Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun lives to see another day. It feels weird to be in a police station for reasons other than reporting a crime. Stitch breathes in the new air and puts on his apron. He gets pleasant flashbacks to culinary class, mentally preparing for the prospects of customers to come in through the finally open door. 

Frissons of nervousness run through him like sparks of lightning. The first time he was greeted with the sight of such a coffee shop, he was taken aback. He's never been one to talk to people, but now he finds himself in a situation where's he's getting paid to do so. How merrily ironic. Stitch stares at the pen and paper in front of him with anticipation, turning to glance one more time at the menu behind him before someone finally walks in. 

He grabs the pen and paper as the man walks closer to the counter that he stands behind. He seems...familiar? He waits to write down whatever the man will say, but what comes out of his mouth is the last thing he could expect, 

"Toronto Constabulary, what is this?" The man says, briefly flashing his 'police badge'. He knows where he's heard that voice before, albeit much louder and less calm than now. 

A flash of panic goes through him despite his amusement. There's no way he's seriously about to be arrested in a police-owned coffee shop. Stitch mentally scrambles for something, anything to say. But the last time that he had seen this man, he simply ran. That isn't exactly an option anymore. He has nothing to keep secret, about this coffee shop and his role in it, at least.

He'll confess the truth and nothing more, nothing less. Stitch will refer him to a certain 'Inspector Choi' if he still has his doubts, he tells himself. Being in the hot seat for no reason feels weird. 

"A new coffee shop Inspector Choi opened up today, he wanted the coppers at Station House Four to always have free access to coffee, accommodations, or something, you can...ask him if you have any doubts, I don't...like lying," 

"A coffee shop?" The man asks, suspicion and mild disbelief apparent in his voice, 

"Well, not just coffee...tea, hot chocolate, plain water, etcetera," Stitch says, trying not to focus on the man's accusations, 

"I'm going to go downstairs and ask him of this 'coffee shop' you're running, but if you're lying, you'll be facing serious consequences," 

Stitch puts down the pen and paper that was in his grasp and fights the urge to bury his face into his hands. Already his first day and it's going disastrously. He has nothing to be worried about, the Inspector will probably just tell the man that he's telling the truth and this really is a coffee shop. But this could have been avoided for sure. 

A dull surge of something resembling dread pulses through him as the man walks in again, but he seems calmer, 

"So it seems you were not lying, I would like to apologize for being so accusatory," 

"It's—It's fine, I was just a bit startled, is all," 

"I'm just confused as to why the Inspector would choose to open up a coffee shop right above our heads, or why he wouldn't tell us in advance," 

For a moment, Stitch swears to the heavens above that he can see the cogs moving around in this man's brain; he's just as confused, he must admit. But for his skillset, the money's easy, and he likes the promise of a "more controlled environment than most coffee shops,"

It was either this or working in the factories for god knows how long a day. And for the experience of a barista with only a select number of faces he has to see within the span of eight hours, he'd take it over anything else any day. 

"For the sake of convenience, perhaps? As for why he wouldn't tell anyone in advance, I haven't the foggiest, quite contradictory," 

"That does make sense, and how exactly did you get here?" 

A bit of a personal question, if he means how did he get hired. Especially for their first time formally meeting outside of a murder case. But he'll let it slide for now, he doesn't have to say much, 

"Saw the job in a newspaper, interviewed and the job was mine, dunno exactly why though," Stitch tries not to give up too much information, the man's a detective, but he's not being interrogated. Best to keep things vague for now. 

The man moves closer to him, close enough that he can take his order and close enough that the man can see his name tag. He wonders which of his names will come out of the man's mouth, he knows just a bit too much, 

"Your name's Sam...?" The man asks with confusion that seems sincere. 

He knows why the man is so mystified; he would be too. But it's best that the specifics are kept a secret between him and his thoughts for the meantime. Today is a fresh start, a new identity, and no further questions that need to be asked. 

Customer service. He won't let this weird back and forth go on for much longer, either an order is waiting or someone else is going to come in. Either way, something needs to happen, something has to give,

"So are you going to order something? Or..." His words trail off with a sense of purpose, leaving something to the imagination 

The man is snapped out of his thoughts. Stitch mentally sighs in relief, holding his pen and picking up the notepad that he had placed down. Waiting for an order. Whatever is thrown at him, he'll do. God forbid the constabulary underestimate his abilities. 

"I'll get a plain coffee with two creamers please," 

Stitch eagerly writes down the order, it seems his first drink will be a piece of cake. Nothing he hasn't made in the rush of getting ready for class during his academy days. And nothing he hasn't memorized from the endless list of orders he made during his training, 

"Alright, coming right up, you can sit anywhere you like while I get your order ready," Stitch says, gesturing to the seemingly vast empty space, modest seats, cushioned benches, and round tables galore. 

The man starts to walk away before Stitch realizes something important. He panics for just a brief moment, he should start asking names. Stitch can't exactly call out things like "drink for..." if he doesn't know the titles, let alone names of these people he's gonna have to make coffee for every day. 

"Actually..." Stitch begins and the man turns around, "What's your name, so I can write it down?" 

"Detective William Murdoch," 

The name of the man who helped him at his lowest, and the man of the man whom he's serving now, how curious,

"Okay, your order will be ready soon," 

He starts preparing the coffee and heating up the water. The early morning scenery and the pulses of his heart complement his swift movements. There's an atmosphere of calm. Stitch hums to himself quietly. He'll have to ask the Inspector if he can play any kind of music at some point; he works best with ambiance. 

As he's pouring the espresso, he sneaks a glance at Murdoch, not for too long (he can't risk overpowering the coffee and spilling it onto his hands). He sits there so...patiently, he knows that it won't be the norm amongst his customers. Brevity and haste are the standards, and the requirements that came with the job, it's a bit odd. 

"One coffee for Detective Murdoch," Stitch calls out. He's quieter with no one talking over him. 

On cue, Murdoch stands up and walks over to where the coffee and creamers are. He takes the cup and dumps in the liquid white with no questions. It's only a matter of time before they get to know each other—Stitch is sure of it. At the very least, he knows that his first encounter was memorable on both ends. 

"I'll be sure to visit this place, you're right, it's pretty convenient not having to step out of the station for coffee, thank you," 

"You're welcome, have a nice day!" Stitch says as Murdoch starts to leave in his best customer service voice. Internally, he can't tell if he's putting on a farce or if he's genuinely excited, only the days passing by will tell. 

His first customer was a success, even if they got off to an accusatory start. A familiar face that he'll know by heart in time. Stitch tries not to get his hopes up, he knows that people can be horrible, and they tend to have disregard for people in his position, but he's off to a pleasant beginning. 

He walks back to where he's supposed to take orders, wearing multiple hats will take some getting used to. But there's a bright future ahead for Station House Four, and him all the same. 

Chapter Text

All in due time. It's Stitch's second day on the job and he can't tell if it'll only get better or worse from here on out. Putting on his apron, he lingers around the counter, perhaps if he's fast enough he can sneak himself a coffee. The endless supply of espresso, syrup, sugars, and flavors is tantalizing. The most he's had is honey in his coffee, he wonders what it would be like to pair his cinnamon with his caffeine. 

But he's quickly snapped out of his reverie when he sees two men walking in through the door and headed his way. One of them is in a constable uniform, and the other is a face he can vaguely remember, one that's hard to forget. 

"Hello, what can I get for you?" Stitch says, he'll have to start practicing the act of speaking for himself rather than when spoken to, and initiating conversation. It's scary, it'll take a while. 

"Is this the new coffee shop that Inspector Choi opened up?" The one in uniform asks, not everyone has gotten the memo apparently. It seems that people are starting to discover it, but as far as he's aware, this coffee shop is still an opening secret rather than something widely known. 

"Yes it is, would you like to order anything...?" Stitch asks nervously, he's outnumbered, perhaps not the worst thing in this situation, but it's awkward at best. 

The two look at each other for a moment before turning back to him. He knows that gesture, but he pushes the feeling of worry down as the one in uniform speaks to him first, 

"Alright, well in that case I'll get a small double-double," 

If Stitch hadn't learned those words during training, or been to his fair share of coffee shops, he would've stood there confused, perhaps so far as to think that the constable was making things up. But thankfully not, he writes it down on the paper, two sugars, and two creamers, simple. 

