch holds the small tin in his hands as they walk off,

“Bye Pendroch—I mean Pendrick and Murdoch!”

A change from the normal routine, and speaking of, perhaps a cup of Matcha with his unusual drink wouldn’t hurt.

Chapter Text

Sometimes Stitch inevitably ends up listening in on things, but it’s inevitable, isn’t it? And it doesn’t help that some of the constables mistake his coffee shop for a confessional. They speak, and he just listens.

He’s developed the habit of occasionally cleaning his supplies between customers; the last thing that he needs is to reuse coffee cups. His hands are thoroughly cleaned once he’s done washing the glasses; he wipes off the machines and tools with efficiency. He looks to the half-full bottle of soap at the sink and the glimmering cups. All that’s left to do is wait.

Stitch looks to the two constables sitting at a table, coffee cups in hand, it’s hard for him not to listen in when their voices carry, even with the radio within earshot,

“Oh, that constable? I heard he’s trying to get a discount in every shop he goes to just because he’s a copper,”
“Seriously? I bet if he goes here, he’ll try and haggle for a cheaper price.”

“Even though the coffee’s free, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

He doesn’t eavesdrop on purpose. Outside of the coffee shop, he doesn’t know much about the constables and their whereabouts. So the ‘constable’ in question could be anyone, really. Still, he lets their conversations, mixed with piano and bass in the background, be his ambience. And in the meantime, he paces around the counter.

“You know, I don’t know why some of the constables complain that they’re always solving some kind of murder mystery, I mean I personally would give anything to do something more interesting than just giving out tickets and arresting petty robbers,”

“I know, right? I’ve filed so many missing reports I could do them with my eyes closed!”

So it seems even the Constabulary has its drama, petty as it may be, amongst themselves, what a surprise.

Though his eavesdropping listening in is put on pause by Margaret Brackenreid, dressed in caramel colors, walking through the door.

“So this is the coffee shop they all talk about…” Margret mutters to herself quietly

Stitch takes a few seconds to mentally prepare himself,

“Hello, Mrs. Brackenreid, what would you like to order?”

At first, she seems shocked that he knows her name, but then she looks to the menu for a moment,

“Actually, I’m not quite sure,”

“No worries, you can sit at any of these tables if you’d like, we also make tea, smoothies, and whatnot if that’s what you’d prefer,”

“I think I’ll sit at the tables for just a moment,”

“Alright,”

Margaret retreats to one of the tables, and Stitch resumes his idle work, but he takes peeps in here and there. She ponders, and ponders, looking at the menu to weigh her options. But he doesn’t realize he might be staring until he notices the lightbulb go off in her head. She gathers her things, and he instinctively looks away as she gets out of her seat,

“I know what I want,”

“And what would that be?”

“A medium coffee with three cubes of sugar and strawberry milk,”

“Alrighty, coming right up,”

Without any further ado, Stitch gets straight to making Margaret’s order. He makes quick work of the espresso, pouring it into the glass, followed by some water. He hums to himself as he springs to and forth, pacing around the counter.

He smoothly slides the milk pitcher into his hand and slowly pours in the strawberry flavor, mixing it around until it’s a cotton candy pink. Stitch watches the strawberry milk flowing into the coffee mug, mixing around and turning the espresso a nice shade of sepia.

In a spark of inspiration, he brings the pitcher down, creating a wavy rosetta pattern with a flick of the wrist. By the time he’s done pouring in the milk, it looks like something out of the photos he kept having to look at while practicing his latte art in training. And for a moment, he can’t believe his eyes.

Staring at his creation, he looks back to the benches, where people are still sitting, and calls out,

“One medium coffee for Margaret Brackenreid,”

Margaret gets up from her seat and walks over. She takes the coffee cup from his hands, and for a moment, there’s an expectant look in her eyes before she takes a sip

“Mm, you know, I found this recipe from a facespace I found on my portal,”

“If I may ask, what is a facespace, and what is a portal?”

“Oh, a facespace is kind of like a place where people can send messages and photos back and forth within seconds, and a portal is the device where you can send them; it has a keyboard and all,”

“Really? So this ‘chatspace’ would be kind of like a…technological form of a recipe book?”

“Exactly, we share all kinds of things on these face spaces, home remedies, recipes, it’s truly amazing,”

“I’d love to see one of these recipe chat spaces. What were some of the other recipes on there, if there were others? I’d love to hear about them.”

“Oh, certainly, there was this one in particular, it said to mix strawberry puree, or juice with milk, and it would create this sort of…pink drink, I was nearly going to order it before I remembered the strawberry coffee recipe I had seen some days back,”

Stitch makes a hum as he listens,

“There was also a recipe where you would whisk coffee, water, and sugar around until there were stiff peaks, and apparently, on top of milk and ice, it would make a really nice drink,”

“Oh, I think I’ve made that before,”

“Really? For whom?”

“A certain Detective Watts, for a while he would just stroll in, tell me a random order, and I would make it for him.”

“What kind of orders?”

“Anything from mixing lavender and oatmilk together to strawberry lemonade,”

There’s a pause before Stitch speaks again,

“Also, on the topic of coffee orders, I remember someone came in asking for a French-pressed vanilla latte with nutmeg, honey, and a caramel drizzle,”

“You know, I think it would be a good idea for you to look at the coffee recipe forum I visit sometimes; you could maybe share some of your barista recipes on there,”

“Mmm, a magician never shares his ways, but maybe I can tell them how I make latte art,”

“Oh, the people on there would love that,”

The sound of footsteps grows closer; perhaps it’s Thomas coming in to ask for his usual Earl Grey tea.

“Oh, where was I? I really must be going now, but I’ll make sure to show you more of those recipes if I come back,

“And I’ll be looking forward to hearing them, have a nice day!”

Stitch watches Margaret leave with the residual sparks of thrill and excitement still bursting in his system. Perhaps he’ll have more orders to share with her by the time she comes back. The language of gossip is one he thought he couldn’t speak anymore, but being a fly on the wall apparently makes one quite fluent.

Chapter Text

One of the benefits that comes with sticking to something long enough is that soon you start to have things ingrained into your intuition. Repetitive motions, forces of habit, even certain times of the day.

“See you later,”

“You too,”

Stitch watches Constable Roberts walk away and turns on his heel to go back to his usual business. Greetings have now become second nature; he doesn’t have to ponder it as much as he used to. He uses “Sir” when necessary and things like “Hey” when acceptable. The words and coffee just flow.

He glances at the spare tea leaves. Besides words, he no longer has to look at the clock to know when it’s teatime. He knows it’s 4:30 because that’s when he sees Thomas Brackenreid walking through the door, perhaps cane in hand, asking for an Earl Grey. He can’t remember a day when it hasn’t happened.

Clouds paint the sky, and espresso fills the air. He looks to the clock: 4:28 PM.

Between Stitch and the lamppost, it’s not his favorite time of the day. No matter what he tries, it never seems to satisfy the Chief Constable. He’s accepted that he can’t win them all, but Thomas is one of his only customers who yells at him for getting his order wrong, and that definitely doesn’t help.

He’s snapped out of his reverie of washing cups when he sees Thomas Brackenreid walk in; speak of the devil.

“Ah, Sir, would you like the usual, or something else?”

“I’ll take the usual,”

“Coming right up,”

Perhaps the biggest question is why the Chief Constable keeps coming back again, even though the tea, in his own words, could always “use improvement,”

The process of boiling water comes to him like breathing air now. The water itself is barely above room temperature; either way, it wouldn’t make a difference. But he has a better chance of not being admonished in front of the constables if the water is boiling rather than cold.

Stitch places the kettle on the stove, and he turns up the dial without a second thought, but instead of hearing the sound of flames crackling, all he sees are the metal empty rungs. A spike of nervousness runs through him. He turns up the dial, but nothing. He turns it down, still nothing. The dial clicks once, twice, three times. For a moment, he wonders if the Chief Constable can hear his heavy breathing.

He looks back, hoping that his worry about the stove malfunctioning doesn’t show on his face. Thomas stands there, waiting and tapping his foot. Stitch takes a deep breath, and he turns the stove on and off again. Still nothing. The clicking sound echoes each time he turns the dial. He isn’t fooling anyone.

Stitch finds himself wondering how he’s going to break the news that he messed up his higher-ups order because the stove decided to play tricks on him. All he knows is that it can’t end well.

