Chapter Text
INT. CAFÉ – NOON
Barack scrolls through Outlook on his phone, hunched over to prevent the glare on the screen. One foot dangles just above the tiled floor, the other resting on the rung of his stool. Kamala was campaigning, now, and she wanted Barack’s help. Well, that’s what she had told him, anyway, but he suspects she just wanted to get rid of him. Probably sent him to Sacramento to get his doom and gloom out of her office. That’s where Barack is now – waiting for a coffee in some little shop he’d stumbled upon near Sac State, where he’d just finished speaking. The scent of brewing coffee permeates the air that somehow manages not to be stifling even with the amount of people in here. He remembers seeing the “Now Open” sign on the outside of the building – just under the “Howell + Lester” scrawled across the brick facade of the building in…artistic lettering, he’ll call it – which would explain the crowd.
BARISTA
Coffee for…Barry?
Barack slips his phone back into the pocket of his jeans. He tries to use nicknames in situations like these – sure, he’s still physically recognizable, but with this many people it’s a bit easier to slip in and out of the throng. He grabs his drink, smiling at the barista – a young man with curly brown hair who seems a bit starstruck – as he does so.
BARACK
Nice earring.
He points to the tiny silver hoop curving around the shell of the boy’s ear. The boy flushes slightly, nodding and turning to make the next drink. Barack walks towards the door, looking down for a moment to clamp down his lid for good measure.
Thud!
Barack looks up, placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder to steady him.
BARACK
I’m so sorry-
His voice drops off as the man he’d bumped into raises his head. Thin brows, light brown hair pushed back in a quiff, light stubble dusting his jaw…Barack clears his throat.
BARACK
I didn’t see you there.
MAN
Aren’t you–sorry, you probably don’t like it when people make a big scene.
Barack chuckles.
BARACK
You’re good.
He glances down at the man’s shirt, dotted with spots of coffee, and winces.
BARACK
Sorry about your drink. Can I make it up to you…
MAN
Craig. Craig Irish.
He reaches out a hand for Barack to shake. His grip is surprisingly firm for someone with such a timid-seeming face, hand warm and lightly calloused.
BARACK
Well, Craig Irish, allow me to buy you another? My treat.
Craig smiles, crow’s feet crinkling as he nods.
CRAIG
I’d love that.