He writes with admittedly sloppy handwriting, mostly for the sake of his wrist (and the fact that he'll have to write down a lot more orders). But if he can understand it, who cares? When his pen stops moving, the other man speaks, and his voice is recognizable, 

"And I've..got mine written down," The man says before pulling out a note, "Medium iced chai latte with oat milk, 2 cubes of sugar, a pump of vanilla syrup, light whipped cream, and two upside-down shots of light roast espresso, specifically light roast 

It seems that he's just encountered his first 'complicated' order, Stitch isn't in any position to complain though. His preferences in tea have become quite niche over the years, it's not hard to imagine how the man before him managed to cultivate his tastes in espresso. An awkward beat of silence follows once he's done writing everything down. Right, he has to ask for names. This job is going to push him far beyond the reaches of his comfort zone, he's sure of it, 

"And may I ask for names..?" He could just call out the drink names, there's no way in hell those could get mixed up, but he has to learn names, and who these two are, 

The man who just ordered speaks up, 

"Llewellyn Watts, that's spelled with two L's, well, four altogether, and a Y, actually...let me just write it down," 'Watts' writes something down on the other side of his note before handing it over with his name's spelling on it, apparently the latter half of his first name is spelled "llyn", good to know. 

The man with the constable uniform speaks second, 

"Crabtree, George crabtree," 'George' says astutely. 

He has the names of both of the men who interrogated him that day. Llewellyn Watts and William Murdoch. And three names (plus three orders) that he has to learn and recognize, how fun. 

"Alright, coming right up, you two can sit wherever you'd like," Stitch gives them a curt nod before walking away to get started on their orders. He begins preparing the espresso, occasionally glancing at the two in question, they don't notice. He listens in on their conversation, not hard to do without people or music to potentially drown out their voices. 

Something about a murder out of town, is there ever a day that goes by without the coppers having to deal with death? He doesn't want an answer to that question. 

He shakes off that thought as he pours the oat milk into Watt's drink. Quite the complex drink indeed, but perhaps his inexperience will grant him some leniency when it comes to feedback. Still, he tries to be timely with his pace even with the list of ingredients. One of these days he'll be good enough to make it through rush hour without breaking a sweat. Stitch silently wonders when it'll be. 

The two drinks are like day and night in his hands. A hot double-double in one and an iced latte in the other, the constable and the detective. 

"Double-double for George Crabtree and an iced latte for Llewellyn Watts," Stitch calls out, he places the cups on the table and his voice seems to snap them out of their conversation. 

George takes a sip of his drink as if to taste test it. Stitch mentally holds his breath, perhaps a sense of stage fright after his metaphorical performance, he awaits his judgment in silence. Thankfully, his face doesn't twist into disgust like Stitch half-dreaded, 

"Good, I think next time I'll order a triple-triple, you're definitely a chap with a specialty for coffee," 

George's remark seems to influence Watts to take a sip of his own drink. Stitch can't quite read his expression as well as he could George's, an inscrutable person indeed. His eyes widen a bit,

"Things that happen early in the morning set the tone of the day into the night, this coffee is straight out of a dream," 

The naive worries that Stitch holds in his hands slip out of his grasp like flowing water. A three for three with his customers and their satisfaction with his drinks, a major win in his eyes. Hope blooms in his gelid subconscious, the precipice of better things and the sweet nectar of human interaction. 

Watts and George wave him goodbye, farewells don't hurt as much when it's guaranteed you'll see them again,

"Have a nice day!" 

More customers start to trickle in after the door closes. Stitch walks back to his notepad and pen, he'll be doing much more than just surviving here. 

Chapter Text

Being allowed a radio in the coffee shop was quite possibly the biggest blesing that was bestowed upon Stitch since becoming a barista. Just below Inspector Choi hiring him, of course. The sound of something besides his own thoughts and the bustling customers has never been more refreshing 

There were rules to the radio, of course there were. He’s only allowed to play music that is “not subjective” He knew what that mean, of course he couldn’t just play whatever he wanted and have a pseudo-concert in between customers. Plus, musical theatre one minute and unsettling ballad music the next probably wouldn’t fly over well with the customers. So he opted for simple instrumentals that no one could arge against. No one’s going to throw a hissy fit over some piano or saxophone, would they? But sometimes he’ll bend the rules, just a little, the instrumentals to his favorite songs here and there. People can argue all they want with voices, but they can’t say anything about tasteful ambience. 

A few days had passed between now and then, he’s been getting the hang of seeing customers and learning their tastes. There was the occasional mistake here and there, the differences between almond and whole milk is apparently a noticable one, but it’s been smooth sailing as far as the eye can see. 

There’s a passing thought of whether or not his position in the constabulary as their barista means that the police may or may not be looking out for him (considering he’s the reason that they get to have coffee first thing in the morning), it crosses his mind from time to time. Nothing more than simple pondering between a triple-triple for George and various lattes; save for the single hot chocolate he was requested and tipped for. 

But it all dissipates when he sees Inspector Choi walking in through the door. Stitch is stopped even further in his tracks when he sees Thomas Brackenreid walking alongside him, they seem to be caught up in some kind of conversation, something about a case he can safely assume, 

“Trust me, he’s amazing, I wouldn’t have hired him if he wasn’t,” 

“No, Tom, he’s not against making tea,” 

Oh. They’re talking about him, no problem. Doesn’t seem to be anything bad. but there’s still an undertone of nervousness—perhaps anxiety that lingers there. Be calm, they’re just customers like everyone else. Just that one of them can dictate whether or not he can still work here after today; nothing to worry about at all. 

Stitch instinctively straightens his posture in preparation for seeing them face-to-face. He probably stands taller now that he’s not slumped over. He has to be thoughtful and deliberate with his words. Just words, but the English language is an enigmatic thing indeed, 

“Oh, Inspector Choi, how curious to see you here,” Titles are important in opening lines. He’s dipping his toes into the volatile waters of boundaries; surely he’s allowed to be a little informal, right?

“It seems you’ve been faring well in this job, haven’t you?” There’s something about the way the Inspector speaks, his tone so sharp, so enunciated and clear. 

“Yes, very much so,” He answers with a nod, 

“I would like to introduce you to Chief Constable Thomas Brackenreid. Perhaps you’ve heard of him before,” 

Ah, yes, a topic he’d rather not talk about and a last name he’d rather not hear. New beginnings, he’ll have to get used to the occasional discomfort if he wants to survive. The fittest is the one who can adapt easiest after all, 

“Can you make tea?” Thomas near immediately asks 

What an odd question, he’ll play along, 

“Yes…sir,” 

“Then we’re gonna get along well son,” 

Does he refer to everyone that way? Well, it seems that he’s managed to gain someone’s approval in a way somehow simpler than just making the coffee that they like, 

“Alright, well, what can I get you two?” 

Inspector Choi makes his order first, 

“I would like a medium peppermint mocha with a sprinkle of brown sugar,” 

Thomas immediately follows up,

“And I’d like tea,” 

Stitch stands there for a few seconds after jotting down their orders. Specifically waiting on Thomas, giving him an expectant look to see if he’ll follow up with anything in particular. But alas, he’ll have to ask that question himself, 

“Anything specific? I have quite the selection,” Stitch says, gesturing to the menu with more than enough options for the Chief Constable to choose from, 

“I’ll take a large Earl Grey,” 

Alright, something to go off of, it’s doable, 

“You know, part of working is being able to please your higher-ups, guess this’ll be a test to see if you got that part down,” 

The expectation is more than there. Possibly the highest stakes he’s had since his first day. 

There’s no need to ask for names, thankfully. Stitch can skip right to the part that he gets paid for, and he can shake off his pretenses with tea leaves and coffee beans, 

“Okay, coming right up,” 

Inspector Choi gives him a nod before the two start walking away. Now comes the easier part. Brewing coffee has become second nature to him over the days that have passed by. There’s a craft to pumping in syrups and preparing espresso shots that comes to him like walking down the street. 

The music makes for a refreshing ambiance. He’s gotten used to the smell of java, but he can’t linger in his thoughts for too long, lest he risk spilling piping hot liquid all over his apron. He has people to impress, but he opts to focus on looking at the orders instead of the names attached to them. 