One more time. He turns the stove on and off, and when the ring of fire still doesn’t ignite even after giving it a couple of seconds, he realizes that he’s only wasting time. He finds himself forced to wave the white flag and give up.

With a heavy heart, he gathers the tea leaves and sprinkles them into a cup. The threat of the inevitable scolding he’s surely going to get ligners over him. He turns off the stove and picks up the room-temperature kettle. The water flows into the cup, tinting the water a light mahogany color. For a moment, he can see his reflection and the panic in his eyes; he needs to reel it in.

Stitch fidgets with his hands nervously, seconds tick by, letting the tea leaves dye the water a vibrant and dark sienna. If he’s going to get scolded for messing up an order, he might as well get it over with sooner rather than later.

He grabs the cup and finally walks over to the counter where Thomas is waiting. In an attempt to soften the blow, Stitch gives him a disclaimer,

“Sir, I’m sorry to say, but the stove malfunctioned while I was trying to boil the water, so this tea is room temperature,”

Blame anyone but me for why the stove malfunctioned, please.

Thomas doesn’t seem too pleased, but still, he takes his drink and gives it a taste. Stitch doesn’t realize how badly his hands had been shaking until they’re holding onto nothing and resting at his sides. He mentally prepares himself for whatever British insult will be thrown his way,

“Bloody brilliant,”

Stitch stands there, confused for a moment, seeing Thomas Brackenreid so pleased at what was supposed to be a “messed up” drink,

“Uh, what?”

“Not burnt, not cold, just a normal cup of tea at teatime,”

A sudden wave of relief washes over him; whatever dread he has fizzles into obscurity. Even with the lingering confusion as to why the Chief Constable fancies tepid tea, he can’t complain.

“The stove didn’t work, but you know, making lemonade out of lemons,” Stitch lets out a bit of a nervous chuckle.

“I’ll tell you what, you need to make it like this every time,”

“I’ll keep that in mind, uh, but what about the stove,”

“I’ll send in someone to fix it up,”

“Alright, well, I’ll make sure to make it like this next time,”

Thomas walks away, just a little bit too enraptured in his room-temperature tea to say goodbye, and awfully chipper. When Stitch finds himself alone once again, he lets out a bit of a surprised laugh. All of that time trying to please his higher-up, and yet all it took was a malfunction and some lukewarm water. He can’t help but giggle at the sheer absurdity of it all.

And for a moment, he celebrates the fact that after all this time, he managed to finally get the Chief Constable’s order right.

He turns back to the kettle, still sitting on the back table alongside all of his coffee equipment and the tea leaves. He hasn’t used the thermometer in a while, relying more on the time it takes for something to get hot rather than the exact temperature.

But even os, he dips it into the now half-full kettle, and waits until the number reads. When the little device starts to beep, he leans into the see the number 22 degrees Celcius.

He’ll keep that number in mind when teatime comes around.

Chapter Text

The music is loud and the time is moving slowly. Stitch wonders if he could convince Inspector Choi to let him put rainbow lights up and turn the coffee shop into a disco. The constables could use a good dance break every once in a while.

Slow days feel like a prize after so long, when the constabulary are hooked up on a case, and all the constables are outside. Deep down, he knows if he told the version of himself that was waiting around nervously and frustrated with nothing to do, he would faint. There are only so many things that he can do to pass the time with no one to serve, but he likes the fact that he has a room to himself for a couple of hours. A workshop, a lab, a dancefloor, whatever he wants it to be.

The half-full cup of his drink sits on the counter. Stitch hums and waltzes through his workspace, making his fourth experimental drink. He makes them so they can exist; he doesn’t expect anyone to take a sip. He spins around in his lack of responsibilities and expectations with full relish.

Stitch refines his techniques, milk frothing, latte art, and the different ways one can brew coffee. Each beverage has its own set of rules, ingredients, sometimes overlapping with one another; he practices each one like test questions.

He takes the five to ten minutes he has before the Mint tea he put on properly steeps to wash cups, if not only to make way for more experimental drinks. The countertop is a messy waltz of cups, shot glasses, and espresso. Stitch reaches for the ingredients that haven’t seen the light of day in a while. Watts has taught him well.

Steps echo on the floor, music reverberates through the shop, mixed with his own singing to create the ambience of a karaoke room. Stitch never formally learned how to dance, but he does a little jig every once in a while, even with his precious drinks in hand, thanking the stars that he doesn’t drop them. The teal radio sits on the counter amidst the crackling flames and scattered supplies, a dash of color to break the monotony.

It’s hard for him not to imagine himself in the scene of a moving picture, or perhaps even a musical number, dancing with no one watching, and putting together drinks for no one in particular.

He whips up cold foam, stirring to the rhythm of the music; yet another component of his running experiment. He pours his concoction into separate cups, thinking of which flavors he could mix in. Mentally, he prepares to put the tools down and rush to the empty floor in front of him just in time for the dance break, as he’s done so twice already now.

But just as he starts to pour chocolate sauce into one of the cups, the door opens. For a split second, mild annoyance and a spike of panic run through his body. He doesn’t have time to explain the music, least of all the excessive number of cups on the counter.

He sees Henry Higgens walk in, and he swears he’s experiencing deja vu.

Stitch wonders if he’ll pull the same trick as last time, or if he’s actually here to order something. The words "Hello, what can I get you?” hang in the balance of his mind.

Henry walks to the counter, and Stitch’s next words come out like a force of habit,

“What would you like to order today?”

The constable pauses in front of the menu, Stitch sets down the bottle and cup,

“I think today I’ll have a medium caramel machiatto,”

He’s noticed that Henry has had a sort of Caramel theme with his drinks. But in all fairness, he’s also ordered hot chocolate unironically, so he doesn’t know exactly what to make of that information,

“Will you also be taking a break along with this drink?”

Henry seems stunned or maybe confused hearing the question at first, but he gives Stitch a look that he caught his drift,

“Yes, for as long as convincingly possible,

“Alright,”

Stitch gets right to work making the drink. Brewing the coffee, reaching for the caramel sauce, and pouring milk into the cup. Henry seems to stand there almost the entire time, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone’s watched his process of making coffee.

At some point, Stitch dumps the espresso shot onto the milk, watching the gradient of colors form. He begins to do the top drizzle of caramel atop the machiatto, but Henry starts to stare at the array of cups on the countertop; there’s an elephant in the room he can’t ignore anymore.

“Sam, can I ask you a question,”

“Sure,” Stitch says, adding the final touches to the constable’s coffee.

“What’s with all of these drinks? I mean, what is this—” Henry picks up one of the cups. The cappuccino that he created to make sure he still had the hang of making milk foam properly. He takes a sip without a second thought, leaving Stitch with his actual drink, standing there stunned. Whether it be from the audacity or the lack of hesitation, he can’t decide,

"Wait, what is this?” Henry asks, staring at the cup as if the ceramic will answer his questions,

“A cappuccino,”

“A what?”

“It’s a kind of coffee whose signature is having a lot of foam on top,”

“I was wondering why it looked like that,”

Not missing a beat, Stitch places the machiatto on the countertop. Part of him hopes that Henry will take the hint and take his break. But he realizes something: Henry tasted one of the drinks that Stitch made in his pursuit of espresso experiments. Maybe that thought of having Henry be a taste tester could come true. Ever since Watts pivoted to ordering a chai latte and nothing more, he’s been out of a test audience, but now is his chance.

“Say, Henry,” Stitch says, leaning in for emphasis,” Since you’ll be taking a break from duty and I’ve been having a particularly slow day with customers, do you think you could help me taste test some of these drinks? I’ll make them, and you simply tell me if you like how they taste,”

“Well, don’t mind if I do,” Henry says, eyeing the cups on the counter even now with his machiatto in hand. He takes a sip of his coffee and reaches for another drink, a particular lavender cup with a strong espresso mix inside. Stitch doesn’t have the time to warn him that not all the drinks are lattes before he takes a gulp. And judging by the way his face scrunches up, he immediately regrets it,

“Ugh, what’s in that drink?”

“It’s an americano.”

“Americano?”

“Just coffee and water, nothing else,”

“You think you could make me something that doesn’t taste so…bitter?”

Stitch finds himself raking through his memory, glancing at the cups to see which one contains a sweet drink, as Henry takes another sip of his macchiato to wash the bitter taste away.

