Note: title from The Cure's Mint Car. If you're familiar with the song, this fic is similarly low on the scale of lyrical accomplishment, and high on the scale of cute-fuzzies.

Night shifts are always hard, but somebody has to do them. That's how Patsy rationalises her extreme sleep deprivation as she makes her way to her tube stop to visit Trixie and Cynthia's flat on the other side of London. Midwifery was always going to have gruelling nights, she knew that going in, but after a week of attempting to recoup some sleep during the day while her neighbours upstairs rearrange their furniture (or their pet elephants practiced bowling, or any number of increasingly absurd scenarios that her brain comes up with at around hour five) Patsy feels more zombie than human. By rights, she should be in bed right now, but a) the short winter days mean she hasn't actually seen natural light in over a week and getting rickets from vitamin D deficiency would frankly be embarrassing, and b) it's the first time in forever that she, Cynthia and Trixie have all had the day off together, and she desperately misses all the fun they used to have in training.

She could have lived with them; the three of them could have found a flat together, but even though it eats up nearly her entire paycheck (London rent is downright obscene), nothing really compares to coming home to her own place at the end of each day - or the beginning, depending on her shift. Independent living can be lonely, can be hard, but it's worth it. After years of boarding school, Patsy swore she'd never share her living space again if she could help it, and while she loves Trixie and Cynthia to bits, having her own flat is freedom.

Patsy doesn't realise quite how tired she is until she steps off the kerb, only to jump backwards as a taxi tears by, missing her by inches. In that moment, she decides that forking out the exorbitant cost of hipster London coffee is a small price to pay if it keeps her in one piece.

More than anything else, Patsy remembers being surprised by the sheer number of cafes per square feet in London when she moved to the city to begin her midwife training. The pollution, the skyscrapers, the crush of rush hour were all things she was prepared for, but it wasn't until her course started, with midnight cramming-sessions, and shifts that didn't end until 7am that she realised just how much the city ran on caffeine.

There. Not ten metres away, an indie place with a sandwich board outside and pastries in the window. It's so hipstery there's a bell on the door. It chimes when she enters, and the person behind the counter – despite the chill outside, seemingly the only person in the cafe – turns around from where she is cleaning the espresso machine.

Oh goodness, she's adorable. About a head smaller than Patsy, with hair neatly fastened up in a bun. Mischievous eyes and a playful grin. A dusting of icing sugar on her otherwise pristine apron. "Hello."

"Hi, can I get a latte, please?"

"Of course; what size would you like?"

Patsy is momentarily charmed beyond reason by the Welsh accent, but then realises, oh god, it's one of those places with a drink-size scale in Italian. Should she say it with an accent and risk sounding ridiculous, or not and risk sounding stupid?

"You can say the size in English," the barista grins, reading Patsy's thoughts, "I think they're only in Italian because the owner likes to show off that she speaks about ten European languages."

"Impressive," says Patsy. "Er, large please."

"For here or to take away?"

"Take away, please."

"Can I tempt you to anything else?" she gestures to the cakes and pastries by the counter, but maintains eye contact with Patsy.

Oh goodness. "Just coffee, thanks."

The barista says a figure and Patsy hands over five pounds, resigned to the fact that London coffee probably costs, gram for gram, more than gold. She puts her change in the tip jar.

"Name?" the barista asks with a smile.

Patsy looks around momentarily; there is nobody else in the shop. "Patsy."

"P-A-T-S-Y" she says, writing carefully on the cup, her tongue poking out, "right, I'll just get this for you."

Patsy's not sure if she should stand by the till and watch, or wait for her drink down at the counter at the end. She wants to regret coming here - stupid independent cafes and their confusing social mores - but she can hear the barista hum cheerfully as she froths the milk and Patsy knows coming here is the best choice she's made today.

"Right, now..." the barista says, almost twirling away from the machine to place Patsy's order in front of her, "what sort of design do you want on top?"

Patsy blinks.

"I've got-" she rummages behind the counter and produces a selection of plastic discs, "star, leaf, heart and moon."

This is more choice than Patsy wanted. "Whichever you think is best."

The barista winks and sifts a heart design on the top of the foam. She slides it forward. "Enjoy."