After all is said and done, it’s merely a matter of waiting. He lets the tea percolate through the hot water, and the drinks are ready to be served. To customers who are a bit more important than he’s able to be nonchalant with. 

“A peppermint Mocha for Inspector Choi and an Earl Grey for Thomas Brackenreid,” Stitch calls out, taking great care not to spill either drink, it would be more than just humiliating if that happened. 

Nervousness pangs through Stitch’s arteries as they walk to him, Choi takes care to take the cup gently. Thomas seems to snatch it a bit more than take it from his hand, but he’s not in a place to complain if no accidents arise from it. 

He analyzes their faces carefully; one furrowed brow or frown could mean the difference between a promotion and this being the last day he can wear his apron. He thinks to himself, anyway. Stitch’s aware that isn’t exactly the case, and he would like to think that Station House Four doesn’t rule with an iron fist of totalitarianism. 

“My, I must say that you have grasped the art of coffee making, perhaps one of these days I’ll teach you how to make one of my favorite teas, it would be a delight to taste it during work hours,” 

Stitch’s heart can’t help but to soar, it was a simple order, but he’s definitely here to stay. And it seems he’s being offered the key straight to his boss’s heart, or at least the preferences regarding his drink tastes. 

He tries not to get his hopes up too much for what Thomas may or may not say, he’s not expecting that the quality of his tea transcends the boundaries of the British empire, but he would hope that it’s up to par, 

“You definitely have a long way to go,” Thomas comments offhandedly, 

That bit stings, whether that be from the words themselves or disappointing one of his higher-ups is neither here nor there. But it’s still disheartening. You can’t win them all, he shouldn’t expect to always get it on the first try. Still, thick skin is acquired and not inherited; he needs to start building his own up if this ‘comes with the territory’. 

Choi gives Thomas a stern look, as if telling him to be nice. Thomas’s tone softens up a bit, if Stitch can consider it that, 

“But this definitely is a head start,” Sour than sweet, Stitch can’t be sure how true his words are considering what came before it, but he’ll take it. One of these nights he’ll make tea that’s to his satisfaction. It’s a fleeting fantasy but it’s a goal nonetheless. And if not, well, the Chief Constable will definitely miss out on a reservoir of tea leaves. 

“I definitely made the right call hiring you to work here, now if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be off now,” 

“Alright, both of you have a nice day!” 

He’s left to linger within the watercolors of his own thoughts; he might have gotten his first non-compliment, but he’s managed to impress the person who’s opinion affects his job, so you win some, you lose some. 

Perhaps he’ll finally get his first raise; that possibility isn’t so far away now.

Chapter Text

Slow days are an aquired taste. Stitch can say that much. His first one, which happened strikingly early into his new job was miserable. Sitting around all day with no grasp on what did and didn’t go with the rules and not being able to serve anyone was horrible. His legs were sore by the end of it from not thinking to sit on the cushioned benches or seats at any point, and the lack of social interaction wasn’t even worth it. Only when he realizes that free time between customers gave way to clever uses of free will and ways to bend the guidelines did things get interesting. Slow days after that became something that he awaited, not avoided. 

For one, he could listen to the music with lyrics instead of just instruments, which was nice for a change. He liked listening to singer’s voices for once and he got to put on some of the more “subjective” music on his playlist, leaning further into his own music tastes. And making drinks is always fun when you’re not doing it for others, or with obligation. Getting to sing and brew coffee at the same time is his peak of entertainment when on the job. 

Stitch’s knack for turning the cafe into his personal chemistry lab of coffee beans blossoms like clematises on days like this. There’s so many ways to brew espresso. Inspector Choi was definitely generous with the options that he gave Stitch when it came to flavoring. He’s gotten used to taking his coffee neat and plain, but with the newfound freedom, he can sneak a dash of chocolate or whipped cream into his morning drink and no one can bat an eye. 

It’s hard to wake up in the mornings with the ever-present insomnia, lord knows walking to his job is horrible without the nudge to wake him up, but he gets to choose what’s in his coffee now, so he could say it’s worth the sacrifice. 

He likes lattes. He likes whipped cream, he likes vanilla, he likes cinnamon. He likes fruity drinks at times, and he prefers ice. It’s taken multiple questionable-tasting drinks to come to that conclusion. The journey to self-discovery has taken the form of his caffeine it seems. 

Deep down, the lack of social interaction, or unfamiliar social interaction he should say, is a relief. The job for the most part is ideal, Stitch has a set of people that he has to talk to but lately has wanted to talk to, no wildcards (unless you count all of the times that Watts has come in asking to try a different drink on the menu instead of the usual to “expand his preferences” And keeps him using the notepad to jot down orders when he’s memorized everyone else’s.). Few to no opportunities for rude customers, and he can recognize the names. 

But it’s like having to talk to everyone in a medium-sized classroom, and the people he wants there never seem to appear as much as he would like. Plus, social interaction comes with everything that’s to be expected, even in a controlled environment. You win some, you lose some.

Mixing syrups, milk, and espresso is in fact a delicate art. He makes patterns on the lattes, he makes a cappuccino that’s practically foam and nothing else, and vanilla seems to make everything taste better. Stitch goes a bit wild with the drizzles and the powders that he sprinkles into the drinks. The options are the equations to his nonsensical formula of brew. 

How high of a note can he hit before the espresso glasses break? Why not put a pump of every flavor he has into a drink, hell why not take a sip of sweetener straight from the packet? Why not turn the empty space into a makeshift dancefloor? Or better yet, why not eat pure cubes of sugar before washing it down with plain coffee? Free will is a fun thing indeed.

The concoction that Stitch makes of a regular latte, cinnamon, pumpkin, vanilla, and whipped cream to top it off is a drink sent down from nirvana when he first tries it. He takes one sip, then another, and another. The taste is borderline addictive. The sweetness of the vanilla and the richness of cinnamon and whatever the pumpkin seems to give it, mixed with the bitter tang of coffee is amazing. 

He’s waltzing, he’s belting, he’s making up dance moves, he’s turning the espresso pouring into a waterfall, this place is his own. 

Stitch’s gotten so used to his antics and the sound of a singer’s voice as opposed to just plain piano or jazz, including the sound of his own singing voice that he nearly drops his precious brew on the floor when the door opens for the first time in what feels like days. Gone is his urge to sing to any kind of lyrics, and he rushes to turn the radio back to simple background music, but it isn’t guaranteed that the poor constable who walked in didn’t hear what he considers to be a musical masterpiece. 

Henry Higgens. Work skipper, job sleeper, and the man at his door. Stitch clears his throat to put on his customer service “I wasn’t just using these espresso shots to make random drinks and taste testing them, or using the empty shot glasses to make a glass cup tower,” voice,

“Uh hi, may I get you anything, besides hot chocolate, of course?” 

Stitch says, he’s heard practically every drink on the menu and many combinations he didn’t know possible. 

He’s heard orders that he didn’t realize existed before he put on the apron for the first time, and downright travesties that have the audacity to call themselves drink orders. There’s nothing that this constable could possibly say that would catch him off guard, 

“Save it,” Both a shock and a relief, he can’t tell if he should be thankful or disappointed that someone came in not wanting to order something for once. 

“Just…don’t tell anyone that I’m here, I’d rather not be on duty today,” 

As if Stitch would be able to tell anyone anyway. Inspector Choi is a floor and some away, an odd request indeed. The only thing that he can hope is that Constable Higgens likes the music playing on the radio, because if he wants to act like he isn’t here, then Stitch will too. 

He hesitantly picks up the cinnamon pumpkin and vanilla mix of a drink that was nearly dropped in his haste and brings it to his lips again. Henry finds a place to linger around and he supposes that things are going to go back to how they were before. Only with a witness that apparently doesn’t want to be witnessed in this coffee shop. 

The taste is fleeting and rich; forget water, forget the bitter tang of black coffee or the weird flavor of plain milk. Perhaps the sugar contents are to be debated, but he’s earned the right to a drink of his own. 

Time passes by into a pleasant blur, perhaps everyone in the station house took the day off. For what, he wouldn’t know, but this might as well be his own time off that he’s getting paid for, now wouldn’t that be fun? Henry lying around in wait is a shame. It’s awkward, and he could use another taste tester for his drinks, if he agrees to it of course, which he probably would. 