“I’m pretty sure that this drink,” Stitch says, pointing to a tall glass filled to the brim with ivory colored coffee, “Is a vanilla latte, I think you’ll like it if you don’t want bitter.”

The constable sets down the lavender cup and reaches for the glass, taking a cautious sip when his eyes widen, but instead of regret they seem to light up from the flavor,

“Mmm, sweet, like fairy floss,”

“Like I said, the opposite of bitter,”

Part of Stitch wants to remind Henry that he also has a perfectly good caramel machiatto that he’s holding in the other hand, but the caramel can wait,

“I think I’m starting to get it now. Do you think you could make me a drink that has a lot of whipped cream, like so much whipped cream that it takes up half the drink?”

“Coming right up,”

Half of the cups on the counter are half-full, and both Stitch and Henry are taking their turns sipping and taste-testing the various drinks that their combined creativity can come up with. Anything and everything from coconut milk with honey to vanilla syrup and chocolate cold cream.

Maybe it’s the caffeine or the music playing in the speakers that has them turning the coffee shop into a disco, like Stitch wanted just minutes, perhaps hours before. They dance, they discuss the flavors in between sips, and Henry’s personal suggestions. He never thought that he could learn so much about someone’s personal tastes, let alone his own, through coffee. For a moment, he wonders how all the caffeine will affect him.

But some good things have to come to an end. By the time that the cup containing Stitch’s drink is empty and Stitch is sipping another drink while Henry inputs more commentary, Constable Roberts walks in,

“Henry, I’ve been looking everywhere for—”

Stitch nearly does a spittake, but he manages (somehow) not to choke on his coffee,

“Oh! Teddy—I mean Constable Roberts,” He straightens up, “Didn’t expect to see you here, do you…want anything?”

There’s a moment of pause, and Stitch turns down the radio, leaving a lot more silence.

“I’ll make you whatever you want from the menu if you don’t tell Inspector Choi that Henry was temporarily off duty,” Stitch says, his voice slightly hushed

“Uh, just a pistachio latte,”

And that’s exactly what Stitch does, Henry sips down the rest of his Caramel Machiatto, and in a blurry rush, Stitch makes Teddy his pistachio latte. He realizes his arms are slightly sore from how many drinks he’s rushed through making. And by the time Constable Roberts is halfway out the door, Stitch decides to give him a little word of warning,

“Uh, Constable Roberts, I will tell you, Henry has had a little too much caffeine, so if you guys are out and he starts running away from you, don’t run after him, get on your bike and pedal after him,”

He says it with a twinge of sarcasm in his voice, but Constable Robets takes it seriously,

“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind, but might I ask how that happened?”

“I might have…put a little too much espresso in his drink by accident,”

“Are you sure it’s not him taking a sip of the drinks you have scattered across the countertop?”

“Well…that too,”

“I see, well, we’ll be off now, have a good day Sam,”

“You too,”

By the time that Henry’s out the door, Stitch accepts that he’ll have to transition out of the disco haze that he’s been in for the past hour and at least pretend to be professional (ignoring all the cups he now has to wash). But something about the afterglow of all that dancing and drinks feels nice to linger in.

After that, time seems to speed up, and the queue grows bigger with the incoming lunch rush; perhaps he should do that again.

Chapter Text

Murdoch is the first to tell him that Louise Cherry is making her rounds at Station House Four; he doesn’t seem too pleased about it, and Stitch can’t help but wonder why.

Most days are a comfortable bath with his usual pool of faces, and some days are a dice toss to see the new person who hasn’t discovered the coffee shop yet. Mentally, he adds another name to the list.

“Louise is going to be making her rounds at the Station House, if she comes up here and asks you questions, try not to reveal too much.”

He fights the urge to pinch himself and make sure he isn’t dreaming, he recognizes that name well,

“Louise Cherry, you mean the Sentinel Editor?”

“Yes, she’ll be here, so try and be a little reticent if she asks you anything about the Station House or the coffee shop,”

Those words leave a lingering impression at the forefront of his mind. From that point on, even as he’s watching Murdoch leave with his usual drink in hand, he makes sure to note who comes in through the door.

Between Watt’s oatmilk, George’s usual triple-triple, and Inspector Choi wtih his peppermint, he keeps his eyes focused on the door. Lest Louise walk in without him realizing. He focuses on the lingering constables and the occasional moments of silence where it’s nothing but him, and the sound of a kettle starting to boil over.

Stitch takes a brief look at the time, high in the afternoon at around 12:30 P.M. The sky is a technicolor shade of blue, and the clouds move about in a waltz of shapes. He hums to himself, cleaning up an espresso shot glass. Every so often, his eyes linger back to the door, anticipation brewing in his system. The realization briefly hits him that there’s a chance he could end up in the newspaper, something like intuition.

Fear and excitement go toe to toe with one another in his head. He’s fine with half of Station House four knowing his name even without his nametag on. But he’s not sure if he’s content with people on the street recognizing his face on his usual route to work.

His ears pick it up before his eyes do, the faint sound of heels clicking against the floor, growing closer. He looks up and turns his head around just in time to see the woman he can only assume is Louise Cherry, holding a camera and adorned in shades of maroon,

“So Station House Four really does have a coffee shop at it’s disposal,”

She looks around the coffee shop, the benches and gives the menu a brief glance. That’s his cue, act cool. He puts on a calm and collected voice,

“Yes, yes it does,”

She turns around to look at him,

“And who might you be?”

“Sam, the barista,”

“Hm, I see, Louise Cherry, I’ve heard the rumours, but I thought this place was a running myth until Effie herself told me about ordering an apple machiatto from here,”

“Oh, she was one of my favorite customers; she even left a tip,”

Louise takes a good look at the menu. Her brows furrow in confusion, something shifting in her eyes,

“There’s no prices listed on the menu,”

“Oh, well, to be fair, the coffee’s meant to be free so…”

“Wait, you guys sell coffee for free?”

The spotlight is suddenly on him and he scrambles to say something,

“Well uh—the customers regularly tip, and I do get paid fairly, it’s meant to be an open secrets of sorts between the constables and constabulary,”

“Then why did you serve Effie? She’s a crown attorney lawyer,”

“Well, she walked into the coffee shop, and I’ve also served other people who work closely with the constabulary before her, what I mean is that a random person on the street can’t just walk in here asking for free coffee,”

“And just who have you served exactly?”

Murdoch’s words of try not to reveal too much echo in his head when Louise says that sentence. He doesn’t mind listing all the constable names he can think of off the top of his head. But for fear he’ll say every name that comes to mind, he keeps his mouth shut. Just long enough that he can think his response through.

“Well, that is kind of confidential,”

“How about this, I’ll order something off the menu and you’ll tell me who you’ve served, I’ll make a review of your coffee in the news,”

As long as someone is ordering his coffee, he supposes,

“Deal, so what can I get for you?”

“Alright, humor me, make me a Cortado,” Louise says with a Spanish inflection on the word “Cortado.”

“Coming right up,”

“Are you sure you know what that is?”

“Half milk, half espresso, got it,” Stitch says with a thumbs up as he spins around to begin working, but he turns around one more time,

“You’re free to sit on the benches or stand around, whichever you prefer,”

The word “Cortado” was never mentioned in his training, but he remembers it vividly from his schoolboy days. He had begged his mom to buy him one after seeing it on the menu of the coffee shop she frequented. He remembers the face he made the first and last time he tried it because of the bitterness.

Stitch grabs one of the smaller cups and wastes no time brewing the espresso. He watches the coffee pour into the cup carefully (lest it exceed the halfway point), as he starts to steam the milk. He rushes over to stop the espresso flow as it reaches the midpoint of the cup, before hurrying back to retrieve the now steamed milk. He wipes off the steamer and gives the cup a whirl before slowly starting to pour in the milk.

A wave of nostalgia washes over him as he stares at the cup, and the mix of colors swirling around.

When he turns around, he sees Louise with her camera in hand, tapping her foot. He places the cup on the table and slides it over,

“And just as I promised, I’ve served Detective Murdoch and Watts, Chief Constable Brackenreid, as well as Margret Brackenreid, Inspector Choi, Constable Crabtree, Higgens and Roberts, Julia Ogden, Violet Hart, Effie Crabtree, James Pendrick,” His words trail off, almost intentionally.

Louise gives him a look, as if asking, “Is that all?”

