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Sweet coffee is something that Stitch adores. Which might explain why his coffee resembles flavored milk rather than proper espresso.
Daylight shines through the window in illuminating rays. The espresso machine hums, at the ready for use and his hands are itching to make some coffee. The queue is rather normal, but something seems a bit off. Even from the brief interactions that he has.
Brackenreid seems a bit on edge, Murdoch looks like he’s dreading something, George is going on about the government and aliens? And even Constable Roberts seems to sahre the same look he did on the night he had to serve that spy.
He brushes it off, perhaps they’ve been on a particularly gruesome murder mystery. Perhaps they’ve uncovered a disturbing plot regarding people in power, never a lack of those. There’s still that little voice in the back of his head that screams it might be that first night shfit all over again.
After all, one unsettle constable could be brushed off, two, hell even three. But both Detective Murdoch and Constable Roberts being thrown off their groove makes him ever so curious, and admittedly worried.
The shop at some point is empty, too empty.
He’s not going to find out. Stitch has seen what the Station House looks like when there’s spies involved. And if it involves him having to make another singular espresso shot, then so be it. He’s prepping the shot glasses, just in case.
Stitch wanders around, there’s not much to do when one’s lying around in wait and uncertainty. It’s hard for him to resist the urge to tap his fingers in frustration on the counter. The silence and that low hum doesn’t help. And even moreso, there’s the urge to let lose and start his slow day routine that he has to resist.
Even despite it’s presence growing stronger with each second that passes. He wants to make drinks that should never see the light of day and belt out to his favorite songs to his heart’s content. But alas, until that spy does or doesn’t show up he can’t be too hasty. Henry catching him in the act is one thing, Terrence is another.
He realizes, between his pondering and his pottering around that he hasn’t gotten the chance to make his own drink since the start of his shift. He can count the amount of times that he’s forgotten such a crucial part of his routine, one of them being that anniversary party, how curious.
It seems that he’ll be using the freshly prepared espresso shots to make glorified flavored milk instead. Some milk, of course, to start. An espresso shot, just how he likes it, a pump or two of cinnamon, one of vanilla, an ice cube or two so he doesn’t have to wait for it to cool down. Some whipped cream on top and he’s done. He practically gulps it down like a bottle of water. The beloved flavor of his beloved drink, is second to none.
By the time that he’s convinced he’s gonna get some kind of headache from consuming so much caffine in so little time, he looks around confused, where the hell is everyone?
His train of thought is cut short whne a man walks in, no one from the constabulary, and no one that he can recognize. The first thing that Stitch notices is that he means business, and that he’s a bit short.
“Hello, what can I get you?” He’s been ehre before, composure with these kinds are key to everything.
“Hello, I’d like a medium Americano, some vanilla syrup, a little honey and—”
The man speaks calmly, to the point that Stitch is a bit taken aback. But he has no room to worry on the mental state of the man in front of him when another man, one he can recognize, walks in.
Who other than Terrence Meyers?”
“Allen Clegg? What the devil are you doing up here,”
“Terrence, how pleasent to see you again,”
He decides to take the lead for once,
“Oh hello, I can make your espresso shot as I take this man’s order, it’s like second nature to me by this point—”
Stitch is barely able to finish his sentence, the man in front of him looks like he’s about to start crying from laughter. From his speech to his cackle, he’s slightly unsettling. But he has to hold in his own, saying it aloud,
“Wait! You’re meaning to tell me that your coffee order is just a single shot of espresso?!”
What follows is bold laughter, ramblings on about how he thoguht his own order was rediculous but now he’s heard it all, how in his years as a spy he’s never heard anything more unserious and that he’s always found Terrence to be a bit too serious but that this was pushing it. So on and so forth.
“Oh, I’ve needed that kind of laughter for too long, alright where was I? Oh right, and add in three cubes of sugar.”
“Alright, and should I put this under any kind of name or…?”
“Oh that won’t be necessary,”
“Alright, an americano and an espresso shot coming right up, you two can wait wherever you please, or Terrence, you can stare at me as I make your espresso shot, whichever you prefer,”
He flashes them a smile before turning around, if Terrence chooses the latter, he’d rather not know.
The American itself is a bit special. He hasn’t ever had anyone order it before, let alone order it with all of those sweeteners.
He pours in the espresso, followed by the hot water. Stitch then proceeds to question what such a sweet americano would taste like when he pumps in the vanilla syrup. He pours in the honey and the sugar cubes, yet another thing he’ll have to add to the list of drinks to make on slow days.
All he can see when holding the two drinks is a whole lot of espresso and black coffee, just in two different sizes.
It is a spy thing, or just them?
“One Americano and one espreso shot for Terrence and Allen,”
“When you say it that way, it makes us sound like we’re a coup—”
“Would you do me a favor and please learn time and place?”
“Us Americans will not quiet down because you Canadian want to save face,”
Dear god. They’re perfect for each other.
At some point, they remember his existence. They grab their respective coffees and seem to be in a hurry to leave,
“Well, if you don’t mind, me and my great ally and friend here have a matter of national security to attend to,”
He nods in acknowledgement, but not much more.
Not even thirty seconds later, Terrence rushes with a look akin to a wolf with it’s tail tucked between it’s legs,
“Samuel, next time that I see you, preferrably without Agent Clegg bothering me, I think I’ll try the espresso con pana, with extra whipped cream, next time,”
“I’ll make sure to keep that in mind,”
“Thanks, now if you’ll excuse me,”
Stitch can’t tell if he should be impressed or concerned at the fact that Terrence and Allen both managed to leave such strong impressions on him in such little time. And the fact that they manage to stay somewhat civil with one another is beyond him.
In the spy world, apparently opposites in coffee and personality attract all the same.