But heaven forbid Inspector Choi comes in for another peppermint mocha and sees his constable and the barista taste-testing drinks instead of working. If his pay gets docked, he would rather it not be due to making an already “misbehaving” worker the accomplice to his experiments. 

It seems perhaps his suspicions were right on the constabulary taking a collective vacation. He doesn’t keep time, but surely someone other than Murdoch would be coming in for a coffee right about now…right? Pleasant coincidence or nerve-wracking fluke, he can’t tell the difference. But perhaps he can offer some advice. Henry’s a bad liar, but Stitch knows a thing or two about convincingly passing the time. 

“You know, you could at least order a coffee here so it seems like you’re on a break rather than evading duties if anyone walks in, but don’t quote me on that,” 

Henry considers it, aiding in someone else playing hooky isn’t what Stitch thought he would be doing on his ‘slow day’ but there’s a first for everything. 

“Alright, I’ll take a…large caramel latte,” 

“Coming right up,” 

It’s weirdly refreshing and mildly annoying to make drinks for someone else when his schedule was looking like much-needed personal time. But it’s this weird little arrangement he’s created between himself and Henry over rush hour any day of the week. He’s a little heavy-handed with the caramel, but it ends up as a light drizzle, he’ll be fine, 

“One caramel latte for a certain Henry Higgens?” 

Henry’s face when sipping his drink is that of mild amusement, perhaps slightly impressed, 

“I understand the fanfare now,” 

A few blissful minutes pass by of Stitch messing around and remembering the previous compliments that he’s gotten on his barista skills, idle and passive. And Henry seems like he’s in a much more convincing position than just lying around, the facade is solid. That all comes to a stop when George Crabtree walks in, presumably wanting a triple-triple to get through his day. George and Henry lock eyes faster than Stitch can ask the just-arrived constable if he wants the usual. 

It ends with the poor constable being dragged out by the scruff of his neck and George with a triple-triple in his hand. Perhaps Henry’s attempts to evade his duties were in vain, but it’s definitely refreshing to listen to music with lyrics for once. 

Chapter Text

Stitch has gotten used to all of the faces in Station House Four. Or at least, os he thought. The day started off as per usual. William and his three creamers, Watts and his oat milk, Choi and his peppermint, as it always does. He’s snuck off with his own drink, a modified version of what he made last time, the lack of pumpkin doesn’t change things drastically, apparently it’s the cinnamon that carries everything. But his drink has started to resemble off-white milk, so much for espresso. He’s also going to have to ask where Choi got his vanilla before he gets his days off. 

But he’s stopped in his tracks when a new face walks in through the door. Constable uniform, and a nervous expression. A new recruit? 

Play it cool, don’t scare the new kid off. He should go with what he always does, no need to switch it up, 

“Hey, what can I get for you?” 

“Oh, uh..me?” 

The awkwardness in the air is so thick it could be cut with a knife. The stumbling and clumsy kind of conversation between two shy strangers, it's oddly calming. 

“I mean…this is a coffee shop you walked into,” 

That apparently throws the constable off guard, he wouldn’t blame the poor man. The shop doesn’t exactly have a sign advertising it’s existence. But Choi’s been trying to make the open secret of his cafe’s existence more open than a secret. Perhaps it’s working. 

“What? I mean—right, yeah, uh I’ll get…” The constable’s words trail off, indecisive. 

The menu is modest, the options are near infinite. 

“What do people usually get here?” 

Stitch would like to argue that every person in the station house’s order is unique in their own sense. Objectively, lattes seem to be a popular option, that and espresso with creamers, people like milk with their coffee. But there’s a sense that the constable is playing it safe and going with the majority vote for a reason. People pleasers can spot people pleasers, or maybe it’s a him thing. And he would rather encourage individuality, he knows what it’s like to have his own be wiped, 

“You can customize milk, flavors, even the espresso, but I doubt people can taste the difference most of the time,” 

He says that, but people have their peculiarities and their preferences. Perhaps they can taste the difference, but he wouldn’t know. All he’s aware of is that both decaf and regular espresso keep him up at night all the same. 

“What if I wanted something... earthy?” 

“What about a pistachio latte? It’s a new flavor we got and I personally love pistachio in my yogurt, little nutty, little earthy, little everything,” 

Any reason to experiment with flavors and any reason to help someone else find what they like. 

“Then I’ll get that,” 

Stitch can’t help but be a tad surprised that someone would take his offer without much thought like that. It’s a bit scary to wield the power of suggestion. Now he really would like to know this man’s name, 

“And may I ask your name…?” 

“Constable Teddy Roberts, sir,” 

Sir? A bit formal for a mere barista in his opinion, but he hasn’t ever been referred to with formalities or honorifics. It’s a bit flattering if anything, 

“Oh, trust me, there’s no need for formalities, coming right up, you can wait wherever you’d like,” 

He rushes over to start brewing the espresso, he’s nervous with excitement, and he takes delicate care not to screw any of this up. First impressions are a precious thing. He pours in the milk with enthusiasm and carefully stirs the pistachio into the brew, precision is key. He drops the sugar in cube by cubes and watches as it floats around before melting into the liquid. With a deep breath and a weird sense of butterflies, he hands the drink over to the Constable, 

“For you, Constable Roberts,” 

“Thank you…” Roberts takes a pause, “Sam,” 

Stitch’s heart skips a beat. When was the last time that someone referred to him by his real name in this job after his first day? He mentally crosses his fingers as the Constable takes a sip of his drink, it’s a shot in the dark and a Russian roulette of flavor. He hasn’t made that drink before, and he’s sure that Constable Roberts hasn’t tasted something like it ever, 

“I think I tasted something like this back in Chatham,” He remarks, half surprised and impressed 

“Wait, you’re from Chatham? I’ve been there before,” Stitch says, he remembers the vacation and the long winding roads, the grasses of the countryside, and the juxtaposition between such halcyon scenery versus the bustle of city streets. 

“You know about Chatham?” Roberts seems even more surprised than Stitch is at the moment, 

“Kind of, it’s been a while since I’ve been there so I can’t say, but, between me and you,” Stitch leans in as if he’s sharing classified information, “I’m actually from Hamilton. I moved here just a few months ago,” 

Teddy’s expression is surprised, then amused, 

“So it seems neither of us is from Toronto then,” He says with a light smirk, “Again, I do thank you for this drink, I didn’t realize this place had such good coffee,” 

He’s gotten used to the compliments. He’s started to tolerate the in-between and neutral comments. And the complaints are starting to hurt a little less, but there’s a je ne sais quoi about earning the admiration of someone right off the bat. Making small talk and exchanging banter, the break of routine feels exciting in an inexplicable way. 

There’s a rush in his veins, it would be amazing to make at least one friend here if that’s even possible. Stitch can’t exactly tell if he’s managed to gain even more respect for Inspector Choi, or if he’s just yearning for the Constable to come back through the door and pick up where they left off. 

The kind of high you can’t get with caffeine, he hates change and new things most of the time, but perhaps that isn’t always true. 

Chapter Text

The city morgue is a fascinating place indeed. Closest to Station House Four and an infinitely more graphic version of a graveyard. With death lingering all around and mysteries galore. Stitch knows not much about it, he’s aware of what goes on in there and the basic rules to being a coroner. But the idea of being in such proximity to corpses scares and intrigues him. He chose being a barista for a reason of course, but with the location, and the knowledge that the coroners and constables tend to intermingle, it briefly crosses his mind whether one of them would ever walk into his humble coffee shop.

It’s been rush hour since eight in the morning. The coffee menu has morphed into a suggestion. He’s been pouring in milk, steeping coffee beans into boiling water, and pouring syrup into coffee cups over and over again for the better part of an hour now. How easy it is to lose track of time and reality with such repetition.

Stitch has had to call out so many names, so much that he’s started to make a list of everyone who works in the station house, it gets to a point. He nearly slams the hot drink on the desk, calling out yet another name, he looks to the door with a sense of dread. But it seems that he’s finally catching a break now, he takes a second to stop his rushing, hands on his knees and panting from exhaustion. Who knew that being a barista was so exhausting? He’s still not close to getting through rush hour without breaking a sweat.

But just as he looks to the door fully expecting another constable, he’s nearly knocked off his feet when he sees an elegant woman come through the door, dressed in shades of plum and violet. And not just any woman, Miss Julia Ogden herself.