“And a certain Terrence Meyers has dropped by once,”

Her face shifts when the name “Terrence Meyers” comes up. He wonders what encounter they could’ve had to elicit that reaction, but when the memory of him coming in during the night shift comes up, he doesn’t blame her.

Louise takes the cup in her hand, giving the drink a good look before taking a cautious sip,

“Seems you got my drink right, I’ll note that when I write my review,”

“If I may ask, how did this coffee shop come to be?” Louise asks, taking another sip,”

“To my knowledge, Inspector Choi wanted the constables to have better access to things like coffee, and for convenience’s sake, I guess,”

“And would you say that this coffee shop has improved the constabulary’s ability to solve crime?”

“I don’t see the constables after they leave this shop, but they do seem satisfied with my ability to make them drinks,”

“Are there any customers who have disliked your drinks?”

“Constable Brackenreid once yelled at me for putting milk in his tea, and he was hard to please for a time, but we eventually worked things out,”

Louise takes another sip of her cortado as he explains that he accidentally serving the Chief Constable lukewarm tea somehow mended their rocky relationship.

“And you said that Terrence Meyers has been here once before?”

“Yes, presumably on some kind of case with Detective Murdoch, but between me, you, and the lamppost when he came in, he ordered a single espresso shot, nothing else,”

“Pardon?”

“I wish I were joking,”

“One thing, it is curious that they would put this shop on the second floor rather than somewhere on the first,”

“The constables do travel to and from the second floor pretty often, from what i’ve seen, and I’ll wager a flight of stairs and waiting five minutes for coffee is better than having to detour mid-case,”

“One more thing, if I may ask, how do you know what a Cortado is?” Her tone shifts, sincerity seeping into her voice

“Having a Mexican mother teaches you a lot about Spanish culture, I suppose,”

Louise sips the rest of the Cortado and takes another look at her camera,

“Well, since I’m here, do you mind posing for a photo?”

Stitch finds himself caught off guard,

“Oh, sure!”

He places his hands behind his back and looks to the camera with what he can only hope comes across as a gentle smile. There’s a flash, a click, and she puts the camera down with the empty glass lying vacant on the table.

“I’m off now, but you can await my review in the newspaper,”

“Will do,”

When Louise walks through the door, he grabs the empty glass on the table and makes haste to clean it before his next customer walks in. Stitch prepares himself for the fact that his face and coffee might be in the newspaper tomorrow. He just hopes she got his good side.

Chapter Text

Agnes seems to be the new buzzword amongst the constables, and Stitch can only guess it’s because the new chapter of her serial has just come out. He listens to bits and pieces of chatter between serving customers and maintaining the equipment.

The real wake-up call happens when Henry Higgens rushes into the coffee shop.

“Constable Higgens,”

“Sam, there’s something that I have to tell you,” He almost sounds out of breath.

“What is it?”

“My wife, Ruth Higgens-Newsome—”

“Your wife is Ruth Newsome?” For a moment, he wonders if Henry is lying, but he’s gotten used to expecting the unexpected,

“Higgens-Newsome, but yes, she’s going to be here at the station house. So if she comes in here, just…do whatever she asks,”

“i see,”

Wait, you mean to say that Ruth Higgens-Newsome might visit this coffee shop? Stitch nearly asks, but Henry already seems stressed enough without the questions.

As Henry walks out holding his caramel machiatto with whipped cream, he wonders if, when Ruth shows up, she’ll have an entourage.

Stitch is halfway through his usual drink of cinnamon and vanilla when he hears the faint sound of humming that grows closer. A burst of color walks in through the door, Ms. Ruth Higgens-Newsome.

She’s not three steps in before Stitch hears her voice,

“Yoo hoo~!” She says in a sing-song voice.

He raises his head,

“Fetch me an affogato,”

“Oh, sorry, we don’t have ice cream,” He feels a twinge of fear when her face drop, hearing his words,

“Huh, alright then, make me an iced shakerato with extra whipped cream,”

She says it so fast that he nearly asks her to reapt herself, but the words come out like an instinctive reflex,

“Coming right up,”

He turns around and lingers for a moment, wondering what the hell a shakerato is meant to look like. But with what little knowledge he has of Italian, and considering that it has shake in the name, he can only assume it’s coffee meant to be shaken up.

Grabbing an espresso shot glass and a shaker, he waltzes over to the ice machine, and the sharp sound of ice falling fills his ears. He momentarily looks back to see Ruth with an impatient look on her face. Wasting no time, he prepares the coffee.

By the time it’s dripping into the glass, he has coffee grounds on his fingers from trying to smooth them out, but he doesn’t have time to care about that as he dives for the whipped cream can.

He hears the tapping of her foot get louder, and nervousness spikes in his system,

“I’m waiting,”

“Just a moment, I promise,” He says, turning around for a brief moment.

That just barely buys him enough time to gather his things, pour the coffee into the shaker, and start shaking the espresso like he does with his inailer. He reaches for the nearest cup and swiftly pours the coffee, and it’s a miracle that only a drop or two falls from the kettle. His heart races,

“What is taking so long?”

He reaches for the whipped cream can with the coffee now in a glass,

“One more second and I’m going to—”

The staccato sound of whipped cream coming out of the canister fills his ears. He looks up to see Ruth look like she’s about to storm out of the shop. And despite his hands being occupied, he rushes to try and defuse the figurative bomb about to go off,

“Mrs—”

A high-pitched shriek echoes through the room, causing Stitch to nearly drop the can of whipped cream as he instinctively flinches, just barely catching it. He glances for the briefest half-moment at the swirl adorning the top of the glass. He reaches for a straw, sticks it into the drink, and slides it over to where Ruth is now screaming,

“I apologize for the wait. Here’s your drink,”

The screaming stops, she grabs the drink, and wastes no time taking a sip. He silently hopes it’s up to her standards; an unsatisfied customer is one thing, but that unsatisfied customer being Ruth Higgens-Newsome is something else.

Her expression quickly switches from frustration to a movie-star smile within seconds. Who knew that coffee could lift one’s mood so instantaneously

“Mmm! Thank you !”

For a moment, he can remember exactly how he felt when the Chief Constable tasted his lukewarm tea for the first time and gave him praise instead of yelling at him so loud that the entire constabulary could hear. He almost lets out a physical sigh of relief.

“You’re welcome—”

“Bye now!”

“Have a nice…day”

Just as fast as she comes in, she rushes out the door. And Stitch can barely finish his sentence before he realizes he’s talking to an empty room. He takes the few moments he has to himself to laugh the nervousness away. Stitch takes another sip of his beloved drink. It really is something that he’s met an actor who’s more theatrical in person than in the moving pictures.

When Stitch clocked into his shift that morning, the only thing that seemed slightly amiss was the fact that a woman wearing all teal was following Detective Murdoch around. And that memory briefly flashes through his mind as he paces back and forth behind the counter.

His footsteps stop as he lands in front of the ice; he shovels some into the lemonade that someone ordered. Placing the drink on the counter, the constable who ordered said drink gets up to retrieve it, walking away with their lemonade in hand.

As the constable leaves through the door, he turns around to continue his regular schedule of maintenance and trying to remember the difference between oat milk and almond milk. And it isn’t until he starts to hear the sound of someone tiptoeing across the floor, that he decides to turn around.

If he expected to see anything, it wasn’t the splitting image of the woman he saw with Detective Murdoch that morning sneaking into the coffee shop as if she was on a secret mission. He watches with a towel and glass in hand as she glances from side to side, but the moment their eyes meet, she immediately straightens up.

Out of all the ways he’s seen people walking into the coffee shop, the last time he’s seen something like hers was Detective Murdoch on his first day working.

He smiles out of mild amusement,

“Hello, can I get you anything,”

She immediately rushes to the counter,

“I didn’t know that Station House Four had a coffee shop. Wait, so does that mean that constables just get coffee around here for free? No wonder they’re always walking around with cups in their hands. Wait, so does that mean—wait, have you served Detective Murdoch before?”

“As a matter of fact, I have, again, do you want anything off the menu? Free of charge, of course,”

“What does he order?”

“Just regular coffee and creamer, but I can assure you, there are tons of options on the menu,”

The woman takes a step back to observe, looking at the menu and seeming to weigh each option carefully, but her interest seem sto linger on one of the items, for a moment he wonders if he should turn around to see what she’s looking at,

“I’ll take a flat white,”

“Can I get a name for this order?”

“Tippy Longfellow,”

“Coming right up, there’s places to sit if you want to wait,”

Stitch turns around just as Tippy makes her way to one of the benches. He grabs one of the smaller glasses, in the downtime that he has between the coffee brewing, he wastes no time preparing to steam the milk.

The coffee starts to drip into the glass just as he wipes the milk steamer down. After a good ten seconds, when the flow of espresso starts to trail off, he takes the cup in hand. With the pitcher in the other, he pours the milk until there’s a small circle amidst the canvas of coffee.

“One flat white for Tippy Longfellow,” he calls out, putting the finished drink onto the counter. She gets up from her seat, quickly making her way to the counter,

“Can I tell you, this was a pleasant surprise after the case that Murdoch and I have been working on all day,”

“And what might that be?”

“We’re currently trying to solve a series of letters and murders occurring at different post offices across Toronto,”

Between the chatter, he faintly notices that not once has she picked up her coffee; he keeps that fact in his back pocket,

“And how did you find out that these murders were occurring, let alone the letters?”

“Easy, I work at the post office,”

Something new every day it seems,

“I’ll remind you that your coffee is on the table,”

“Oh, right,” Tippy says, picking up the cup with both hands, “Alright—where was I?”
“Right, so as I was saying, so it’s a series of letters being sent to different postal offices across the city and murders that keep seeming to happen nearby, we’re just starting to trace the letters to a potential suspect and—”

Tippy finally decides to take a sip of her coffee,

“Mmm, this coffee’s good,”

“Oh, thank you,”

“No, I should be thanking you,”

“Well, you’re welcome—”

In that moment, before he can say anything, suddenly her arms are around him in a hug. He gives an honest attempt to hug her back, and she pulls away just as quickly as she leaned in.

Still recovering from the shock, he manages to repeat himself,

“Well, like I said again, you’re welcome,”

Though I’m not sure all the song and dance was necessary

“Oh, like I was saying before, we’re collecting a list of suspects and interviewing them, and now we’re trying to narrow down the list, I have at least three suspects in mind,”

At some point, Detective Murdoch walks in. Stitch briefly turns his head to look at him, but he makes a beeline for Tippy.

“Ms. Longfellow, I specifically told you to wait on one of the benches, what are you doing here?”

“Well, I kept seeing constables going to and from the second floor, I had to see where they were going,”

“Don’t worry, Murdoch, I just served her coffee,”

“Alright, well, me and Ms. Longfellow here must be on our way,”

“We are?”

“Yes, we have a murder investigation to solve,”

Murdoch turns to look at Stitch,

“If you don’t mind, we’ll be off now,”

Stitch makes a thumbs-up.

Stitch watches Murdoch politely escort Tippy out of the coffee shop, in the corner of his yee, he can see her wave goodbye, and he absentmindedly waves even knowing she can’t see him.

Even when he thinks he’s seen it all, in the mental dice toss to see who hasn’t discovered the coffee shop yet, he always seems to be taken aback.

Chapter Text

Stitch stares at the water brewing on the kettle, letting the sound of it’s whirring and the slight crackle of the flame fill his ears.

Despite the urgency of all the tasks that he should be doing in that moment, he decides to stare at the kettle and the timer’s seconds ticking down instead. A memory pops into his head, the only thing that seems to stand out against his absent-minded thoughts. It was the time that he walked into the Station House in the morning and overheard Chief Constable Brackenreid telling Inspector Choi,

“Whatever you do, never let that supply of Earl Grey tea in the coffee shop go out of stock,”

He didn’t pay it much mind, but somehow the words pop back up again in his memory after all of these days. Stitch goes to check the cupboard and sees the different kinds of tea leaves just as the scent starts to waft. Earl Grey, Green, Mint, and Camomile.

Yet the Chai and Earl Grey seem to be some of the only ones that aren’t filled nearly to the brim more days than not. It’s a coffee shop, not a tea store, but it’s still something that he keeps in the back of his mind.

Finally, he surrenders to the voice telling him that he should be grinding coffee beans and making sure htat he didn’t run out of coffee filters again. He takes his eyes off the kettle to instead focus on the coffee machine. He gathers hot water and pours it in, and finds himself prepared for whatever drink the constables might throw his way.

When the timer goes off, Stitch takes the kettle off the heat, making sure to also turn off the stove as well, lest the coffee shop go up in flames at eight in the morning.

The last few weeks have kept him on his toes. Half of him has settled back into the routine of his usual pool of regular customers, but part of him is still on the lookout for whoever might come through the door that he still doesn’t recognize.

Murdoch and Watts show up one after the other. Their orders come like muscle memory, down to the three creamers and oatmilk. As he makes Detective Watt’s order, he can’t help but to take a glance at the Chai and the various tea brews srrounding it as he gets some to add into the drink.

When left ot his own devices again, Stitch prepares for the inevitable influx of customers and the morning rush with all the constables. He lingers around the coffee machine and the cupboard door left cracked open. The smell of espresso wafts in the air, reminding him of what’s to come, but he feels weirdly calm in the eye of the hurricane.

Bossa nova radiates from the stereo as he washes his hands, and water runs through his fingers. He decides to start cleaning the espresso shot glasses since he’s already at the sink. Part of him is saying that he should get to making his usual morning drink, but tasks won’t wait for him to get his fix. Better now than later.

It isn’t long after he gets the first and second glasses down that he hears footsteps. His ears catch it before his eyes do. He looks up, half expecting to see one of the regular constables, maybe George, but instead he sees a woman dressed in a similar navy blue to any of the constables he could expct to come through the door. And it only makes the red accents that her outfit is adorned with stand out more.

“Hello, what can I get for you, Ms…?”

“Iona Berger, Toronto Morality officer, do you serve anything that isn’t coffee on this menu?”

Her voice is straight-forward, and her being one of the few customers who doesn’t order coffee definitely leaves a strong first impression in his memory

“Certainly, we have tea, juice, water etcetera,”

Ms. Berger seems to give it a moment of thought,

“I’ll take a Camomile tea,”

The memory of glancing at the camomile tea briefly flashes through his mind as she says those words,

“Coming right up,”

He hears those same foosteps, presumably walking to one of the tables. If it weren’t for those he would’ve nearly turned around to tell Ms. Berger that there’s many places for her to sit.

When he crouches down to the camomile tea lying dormant, that memory of him staring at the tea brews instead of preparing coffee beans runs through his head once again. Stitch grabs one of the tea bags and makes haste to reheat the kettle.

Once the kettle rests atop the stove, Stitch grabs a teacup and place sthe teabag to sit until he can pour the water. He finds himself fidgeting with his hands and fingers, it’s harder to sit still when making tea. It’s easier to get lost in the number of small tasks that he has to do when making espresso. The prep, the supplies, the toppings, and the falvours to pour in.

But with a good thirty seconds to two minutes to linger, he finds himself pacing around, staring at the timer, and silently wishing it would end just a little faster. He breathes in and out slowly, letting the music fill his ears, and suddenly his worries fade into nothingness.

Once the timer goes off, he quickly retrieves the kettle, taking gentle care to pour the hot water carefully, watching as the color fades into a golden hue. Whisps os steam mist through the air as the color grows richer, and he places the cup down on the table.

He lets the tea simmer for a few more seconds before he calls out,

“One camomile tea for Iona Berger,”

Upon hearing her name she turns her head, getting up and walking to the counter. From a closer look, he notices her cloak and the gloves on her hands. For a moment, it makes him wonder if he himself should wear gloves when handling tea, but he’s not sure how well that would work out.

There’s a moment of pause, she briefly blows away the steam that rises from her cup before taking a sip,

“Mm, tastes like my telegrapher days,”

He’s not sure if it would be the first time that he accidentally finds out someone’s past through a slip of the tongue, he wonders if he should speak at all,

“Forgive my impoliteness, but did you say telegrapher?”

She gives him a breif look that makes him wonder if she meant to say that out loud, but she straightens up,

“Yes, chief telegrapher,”

“Oh, that’s nice to hear,”

“Thank you, but I do think I’m better suited here at the station house. A lot more has happened within the past few months than in the last few years working at a desk,”

“You can say that again, the station house is definitely an interesting place, I will admit, I used to have some encounters with morality officers before, during my schoolboy days,”

“Schoolboy days?”

He can still remember the nights, blurry as they were when someone called him out for walking tipsy on the street.