The haze of rush hour is wiped away within seconds as he mentally prepares himself to speak, he hasn’t felt his throat close up around customers since his early days,

“Mrs. Julia Ogden?”

“Oh, you know my name?”

“Yes, I—your reputation does proceed you, i-in a good way of course! I’ve only heard nice things about you from the constabulary regarding your work as a coroner, and nurse, it would be more than my pleasure to serve you here…” He babbles and stumbles over his words, his knowledge of English literature flies out of the window when he’s nervous.

“How sweet of you, well, I would like to order a coffee with a sugar packet and uh..four shots of espresso, if that’s okay with you?”

At first, Stitch thinks he heard wrong, but replaying that line in his head he’s stunned to realize he heard correct. A mere decaf latte can keep him up into the late hours of the night and the precipice of moonset, but perhaps that’s more thanks to his insomniac tendencies rather than the caffeine.

“Four…shots of espresso? I’m just making sure I heard that right, my apologies,”

“No need really, but my job does require long hours, surely you understand,”

A working woman indeed, he’s well aware of what an all-nighter feels like, more than reasonable.

“Oh trust me, I get it, well—uh one coffee coming up, you may sit wherever you’d like,”

He lines up the espresso shot glasses as he prepares the coffee beans, the supply of boiling water seems to be endless, and good thing.

Stitch’s hands reach for the sugar packet and his heart thumps with nervous excitement. Perhaps a bit more on-edge and eager to impress than flustered, but he can’t tell the difference as he pours in the creamer over his screaming nerves.

One shot, then two, then three, then four.

With trembling hands, he walks up to the counter,

“One coffee for Mrs. Julia Ogden!”

Julia walks up to him with a serene look on her face, she takes a sip of the coffee and her eyebrows furrow slightly,

“Mn, a strong drink indeed,”

“I’m glad it has the intended effect,”

“Well I’m off now, but if you see a William Murdoch, tell him I said hello, and that the coffee from Station House Four is just delightful,”

“Yes, I will, for certain, have a splendid day!”

There’s a certain frisson of thrill that runs through him, the rest of his day is going to be pleasant for sure.

Things have significantly slowed down, save for the people coming back for seconds and thirds. Typically just people on their lunch breaks asking for water, teas, juices, and the like.

In these afternoon hours at the height of post meridian, he finds himself using the ice machine progressively more often. The lighting is nice, the music is light, and he’s found his groove now that the blur of rush is long past. And the next rush hour when people leave work will only be a problem for the streets he won’t walk until it’s more than over.

Stitch can say for certain he’s more accustomed to espresso than lemonade or tea, but it’s simple enough. He just sometimes wishes that Choi accounted for the customer’s demands for fruits just as much as he did their want of coffee beans.

It’s just as he’s squeezing another lemonade for some particularly sweet lemonade that Violet Hart walks through the door. Stitch accidentally squeezes too hard in his shock and some of the lemon juice spills over onto his clothes and the glass, he can clean that up later.

The stellar core of the Star Bright club, music, and drinks galore until the sun rises. As well as Chief Coroner of the city’s morgue, handler of death, and dissector of the human viscera.

“Hello! Miss…”

"Violet Hart,” She takes the words out of his mouth, “So I see the constabulary has a coffee shop now,”

Stitch would have half a mind to think that at some point the word of the constabulary’s coffee shop managed to spread beyond just the station house.

“Yes, actually, it’s been around for a…well it’s actually pretty new,” As the coffee shop’s first barista he can calculate how old the coffee shop is by how long he’s been here, which is kind of cool if he thinks about it too hard.

“May I inquire how new?”

“Well, I was actually the barista when the shop first opened up, so about a month or two?”

“I must say, I’ve heard good things when I asked around, I got recommendations from both Constable Roberts and Detective Watts, good on you for making a name around here in such a short time,”

It’s the first time that Stitch has gotten a grasp on exactly how much he’s achieved since first being here. He was under the firm impression that he was just a humble barista who was appreciated but quietly overlooked. Apparently, his ambition has not gone unnoticed, kindness really does go a long way. Or maybe it’s because he remembers everyone’s order, either way, he’s allegedly more than just a meek nobody in the eyes of Station House Four now. What a surprise!

He might as well be accepting an award for a non-descript achievement, perhaps the “best and only barista that Station House Four has” prize. Stitch’s knee-jerk reaction would be to exclaim out in confusion, maybe not.

“I have? Well, that’s nice to know, may I ask what you would like to get from here—if you’re ordering, our menu has expanded over the weeks,”

Violet seems to ponder it for a second, for a split moment he doesn’t know if she's here to get anything or just to exchange small talk, either way, he wouldn’t really mind,

“Since you asked, I suppose I’ll get a…french pressed vanilla latte, a dash of nutmeg with almond milk, honey and a caramel drizzle,”

“My, what a fancy order, well, coming right up, you can sit wherever you please, there is plenty of space,”

He finishes up on his lemonade before calling out yet another name, curt nods and friendly smiles.

Sometimes Stitch wonders how comfy the cushioned benches and seats really are, they seem snug but he can never be sure, mostly considering that he’s always the one standing around.

He doesn’t use the French press often. He would imagine that if this were a regular coffee shop they would probably charge a cent or two more, but the heart wants what it wants—and he’ll gladly oblige, and besides; he’s pretty sure the Inspector never meant for the coffee to be anything besides free.

A dash of nutmeg with carefully pinched fingers. Stirred almond milk, honey that drips from the packet, and a drizzle of caramel that resembles reckless ink strokes on paper. The drink itself seems like a real sweet treat.

The finished coffee is a pastel watercolor painting of flavors, he’s sure of it,

“One vanilla latte for Violet Hart,”

Stitch flashes her a small, nervous smile as she walks over. Violet takes a brief to her drink before taking a sip, she seems impressed with the way her eyes widen slightly,

“Well, I definitely will be coming back here when I get the chance, you know how to layer various flavors effortlessly,”

He’s found that artistic and poetic compliments are his favorite, something about people using metaphor and extravagant prose to describe the simple delight of the flavor in his drinks really scratches an itch in his brain,

“Thank you, have a nice day!”

He silently wonders as Violet steps out of the door and disappears from view if that’s what it’s like to meet a celebrity.

He may not know how to talk to girls, but he would like to think that he’s able to talk to women, to some extent; now that he’s done it.

Chapter Text

It’s cathartic, if a little disappointing when Stitch has to take his apron off. The last vestiges of sunset shine in through the window as he bids one last goodbye to the coffee shop for the day. It’s weird how much of an attachment he’s grown to the shop itself. Perhaps in the same way that he protects his hat with his life and being. Those are some of the only things that he can consider truly his, and people like to protect their territory, including him.

Perhaps he made a mistake telling his friends to wait outside for him after he got off his shift. And on top of that, deliberately giving them coordinates instead of telling them that he works at the police station. It’ll keep them from arriving too fast and being left to wait in the everchanging light. And a little surprise when they finally make it as he’s exiting the door. The shock of a lifetime. Whether it be from him working at the police station, or that and him not being in a constable uniform will be up to fate. he hasn’t exactly been direct about his work, admittedly. Outside of the fact that he’s a barista, his friends know nothing. This will be fun.

The wooden steps creak a lot less than Stitch would think as he walks down to the first floor. Quiet, like his own existence. It’s bittersweet waving goodbye to his fellow constables, to an extent. His heart races with anticipation, he can’t wait to see his friend’s faces when they find out about where his barista job is really located.

They’ve been under the impression that he’s dealing with nearly everyone in Toronto and some (if you include people coming in from out of the city) every single day. As if he could ever handle that. He just hopes that they don’t think he’s intermingled with some weird legal drama, due to his proximity to the constabulary.

The door opens to the rising moon and the city finally starting to calm down, how refreshing. The nightlights aren’t quite on yet, but it’s a matter of time before they illuminate the streets Stitch walks to his modest apartment.

Cool air brushes against his face, it’s refreshing to taste the setting sun as darkness permeates the sky. But his reverie is smashed right into jagged pieces by the sound of a familiar voice,

“So you’re meaning to tell me this is where you work?!” Pascal exclaims as Stitch walks towards them. He’s stunned when he realizes that both of his friends are right there, right where he told them to wait, just outside of Station House Four.

Stitch lets out an unintentional yelp of shock,

“Jeez! Don’t scare me like that, and yes,”

“Where’s your constable uniform then?” Leo asks

“I’m a barista, idiot, remember?” Ah yes, the refreshing switch into sarcastic banter that he could never get away with during business hours, “working for Station House Four, an open secret of a cafe, and it’s not exactly open to the public unless, I dunno, you walk in to report a missing person and happen to walk all the way to my coffee shop,”

“Well now you’ve given me the perfect idea for what I’m gonna do tomorrow on your next shift,” Leo remarks

“And here I thought you had to deal with rush hour in a Toronto coffee shop,” Pascal says,

“Well surprise, surprise,”

They start walking down the street, it’s nice walking across the pavement with people by his side.

“So, have you learned anything about these so-called, ‘constables’?”

“They have particular tastes, and by that I mean one of them orders hot chocolate on every day besides Christmas, and lattes are quite the popular choice,”

“Anything…else?”

He knows what Leo’s asking,

“If you mean have I learned any kind of classified or confidential information on the inner workings of Toronto’s legal system? No. I wish, but the most interesting thing I’ve done in my nearly two months working there has been letting one of the constables skip out on his duties,” Perhaps that and the fact that Stitch nearly got arrested on his first day, but that’s a story for later on, “Mostly because I couldn’t have dragged that man by his foot down the stairs and be like “oh, hey, boss Inspector, tell this man to get back to work,”

That earns a giggle from his two friends, it’s nice divulging harmless information, he would hope that it stays this way. Where his most interesting encounter is a misunderstanding with Detective Murdoch, meeting the coroners of the city morgue and his own boss. A harmless job, a benevolent environment, a peaceful existence.

“Any rude customers?” Pascal asks

He knocks on his pants as if to mimic knocking on wood,

“Surprisingly not, apparently the people there don’t take my kindness for granted. I mean like there’s teasing and banter and stuff but not anything that isn’t funny, which is nice, okay maybe the occasional complaint but it’s not my fault that they wanted milk we didn’t have,” There’s apparent relief in his voice. If he were a normal barista he would definitely encounter hatred that he’s privileged enough to be almost entirely shielded from due to his working in Station House Four. Stitch’s glad that his worst problem there is Chief Constable Brackenreid being picky about his tea or Watts ordering different things from the menu every day. He made a good call picking the job that he did.

“And lucky you, but may I ask, are you getting paid well?”

“I mean, not as well as, I dunno, a judge, but for my role in the constabulary, I’d like to say that I am,”

He could technically afford to upgrade his living space a bit. But he prefers the extra spending money, and besides, his place is near work, and above all, it’s his own. Stitch doesn’t mind being grounded with modesty after going to school with nothing but toffs for so long, or the “lack” of space.

It’s been a while since he’s been able to have a real good chat with his friends. Lately, he crashes and blacks out after he gets home from a mix of social and physical exhaustion. It typically ends with him reading and or fantasizing about owning a stenograph. But it’s a breath of fresh air to revel in human connection outside of his work.

“I say that we hang out at my apartment and I’ll make you guys some drinks with our meals to show you how good I’ve gotten at being a barista,” It’s a bit of a show-off gesture, but his friends deserve good drinks and coffee once in a while.

“And I say hell yeah,” Pascal says

“Me second,” Leo adds

Streetlights illuminate their shadows and they walk towards Stitch’s apartment with plans on how they’ll spend the wee hours of the night. It’s nice riding off into the moonset with two fools he wouldn’t trade for the world.

Chapter Text

The days have stumbled into a blur. He knew that it would come eventually. It should’ve been a bad sign that he wasn’t able to have his proper morning drink because they had conveniently run out of cinnamon. The vanilla’s running low and it’ll be two whole business days before everything’s properly restocked. How fun.

Stitch is already barely able to handle the frantic nature of rush hour on it’s own. The bustle of customers who need to get out and into the city to solve cases and presumably uphold the law. So they say. He’s exhausted and his wrists along with his legs have grown sore. At the worst possible time, as always. His body always seems to cramp up when stressed, as if his joints aren’t already in enough pain as is.

He just had to endure being admonished by Thomas Brackenreid because his tea wasn’t made right. He thought he got it right when the Chief constable walked out of the door with no words, only to watch in mild horror as he stormed back in. Maybe he was wrong to accidentally pour in milk instead of water. But by the time the hours fade into one another, he’s nearing the verge of tears. The voices that permeate the shop consisting of conversating constables are getting loud for his ears and the smell of espresso is more taunting than refreshing.

The ice stares at him with a blank gaze. He gazes back with irises that resemble tired black voids. Some of his customers/coworkers have noticed the distress on his face over the hours. He doesn’t bother to hide it. Constable Roberts had it in his heart to ask if Stitch was okay. George didn’t give him anything when he may have dumped in a little less sugar than he preferred. Stitch still felt guilty when he noticed the constable sneak a sugar packet when he thought Stitch was too busy staring at the ground.

His break was a respite. He just collapsed down and closed his eyes, the lights are too bright for his eyes. And on days like this, surely the constables will tolerate natural lighting for their coffee.

When Detective Murdoch walks in, Stitch can almost feel the way that his own face lights up. It’s not even the detective’s simple order that’s such a relief. Even though it is a nice break from having to memorize multiple flavors and different kinds of brews for espresso.

“Hello Murdoch, I presume you want the usual?” It feels nice not having to put on bright smiles or seem a bit more excited than he is to talk to people, he can just be…his kind of nice. Gentle expressions and sounding relieved rather than thrilled. It’s nice to not have to smile with his eyes.

“Yes of course, and maybe this time, some whipped cream?”

Stitch has never taken Murdoch to be the kind of person to switch things up. He’s heard from here and there that he got promoted to Inspector and the first chance he got, he resigned and decided to stay a detective. Just because he preferred his old job. And he finds it almost relatable, he wouldn’t want to give up his already perfected skillset for a different position either. They seem to share that attachment to familiarity.

“I must say, the lighting is actually kind of refreshing, natural light from the outside and all, but it is a shame the height of electricity’s achievements aren’t being utilized,” Ah yes, Murdoch and his fixation on modern electricity and sciences. He can comprehend the enthusiasm about such topics to an extent.

“I just wish there was a way to dim it down a little, you know? Keep the lights on but not have it be so.. fluorescent,”

“Like a dimming light switch?”

“I guess,”

There’s a dull silence for a few seconds,

“Well, I’ll get your usual in a minute, just wait here,”

Stitch has memorized how to make one of these simple drinks by heart. A breath of fresh air from having six different things he needs to put into one drink in just over a minute. It’s serene and it’s calm. And it’s a festive little treat being able to put whipped cream on Murdoch’s drink. He likes whipped cream on his drinks too, they have that in common as well, Stitch realizes they have more in common than they think.

He doesn’t like faking grins, but the tender smile that appears on his face is more than sincere,

“Here’s your drink Detective Murdoch,”

“You know, I’m glad the constabulary made it so that I can get the same coffee every time and I don’t have to worry about it changing,”

“So you hate change too, huh?”

“Yeah and—you look familiar,”

The shift in Murdoch’s tone throws Stitch off his guard. What the hell does he mean? Oh…surely not? He didn’t regard the fact that they’d crossed paths under less-than-ideal circumstances up until this point. It was like a blissful ignorance took over his brain every time he would see Murdoch. And his instinctual thoughts of “Oh god, it’s that detective who interrogated me and Pascal,” were supplanted with “Oh my god, it’s the Detective with his tendencies and his simple order, yay!”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t realize it at first but I think I’ve seen you before,”

“Well, I do have a semi-recognizable face, I guess?” He beats around the bush, not because he doesn’t want Murdoch to know but maybe moreso because he doesn’t want to confront his past as he’s talking to one of his favorite customers,

“Did you go by the name ‘Stitch’ at any point, maybe within the past four years?”

“I have…quite a silly nickname it was, but it just kind of stuck,”

“You…I remember it now, I asked you questions about..oh, well—I probably shouldn’t re-open up any wounds,”

Well, it seems there’s no hiding it now,

“No, it’s fine, I recognized you before you recognized me,”

“How ironic that you went under such a distinct alias and your name just ended up being Sam, what a coincidence that we would meet again,”

He breathes a mental sigh of relief, it seems that this revealed identity changes nothing between them, it’s nice to know.