“University, and all,”

There’s a moment of pause,

“But I can assure you, I’ve cleaned up my act,”

“Are you sure? Dress code states it’s immoral to have rolled up sleeves,”

“Well, there is an exception for service and labor workers, which does include people who serve drinks,”

He remembers Inspector Choi’s answer to his question, when he first asked it during training, seems that knowledge is useful for something after all.

She gives a hum of acknowledgement,

“Touche, well, I have to get going, I have tickets to write, have a pleasent day,”

“You too,”

He’s not sure if it was when she walked in or as she walked away that he noticed the cape. Or the shift in music when she walked in, almost like she has her own theme song, but he can’t say he’s disapointed.

Chapter Text

There are around three times that Stitch gets to see the first floor of Station House Four throughout the duration of his shifts. When he first clocks in, when he leaves, and during his lunch break. He looks up to the clock just as he takes his final sips of water to wash down his food, the pleasant flavor still lingering on his taste buds as he gets up. He needs to make his way back to the coffee shop soon. The lunch rush of constables coming back for seconds is barely half an hour away, after all.

Stitch gets up from the table, making sure to dispose of his food properly and taking his water bottle with him to refill when he needs it again.

He glances at the constables, some writing police reports, and the rare time that Detective Murdoch is at the station house and not outside, presumably working on a case. Detective Watts is watering his plants in between sandwich bites, and Inspector Choi is at work in his office, writing down on a paper of sorts.

He’s about halfway to the staircase when he’s stopped by a tap on the shoulder. He turns around to see a woman dressed in teal holding a sketchbook,

“Hello, may I help you?” He asks

“Yes, actually, I was wondering where the coffee shop at this Station House is, Llewellyn hasn’t stopped telling me about it, but I’m not exactly sure where it is,”

What a pleasant coincidence,

“Oh, I actually happen to be the barista at the coffee shop, I’m just heading back, I could show you,”

“Sure,”

They walk up the stair,s their shoes tapping against the wood with each step,

“If I may ask, what do you do here at the Station House?”

“I’m the police sketch artist here, Olivia Leeming,”

Suddenly the puzzle pieces in his head seem to connect,

“Ah, I see, oh, I remember it now. I think I’ve seen your sketch of that dog in the newspaper, that was some masterful pencil work,”
“Thank you, I put a lot of work into that drawing,”

When they arrive at the door, he stands to the side, letting her in first. He dives back into the atmosphere of the coffee shop. He turns the lights back on and makes his way to the counter. He turns on the radio and slowly turns up the dial to an agreeable volume.

“I’ve heard that constables often take their lunch breaks here, I’d love to sketch something in this shop,”

Well, you have full access to this place, you can stay as long as you want, come and go as you please,”

As he’s re-adjusting his apron and fixing up his nameplate, he notices Olivia taking a look at the menu,

“Oh, I’ll let you know that the menu is merely a suggestion, I also serve teas, juices, hell, even plain water,”

“Do you have coconuts? Coconut milk, extract? I ask because I’ve always wanted to order a coconut latte, sort of a bucket list thing,”

“Bucket list? Well, I would be glad to oblige, you know, your friend Llewellyn has ordered at least one of almost everything on his menu, and some,

“That sounds like him,”

He straightens up and reaches for his pen and notepad,

“Alright, so if I have this correct, you want a coconut latte,” There’s a nod,

“Are there any specifications that you want to make? Whipped cream? Different kind of milk?”

“Oh, actually, whipped cream does sound nice,”

“Alright, whipped cream it is,” Stitch says as he scribbles the words down on his notepad

“Oh, and if I can make one more request,” Olivia says, leaning in slightly,

“Anything,”
“Can you make my order in a clear glass? I’ve been working with watercolors, and I don’t want to get my order and the paint water mixed up,”

“Sure, also there are many places in the shop that you can sit at as I make your order,”

“Got it,”

When Olivia walks to one of the benches, that’s when Stitch takes a look at the notepad and gets started on her order.

He always prefers to start with the espresso first. Placing the filter over the cup, he pours some water over the paper before sprinkling the remaining water and lets the brewing run its course, allowing droplets of espresso to fall into the clear glass. And the thirty seconds it takes for the coffee to drip into the cup gives him just enough time to reach for the milk and the syrups.

Stitch mixes coconut milk and syrup to create a flavorful blend that he has to resist the urge to sample for himself, something to taste test on his slow days, he supposes. But the scent alone reminds him of beaches in July.

Adding in a small pinch of sugar and giving the milk a good stir, he finally takes the filter off. he pours in his mixture over the espresso and mixes it with the milk.

He can smell the combination of coconut and espresso mixing, and Stitch can already understand why Olivia would put this on her bucket list of drinks to try. He holds the warm drink in his hand, he notices Olivia sketching, and he’s not sure whether to call her name or to wait until she’s completely done.

Stitch takes the moments of lying in wait to look at the concoction that he’s made and the ivory color that mainly covers the cup with the hint of light umber colored espresso at the bottom.

When Olivia puts the pencil down, he takes that as his cue,

“One coconut latte for Olivia Leeming,”

She rushes to get the coffee drink, but she only takes one hasty sip,

“This is wonderful, oh, before I forget,”

Olivia doubles back to pick up a piece of paper, half of him wonders if it’s a sketch, what could it be, and why would she give it to him? She takes the coffee in her hand, and what ends up in his is a sketched portrait of him at work. If he were any more shocked, he would faint there on the spot. And the disbelief must be painted on his face by the look of amusement on Olivia’s

“Oh my god I—I can’t find the words to describe this, this is amazing, this is—I think this is the most flattering thing someone has done for me, how did you do this in such a short time?”

He doesn’t bother to hide the surprise and gratitude in his voice, for a moment, he wonders if he’s simply dreaming,

“I was going to make a watercolor portrait of the shop, but I thought, might as well draw what I see,”

As Stitch tries to articulate the sheer level of appreciation that he has, Olivia says something else,

“I almost forgot, what’s the price for this coffee?”

“Don’t worry a bit, any coffee in this shop is free to any member of the constabulary, and even if it wasn’t, this one would be on the house,”

There’s a look of relief on her face,

“Thank you, Sam,”

He smiles,

“No need to thank me,”

There’s a faint call. Olivia rushes to listen to it closer, latte in hand. She doubles back, but clearly meaning to be on her way, she takes another sip of her latte before talking,

“Apparently, they need me to do another police sketch, so unfortunately, I have to go,”

She makes her way to the door, but he notices the supplies lying on the table,

“Don’t forget your art supplies,” He calls out

“Oh my god, I nearly forgot,”

With the art supplies re-acquired, she makes her way to the door once more,”

“Let it be known that I will be back here, mark my words,”

“I’ll be awaiting your return,”

“Till next time, Sam,”

“Have a good day,” He accidentally lets some of the sing-song tone that his voice slips into when he’s particularly excited out as he waves.

Taking another look at the portrait, the pose of him pouring water over the paper filter, he still refuses to believe that he didn’t fall asleep in the lunch break room and isn’t dreaming this all up. But he runs his fingers over the papers, and it’s suddenly all too real. He holds the paper to his chest, not bothering to hide the goofy smile on his face.

Stitch looks back to see that there’s still remnants of the coconut latte mixture that he’s created left over from when he made Olivia’s drink just minutes before. He puts the portrait down on the desk, giving it another glance before turning to the cup.

Finally letting the part of him that yearns to taste test everything in existence finally win, he takes a straw and takes a sip. His eyes widen, and before he realizes it, he’s taking another sip. And another, and another.

If he writes down the recipe to make more of it, and perhaps add it to his usual drink, that’s between him and the portrait that he has in his hand.

Chapter Text

The last vestiges of sunlight shine through the coffee shop as Sam gets ready for closing. Despite the exhaustion that runs through his body, he can never truly say that he finds himself unhappy at the end of his shifts. Even despite it all.

Perhaps it’s what they consider to be satisfaction.

But as he promised to himself as he was clocking in, during the early hours of the morning, he decides to finally get around to making the matcha drink that he vowed to try all that time ago. It feels like just yesterday James Pendrick and Murdoch walked in side by side.

He opens the cabinet to find the closed tin, untouched until now.

Stitch takes it out, feeling that same cool against his palm that he first felt when James Pendrick handed it to him. An inkling that he’s forgetting something nags at him, and he realizes that he doesn’t have the supplies to properly make the matcha. He turns around and doubles back, checking the cabinet again, and there they are.