“A pleasant coincidence indeed,”

Like a weird clockwork, Stitch briefly remembers Julia’s words,

“Oh, I don’t think I’ve told you this but your wife—I mean Julia Ogden told me to tell you that she said hello, I don’t know if I’ve told you that yet,”

“You are right, that is my wife, and be sure to tell her if you see her that I say hello back,”

“Will do, William,” Stitch says playfully

“Well I’m glad to know you’ve frown into a bright future, I hope you have a good day,”

“You too Murdoch, good luck on your next case,”

The cat is out of the bag now. It’s a matter of time before Watts realizes who his barista is. If he hasn’t already put two and two together by his face and eyebags alone. Whatever tension might have lingered in the coffee shop seems to dissipate as he’s allowed a minute or two to compose himself. A weight is lifted from his shoulders and thrown into the void of irrelevance, he’s past that now. There are no more secrets to keep in the cafe.

Chapter Text

Stitch has his eyebags for a reason. All the sleepless nights throughout his life have led up to this night shift of his. He told Choi that he would do it with no problem, that wasn’t exactly a lie. But that there wasn’t guarantee that he could stay up past 6 am or that he would be able to work the next day. Perhaps a part of the Inspector’s “Brave New World” was him accepting that request phrased like a mere statement. He definitely struck the jackpot regarding his accommodations at this place.

Apparently tonight, most of the constabulary is going to be awake at this time of night. Which is curious, considering how vague Choi was in stating that. But not his circus, not his monkeys. Whatever takes place outside of this coffee shop is not his business unless it involves a pillow for him to rest his head on once this shift is over.

He washes the cups and other machines absentmindedly. It feels weird putting on his apron and knowing that he realistically should be asleep by now, but he closed his curtains and slept the day just for this, he should be fine. He’s packed snacks, and water, plus, he has the entire stash of caffeine at his disposal, if anyone’s going to be up all night, it’s gonna be him.

The night starts off fairly tame, Watts and Murdoch come in, and Murdoch says something along the lines of “It’s going to be a long night,” Stitch wonders what kind of case would require them to pull an all-nighter. Maybe he’ll find out about it on the news, or perhaps it’s one of those things hidden in the shadows. Most important things are done behind the scenes and closed doors, he would know.

He sees all kinds of faces that he recognizes as the first quarter of his shift goes by. George, and Henry, and he even gets to see Constable Roberts. They’ve been talking more lately, they might be nearing first name basis with one another considering how their greetings have grown informal. Roberts is the one who gives him more information. Perhaps a naive and inexperienced move on the Constable’s end, but the context is both interesting and unsettling.

Apparently, it has something to do with spies and the government. He didn’t realize this station had ties to people that powerful. They’re the Toronto Constabulary and Station house Four, not the CIA or FBI, or maybe he thought wrong. Whatever. If it doesn’t happen in his coffee shop, it’s not his problem.

But there’s an aching curiosity that lingers within his synapses. Stitch just ned to take one little peek at what goes on behind the curtain. He gets brief, innocent glances when he starts and ends his shift at what the main floor of Station House Four looks like. Little peeks at when the constables are starting their days. And glances at what the detectives do at moonrise.

He rolls down his sleeves, slips off his apron, taking off his nametag and surrepticiously steps out of the coffee shop. Should he be scared? The steps don’t creek as he steps down. And what he sees is frankly confusing. People with perps in hand, graphs and people dressed in all black. Numbers and random beeping, is that Morse code?

Movies are quite a new thing. But he’s read horror novels and seen the flicks, he shouldn’t wait around to find out.

When he’s back into the comfort of his coffee shop, he doesn’t exactly deny what he just saw. But he knows better than to not just leave good enough alone. He won’t go in further until he sees something that could get him killed. Or better yet, something that he could never unsee. He’s been there and done that, he would rather not, thank you.

Instead, he puts on the records and loses himself in melody, preparing for more people who might come up in the hours of twilight. Maybe Violet, maybe Inspector Choi, a nice little mystery for him to make up and await. 

Stitch's humming to himself and waltzing around behind the counter, both to revel in his implied free time and to try and ignore the growing, forbidding feeling that brews within him silently. A man dressed in nearly all black and holding a smoke pipe in his mouth walks in. He means business. Is this a robbery? Did he get caught? 

"So it seems the Constabulary opened up a cafe, how amusing," The man's voice is gritty, almost grating, with a rasp and sarcastic tone, kind of like Stitch when he's unamused, kind of. 

"Yes, may I help you?" People can smell fear, he almost deadpans with his tone as to not seem more frightened than he already is. He's learned how to match people's energy. 

“Ah, the barista, it seems they have you working the night shift, eh?”

“They in fact do, but I know a thing or two about all-nighters, as you can see,”

He’s referring to under his eyes, the man picks up what he puts down, almost too well,

“May I ask for a name? If you’re gonna order anything, of course,”

“Doesn’t matter,”

“I’m not gonna write anything down, or say anything, if that’s what you’re worried about, just you and me here,”

“Fine, it’s Meyers, Terrence Meyers,”

“I haven’t seen you around, are you a new detective? You don’t seem to be wearing a constable uniform,”

“No, they have me handling matters of national security, would be best if you don’t ask any more questions,”

“Wasn’t planning on it,”

National security…A spy? Holy hell. He’s the barista to a full fledged espionage agent. No wonder he was wearing all black. Now Stitch wonders how the hell the Canadian government out of all things could’ve gotten interweaved with the station house he serves coffee, amongst other things to.

“I’ll get an espresso shot, neat,”

Is he serious? Is this guy actually serious right now? A single shot? Just…a single shot of espresso? Ordered the same way Stitch used to order whiskey shots? Now he’s really seen everything.

“Just a shot…?”

“Just a shot,”

“Alright…coming right up, there are benches and seats to sit, or you can just…wait here, whatever you prefer,”

He silently hopes that Terrence picks the former. He would rather not be watched making coffee beans. With such operative eyes watching. He’s sure that he’ll find a way to screw up making simple coffee.

Of course. This is the one time that God isn’t on his side. Just his luck. He’s being watched like a hawk, the stare of Canada’s government.

He keeps his eyes on the flowing coffee as he fills up the shot glass, it’s deceptively simple. Surely he has an actual order…right? Besides, for an all-nighter, he might need a little more than just a singular shot of espresso. But people like that are enigmas indeed, perhaps he really only needs one shot of espresso to pull off his spy work.

With trembling hands, he tries everything in him to not drop the espresso shot, let alone have one drop spill to the floor. Terrence might have a gun. Stitch would rather not be shot over some coffee,

“Here’s your espresso shot, Terrence Meyers,”

The man takes it and gulps it down in one swig. And he doesn’t seem phased by the presumably bitter taste, or the fact that he just downed it in one go.

“Hmm, alright, not so good or bad that it could affect national affairs, but any port in a storm, amirite?”

He doesn’t know what to make of that.

“Mhm,” Stitch only bothers to reply with an affirmative nod,

“Good luck on your case,” He says as the man starts to walk towards the door,

“Canada is in good hands,” Terrence says, with nothing more and nothing less.

He doesn’t realize that his heart has been pounding until he’s left to lean against the wall and collect himself. Only so that he doesn’t have a panic attack in front of whoever walks through that door. It’s going to be a long night.

Perhaps there was no matter of national security to be had but that man spy’s order definitely was.

Chapter Text

The police station and the courthouse are intertwined like the moon and the sea. The heights of the justice system and the law in practice. Or at least, that’s what it’s advertised as. Things happen behind closed doors, they always have. But that’s never stopped Stitch from wanting to be in the room where it happens. Judicial proof, written transcripts, witnessing a courtrooms inner workings. A language of law all to himself.

He peels himself off the cushion that he lays on. His break has ended, the dreams might not be over, but he’ll have to push aside his fantasies aside if he wants to focus on his current reality. Just until he can slip off the apron and spend the rest of his day and night making believe. Just for now. Will the coffee smell the same in a courthouse? There’s time and place to ponder silently until later comes around.

It’s comfortable where he is. Surrounded by music, the smell of espresso and the bright lights, and the promise of tomorrow. He knows this constabulary like the back of his hand and he wouldn’t ask for anything else.