Once everything he needs is on the table, he relaxes a bit. His heart pounds with anticipation, he wonders what it could possibly taste like.

Letting the music fill his ears, the sense of taste and intensity slowly phases out of him. Stitch looks to the sunet and the green of the powdered tea. He takes the wooden sift and sifts the matcha through the strainer until nothing but pure powder falls into the bowl.

Wasting no time he pours a small amuont of water and start to whisk. The scent wafts through his nose, he can almost see the memory of making that wildcard of an order in front of him if he tries hard enough.

His hand moves fast in a back and forth motion, each flick of the wrist stirring the tea. And by the time that he snaps out of it, he sees a foamy and rich dark green texture in front of him. He sets the whisk down and prepares the glass to pour it into. He watches the matcha flow into th eglass, making sure not to waste a drop. He gets some warm water and pours until the glass is full.

Stitch gets some sweetner and mixes it in lightly, light and dark green swirl inside the cup and he traces each swirl with his eyes for a moment before drinking. He tastes a rich sweetness with each sip.

Closing his eyes, he takes a moment to let th events of the day wash over him, and the taste of the tea permeate. He takes a deep breath, and another sip.

Stitch puts the cup down for a moment to put his supplies away, he washes the sift and the whisk carefully, watching the water fall onto the wood. He dries them off and places them besides one another alongside hte cleaned bowl. And he makes sure to store the matcha itself on the top cupbaord with the coffee so he doesn’t forget to make this again tomorrow.

For a few moments, he ponders what it would be like if he ran out. In that case, he would likely have to ask Mr. Pendrick for more. The thought of this prolific inventor being a sort of “matcha dealer” crosses his mind and he smiles in amusement.

As he’s closing the cupboard and mentally preparing to walk out with hsi matcha drink in hand and bid farweel to all of his colleagues, he hears footsteps rapidly growing closer. Without much thought, his mouth speaks before he can think his words through,

“What do you want?”

Not what he would usuall say, and a little more rude than he intended, but he doesn’t linger on that as he closes the cupboard. He turns around and is nearly scared out of his own skin by the sight of his friends, Pascal and Leo right in front of him. He lets out a shriek of surprise, jumping back just a bit, which of course seems to earn their chuckles,

“Dear god, never do that again you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Leo says, sarcasm lacing his voice.

“How did you guys even get here? I thought I told you two to wait for me,”

this coffee shop apparently,” Pascal says

“Did you file the missing report and happen to see me, or did you file the missing report so you could see me?”

He looks at the both of them, they give each other a glance before looking back to him,

“Does it really matter?” Leo asks, feigning nonchalance

“Just answer the question,”

“Very lucky coinicidence,” Pascal answers

“Well, since you two are here, must I ask if you two want anything? And I swear, do not order anything rediculous,”

They seem to take a good look at the menu, to the point that Stitch ponders telling them that if they make him stay any longer, Murdoch is going to come knocking at his door and start asking questions.

“I will remind you two that I have done many orders that aren’t on the menu, and that I’m on the clock,”

Pascal is the first to answer,

“Alright, I have it, cappuchino with cinnamon powder,”

Stitch makes a mental note of the order but still takes the pains to write it down and say it aloud,

“Cappuchino with cinnamon powder, got it, and you, Leo?”

“Americano with chocolate drizzle,”

“Americano with chocolate drizzle,” Stitch parrots

When he answers both orders, he almost goes into autopilot, but his mind manages to take hold before his mouth opens,

“Alright, I would tell you two to wait over there, but oh what the hell, I’m closing up, might as well,”

“So that means we get to watch you make our orders?” Pascal asks

“Precisely, but don’t expect the artistry or precision that I have in the morning, you guys did come in late aftera ll,”

“We don’t mind,” Leo remarks

For a moment, he thinks that there’ll be nothing but awkward silence, the sound of instrumental music and him making coffee as they wait, but they immediately get to talking, as they do,

“I didn’t realize this place was so…spaceous,”

“I didn’t realize it either, makes for a real good dance floor, don’t you think?” Stitch asks, turning around, espresso shot in one hand, cup in the other.

“The music choice, you mean to tell me that you’ve subjected all of Station House Four to your musice tastes?” Stitch hears Leo say

“Well—for the record, not the actual songs, the instrumental versions, and people like them, you can’t be mad at a good trumpet solo,”

“If you say so,” Leo acquiesces.

Cappuchinos aren’t the most common drink amongst the constables, let alone the other people in the station house, and he has to tune out his friend’s voice just a bit when preparing the milk to foamy perfection.

When he’s done, he finds himself saying “huh?” to whatever Leo or Pascal might have just said,

“What I said was thati t’s been almost a year, what’s the craziest thing someone has ordered?”

“Oh, don’t get me started,” Stitch says, turning around with his pitcher still in hand, nearly forgettign about his precious milk and foam.

“I was working the night shift, and I kid you not, this guy wakls in asking for a singular. shot. of. espresso, who asks for that?!”

If his friend’s jaws dropped any more, he would have to pick them from off the floor.

“A singualr shot, nothing else, just one shot?” Pascal asks, masking the tinge of horror in his voice

“One shot,”

“Dear God,” Leo says, turning away, as if podnering the meaning in the uiniverse and what series of events would’ve led to that order,”

“Oh, and if it’s anything, I’ve served Ruth Newsome before,”

“Alright, Sam, you don’t have to lie,”

“I wish I was lying about these things, do you know how badly I wish I was lying about the whole shot order, or the fact that the man was a spy?”

“A spy?!” Both of his friends exclaim simulatenously.

“I mean Ruth’s husbad is literally a constable at Station House Four, she was bound to come here eventually, and I mean, they had me working night shift for a reason,”

“Also, someone from the statino house litearlly drew a portrait of me,”

“Oh, I remember that one, you wouldn’t stop talking about it for like a week straight,” Pascal says.

By the time that Stitchs’ done with his ranting, both the cappuchino and americano are ready. He tops the first with cinnamon and does a generous drizle of chocolate atop the other and slides it to them.

“Alright, here are your drinks and you’re welcome, being a barista for almost a year pays well, litearlly,”

They waste no time taking sips of their drinks

“Why aren’t you working at one of those high hat resturaunts as a professional barista again?” Leo asks

“Teach me your ways,” Pascal remarks.

Even despite his sarcastic front and the banter that comes so naturally to him as he talks to them, he can’t help but to crack a genuine smile as they sip on their drinks. He takes their distraction to sip on his matcha some more. He lets himself associate the taste of the tea with the sight of his happy friends.

“Well I say, since we’re already here, that I close up shop and we head out and home?”
He’s rewarded with nods of agreement.

Stitch slips off his apron and the nametag, hanging them neatly for the next day and his morning self. He rolls his sleeves after so long of them being up, so they’re out of the way.

Surely the constables won’t mind if he takes one of their precious glasses home for himself.

His friend down their drinks, presumably not wanting to take their glasses home and walk by him as he makes his way towards the door. As he turns the sign around and closese the door, he takes one last longing glance at the shop and all the memories that it holds.

The sight of the hallway is oh so familiar, him and his friends walk down the steps but his ears filter out the mild creaks. He can only hear the simmering chatter of all the people who are still around as he clocks out of his shift.

He waves goodbye to Murdoch, Inspector Choi, and the chief constable. An extra wave to both Higgens and Roberts and a special wave to both Berger and Leeming. He waves the Station House one big goodbye as he leaves through the door with goodbyes spilling from his mouth and his friends at both of his sides.

When the door closes and he feels the rush of wind against his face he feels positively happy. He smells the night air and the lingering warm of the matcha against his hand. And in that moment he’s fully content.

He could say that the Station House has become his home away from home. And even as he makes his way back to his apartment with his friends, he can’t help but to take one more look back.

The sun sets, and the moon rises.

Chapter Text

Somewhere between his morning and afternoon, Stitch finds himself fully immersed in his normal routine. And in the spirit of his normal routine, who is he to deny himself of his regular drink of cinnamon and vanilla?

Music echoes from the speakers as he prepares the one espresso shot he needs to give the drink that extra punch.

He steams the milk until the texture becoems silky smooht, and he pours in a pump or two of syrup into his cup. First comes the espresso, then the milk until the color goes from brown to beige. Stitch allows himself a little smile when he reaches the whipped cream. He makes an impressive swirl and tops it all off with a little sprinkle of cinnamon.