George told Stitch something along the lines of “Oh, my wife’s going to be here,” when was making the constable’s usual drink, he’s quickly learned who’s married to who, they don’t try to hide it, really.

That memory briefly flashes in his mind when Effie Crabtree walks in. Holy hell. Speak of the courtroom. A rush of frisson and elation bursts through him. The Crown’s attourney, would you look at that?

He doesn’t say anything until she walks up to him, he would like to think it’s because he didn’t want to catch her off guard. But his heart knows deep down its because he got so lost in thought about him sitting in the court room, writing her arguments down on a stenotype of his own.

“Hi, what can I get you?” His tone is weirdly perky, it’s hard to mask his excitement, but lord knows the last thing he wants to do is come off too strong.

“Well hello, I would like an apple machiatto, please,”

Their conversation is short and sweet. There’s a lack of small talk and banter that he’s not used to, considering how he is usually with his customers/coworkers. But he won’t ask too much. The words left not unsaid are already blessing enough.

“Alright, coming right up,”

The apples are a bit of a first, the machiatto is a bit of a first, he’s starting to get used to firsts. He’ll have to get used to firsts if he wants to follow his passions all the way to where he wants to be.

All he can think about as he pours in the apple syrup is what it would be like to listen in and type for hours, court case after court case. Perhaps it’s a job a bit above his paygrade, having such responsibility. And having to sit there for hours constantly keeping track of who’s who, and mediocre cases over minor misdemeanors seems a bit less than ideal. But for such a fantasy he would be willing to sacrifice. It’s hard to deny how much he yearns for an opportunity like that.

Simple espresso and foam, the slight tinge of red in the drink brings him back to earth. He breathes in the air around him, taking it in for what it is. He can’t afford to space out in the middle of an order.

A twinge of nervousness peaks through him as he walks up to deliver Effie’s drink. Stitch quickly realizes that this might be his chance. At lesat to know something or other about what the truth of his daydreams really are.

“One apple machiatto for Effie Crabtree,” Stitch says,

Effie flashes him a smile, she tastes her drink slowly, he’s stunned when she pulls out a few coins,

“I’m not sure if the rules of coffee shops still apply here, but I’ll give you a tip regardless, just something I do,”

Stitch is so lost in thought that he doesn’t catch the curious glance she briefly throws him before walking towards the door. A flash of panic hits him as he lifts his head, watching her start to disappear from sight. It’s now or never if he truly wants to know,

“Wait!”

She spins around, the urgency in his voice must have conveyed a little too well,

“I—”

Shoudl he speak? He’ll look so stupid if he doesn’t speak, he’ll feel even worse if he stays quiet. Deep breaths, surely he won’t be amonished for asking a question?

“Are you one of The Crown’s attourneys?”

“Yes, I am..why?”

He knew that, but it’s a precursor to his next question,

“Uh…I-I’m sorry if this is a personal question but might I ask what it’s like in the courthouse? I really aspire to be a stenographer, but the only proximity I’ve had to the criminal justice system is well…this job,”

The way she looks at him is almost…pleased, his dreams are stupid in the eys of actuality. But he’s already testified his desires for the future,

“Well, I can’t say too much, but watching justice be served accordingly is what I keep walking into the courthouse for, and people who can type are always needed where law is upheld, so I wish you good luck,”

A weight is lifted off of Stitch’s shoulders, replaced by feathers of reassurance. His heart flies into the air, perhaps it’s mere falttery. After all, his question was quite out of place. But he didnt’ know how much he needed affirmation in regard to his aspiration until he heard those words,

“Thank you so much, have a nice day!”

He’s comfortable where he is. But the glimmering hope of the future shines brightest when he’s waltzing around the walls of the coffee shop lying in wait for destiny. The staircase leading down to the first floor of Station House Four will become the steps leading up to Toronto’s courthouse soon enough.

Chapter Text

Stitch likes to be part of things grander than himself, he’s found out lately. Perhaps that’s the reason why he adores his job as a barista. Just maybe. He can sense the festive atmosphere when he steps into the Station house, even as he walks into the coffee shop and lies in wait. Maybe by the time that the customers walk in he’ll figure out who’s birthday it is. He can only remember so much, unfortunately.

He’s perplexed when no one comes in for a concerning while. He’s gotten used to slow days, but even the likes of Detective Murdoch would have come in here at some point. Stitch lingers around nervously, unsure of what to do with the passing time.

Stitch is just about to pour himself his usual coffee, hands reaching for the espresso and the boiling water as if by instinct. But suddenly, there’s a burst of people who come in through the door. Did the entirety of Station House Four decide to come in at once? Is this a complex prank that no one let him in on?

“Hey Detective Murdoch,” Stitch calls out, despite the avid noise,

“What is it?” He clearly seems occupied with something

“Just what is all of this about? What are we celebrating?” If there’s anything that he doesn’t like, it’s being the only one not in one something.

“We’re celebrating the anniversary of Station House Four,”

Ah, right. He was acutely aware of when this police station was founded, between the chats overshadowed by ambiance that have been growing frequent. But he didn’t realize such a date was right under his nose until this point. Oblivious to a fault. He feels a pang of guilt for not focusing more on the station house goings on, or at the very least the important dates. But it seems he’ll be making drinks for every single person in the Station for today, how fun.

After the embellishments and decorations are set up and the music is blasting. They seem to come over to the counter one after the other. He feels overwhelming expectation brewing into his core, seeping into his skin. And the time crunch of rush hour tenfold. He would hate to be a party crasher, but he isn’t sure he can match the collective’s happiness once he’s reveled in exhaustion.

“Uh, do be patient everyone, I am but a one-man army after all…”

The espresso is practically overflowing. He takes a pump of every kind of syrup they provided for him at least once. And he starts to lose track of the difference between coconut and almond milk for just a few seconds. He distinguishes a few faes that he remembers from the crowd that work outside of the station house, Violet, Julia, Effie. Just how many people is he going to have to serve today? Rush hour and serving people over the course of a day is one thing. Having to serve a day’s worth of poeple in an hour is something else entirely.

Somewhere in the midst of this cursed rush hour, he sees Constable Roberts and Henry Higgens with their sleeves rolled up, coming to the coffee stand. What the hell is going on?

“Teddy—I mean Constable Roberts, what is this?”

“Well, thought we’d help you out with those drinks, on the house,”

Stitch is instinctively overtaken with gratitude, such kindness from close colleagues. And Henry, from their first interaction on Stitch’s slow day and the Constable’s playing hooky, somehow manages to redeem himself into a helping hand in the end,

“Well be careful with the drinks, they’re piping hot,”

It’s drink after drink. The plain coffee, the triple triple, the iced chai, the peppermint mocha, the vanilla latte, the four shots of espresso, the apple machiatto. The caramel latte that he hastily hands Henry with the words, “For when we’re done with all of this,” And that hot chocolate that he just so adores, and the pistashio latte that he hands with Teddy with the words, “Just for you,”

When all is said and done, he finds himself gravitating towards the vanilla syrup. Just a little something for himself would never hurt after having to serve all of those people. He pours the espresso into a glass cup for the umpteenth time. He pumps in the vanilla syrup, a cube or to for the road, the milk and the whipped cream, and a dash of cinnamon on top. Just a little treat for him.

But by the time that he’s finished making his drink, he stands alone behind the counter. With his coffee in hand and surrounded by so many faces he’s learned by heart.

Perhaps it’s a dumb decision when he takes off his apron and decides to take one little step outside of his station for once. To indulge in the air of celebration for a few seconds. However, when he hears Murdoch say,

“C’mon, over here!”

With a twinge of excitement in his voice beckoning him to the nearly full table with an inviting hand, he doesn’t regret his choice so much.

He’s overwhelmed by the amount of people at the table, but he decides to join in regardless. Every one of his favorite customers, Teddy Roberts, William Murdoch, George and Effie Crabtree, Julia Ogden, Violet Hart, Detective Watts, and himself on the outskirts of it all.

“Cheers!” Murdoch says, raising a glass,

“Cheers!”

The taste of his drink as he takes an honorary sip could not be more sweet. Surrounded by the company of every person that he holds dearest to him in these four walls today.

The moon lives to shine another night.