He takes one sip, and then another, and another. At some point, he might have to admit to himself that this mixture is much more addictive than he likes to admit. But hey, with all of the bars readily available to the public, it’s better that his vice be coffee than a drink or smoke.

Stitch is about halfway through his drink. Between wiping things down, washing his hands so many times that he wonders if he’ll have to ask for a refill of soap, he sneaks sips, and sometimes the occasional chug, just because.

But his reverie is put on pause when he hears the sound of someone walking through the door. He looks up from his cup to see someon with long black hair, a green vest, and an apprehensive look on their face.

“And I’m assuming this is supposed to be a coffee shop?” They say with a twinge of sarcasm in their voice.

“Yes, it is,” Stitch says with a slight deadpan, “What can I get for you?” His tone lightens up; customer service has taught him that much.

“And you are…?”

“Sam, the barista,”

“Hm, I see, my name’s technically Lyle Anderson, but don’t call me that, just call me Junior,”

He wonders who the Sr. Anderson could be that would make this person hate their name so much, but who is he to assume?

“Alright, Junior, as I’ve said, what can I get for you?”

Stitch unintentionally fidgets with the cup in his hands, passing it from one hand to the other. ‘Junior’ takes a good look at the menu.

“I’ll tell you that the menu isn’t all we offer, I have tea, juices, water, and you can choose almost any flavor that your mind can think of,”

Junior seems to hesitate for a moment before uttering their order,

“Alright, mocha with whipped cream, one creamer, and, is there anything I can put ontop of the whipped cream?”

“Cinnamon powder, chocolate or caramel drizzle,”

“Can I taste them?”

Stitch finds himself rather stunned by the question, but he can only assume this person has never been to a coffee shop, so he mentally gives themsome leeway,

“Alright, I’ll see what I can do, just wait here a moment while I get that ready,”

For a moment, Stitch wonders what he could put the toppings on that this Junior person could taste test off of.

Then a lightbulb seemingly clicks when he realizes that there’s a stack of small saucers meant for teacups that have gone mostly unused (outside of Chief Constable Brackenreid). He reaches for one of them before grabbing the caramel, chocolate and cinnamon.

He sprinkles a generous amount of cinnamon powder, enough that Junior could dip his finger into, along with a generous amount of chocolate and caramel drizzle. By the time that he puts the bottles down, it looks like an abstract gourmet dessert.

Walking back to the counter, he hands Junior the plate for taste testing,

“Alright, here’s what I’ve come up with: just dip your finger into any of the toppings I have here, and taste test them for yourself,”

“How do I know you haven’t poisoned them?” Junior’s tone takes a sudden shift that throws him off guard.

Stitch finds himself stunned, expect the unexpected, but he didn’t expect that,

“…Pardon?”

“You heard me,”

“It would be kind of hard to poison these things,”

He pauses for a moment, but it’s made clear to Stitch that Junior won’t take the plate unless he’s sure that Stitch hasn’t somehow snuck cyanide into the cinnamon powder.

So he reluctantly takes his finger, and dips it into the various toppings respectively. He tastes the cinnamon, chocolate and caramel on his tongue, a nice hint of sweetness paired with his dirnk. He looks up to see Junior slightly less tense,

“See? Now do you want to taste test this, or no?”

“Alright, just making sure. Kind of hard to trust people to make me food or drinks, long story,”

He’s not sure what to do in the meantime while Junior takes the plate and takes samples of the toppings. But he watches Junior’s reactions to each topping, all of them seeming to be fairly pleasent, if he could call it that,

“I think I’ll take the cinnamon,” Junior says, passing the plate back to Stitch.

“Okay, mocha, one creamer with whipped cream and cinnamon, coming right up, you can wait here or take a seat on one of the benches,”

Junior seems slightly surprised that Stitch remembered their order.

Stitch hasn’t had someone order a mocha since Inspector Choi and his peppermint mocha, but the recipe is not lost on him.

He prepares the espresso shot and the kettle of water, reaching for a cup and the paper filter.

There’s not much else besides the faint sound of coffee grounds hitting the thin sheet and a light jazz instrumental echoing throughought the room. He pours the water in a steady stream over the coffee grounds. Stitch grabs the whipped cream and chocolate as the coffee starts to drip into the cup.

About halfway through his process of making the mocha, he notices Junior getting up from their seat. He turns around, slightly confused,

“Okay, I was hesitant to ask, sorry if this sounds silly. But uh…can you try calling me Julian? I wanted to try seeing how it would sound in the real world. Being called Junior just.. I don’t like it, too many bad memories,”

“Never say sorry for wanting to be called something different,” Stitch says, sincerity filling his voice. He’s been in Julian’s shoes before, he can’t blame them, “I’ll call you Julian if that’s what you want,”

“Thank you, honestly, thank you,”

Junior makes their way back up to their seat, the coffee has already dripped all the way down into the cup. He takes the paper filter sprinkled with espresso grounds and discards it, leaving only the glass cup filled with coffee.

He pours in the creamer just as Julian asked, alongside the chocolate. He adds a dash of milk before adding the whipped cream, making a nice swirl.

And as the final touch, he grabs the cinnamon powder, still sitting where he leftit while making the “taste testing plate” and adds a little sprinkle. Watching hte powder fall atop the cream like snow on a winter’s day.

He places the drink down, Julian looks up from their seat,

“One mocha espresso for Julian,”

Something seems to light up in their eyes, a sparkle once forgotten making its way back to them.

They walk over,

“I did exactly as you asked,”

“Again, thank you for that, I think I’ll keep the name Julian,”

“And I’ll make sure to remember that if you come back,”

Julian takes a sip of their drink, Stitch’s grateful that most of his customers do it in front of him instead of outside, they can hand their drinks back to him if something’s off and things go by faster,

“Oh, I’m definitely coming back. For once I don’t just tolerate coffee,”

He’s heard many variations of that same compliment, but it still feels new every time someone applauds him for his abilities. He’s never exactly doubted himself, but the consistent compliments are still something that he never gets tired of,

“I’m glad to hear that,”

“You know, I’m only here because my father’s talking some kind of business with this detective,”

“Sorry to interrupt, are you referring to Detective Murdoch?”

“That’s his name? Well anyway, I’m only here because of my dad, but I meant what I said, I do want to visit here more often,”

“I could put in a word with the inspector to let you in, so you don’t have to go with your dad or put in a missing person report,”

“Has my dad ordered anything from here before?”

“That depends. Who is he?”

“You don’t know Lyle Anderson?” Junior seesm to be genuinely shocked or maybe relieved, that someone doesn’t know they suffer from an unfortunate case of nepotism,

“Not exactly, I mean, I recognize the name, but not the man behind it, no,”

“Alright, let me see if I can describe him,” Julian takes a sip of their mocha, pondering what words they should use,

“He has a dark, greying hair, he has a case of beer belly, his voice is grating and deep, he constantly wears these ugly sweater, and apparently he knows Detective Murdoch well,”

He tries to think of anyone who’s come into his coffee shop who looks like that,

“Oh and he smokes all the damn time,”

The only person who comes to mind when he hears those words is Terrence Meyers, except he wasn’t wearing a sweater.

No, he was wearing a three-piece suit, a top hat, and came in with all that song and dance just to order an espresso shot. But the puzzle pieces click faster than he realizes. Julian Anderson is the son of Terrence Meyers, and Terrence’s “real” name is Lyle Anderson. It all makes too much sense, dear god.

“There was a man who came in, during the night shift,”

“Well, my dad does constantly work night shifts, good thing, I hate hearing his damn snoring,”

“He ordered…” Stitch hesitates for a moment, Junior looks up at him with a spike of curiosity, he might as well,” Just a single espresso shot,”

Julian nearly does a spittake,

“What?!”

“Yeah, but don’t tell him that, I don’t need to get in trouble with your father because I told you what he really orders in a coffee shop,”

“Trust me, I know how to keep a secret,”

“Well, I have to get going now, my dad’s probably looking for me as we speak,”

“I hope to see you again,”

“Trsut me, you will,” Julian says with a slightly warmer look on their face as they walk away.

When Julian is out the door, and all is said and done, Stitch turns around. Back to the comfort of his supplies and the countertop. Just another day in the coffee shop.