Hello, all!

Here's something a little delicious for Christmas.

InsomniousInk

Xo

Season Of The Soldier — Chapter one: Eggnog

Damon

The snow was thick on the ground, and it crunched beneath my boots.

Somewhere, in the horizon, the sun was finally setting, eloping the sky in a blanket of white. Not a star nor the moon could be seen, and as a car raced by, it's headlights flickered, dying in the rain of ice.

I'm holding a packet of cigarettes, looking to it as a devout person would their god. Fifteen months without tobacco, and now, as I'm stepping from my title and throwing away my badge, I couldn't crave one more. I pull one out, run my thumb against the length of the filter paper, I bring it to my nose and I smell. It's strong. It's pungent. It reminds me of my eighteenth birthday when I hid behind the house and lit one up for the very first time. I remember feeling mature. I remember wishing for something stressful so I could relieve myself with a few drags. Now I'm trying to fend off the addiction.

The car with the broken taillights slows as it breaches the curb, a dress of red and the woman wearing it stepping into the blizzard. The vehicles skirts off, and she's left, looking over the airport with a sense of misery. She pulls her suitcase along and disappears into the building.

I'm reminded of my approaching plane, my flight to a dank and desolated cabin where I'd sit alone and open presents from those of the men I've served with. Becoming a Marine has many perks, one of them being the distance from reality, and the bond you'd make with a hundred strangers you'd never expect to get along with. You learn about fears, about instinct, about that little voice in the back of your head—the one that's talking right now. Aside from the treachery, the fear of it all, there is something so remarkable about building a strong friendship, you would almost never expect it to be severed; though it can, and often does. When those away return to their families, their homes, their Christmas trees laden with presents—they forget all about the fighters they've served with, too focused on carving into a turkey, smiling for the cameras that snap the moments.

I'm bitter with the thought, my loneliness catching up with me.

I cram the cigarette packet into the nearest trashcan and enter the airport, pulling my way through the sea of frantic fliers. The desk is crammed with those in line, all wrinkled and aged from the stress of getting home. I thread my way to the front, catching a woman in-between a phone call and her dinner break.

"What time is the last flight to Maine?"

The girl eyes my uniform and places her finger to silence the receiver, "You missed it an hour ago. No flights there till New Year's Eve."

I open my mouth to object, to deny the truth with whatever ounce of hope I had left in me—though she turns, and now she's occupied. With sluggish movements, I wield my way over to a café, the small something of a bistro that's serving eggnog in the spirit of Christmas.

I find myself falling into a barstool, cradling my forehead with the weight of this news weighing on my shoulders. In the far corner, someone pulls on a string and a cloud of confetti falls on a family that's laughing and giggling. A little girl has cream from her hot chocolate lining her upper lip, and the mother is trying to wipe it off with her tender thumb. I face the sceptical looking barman and order eggnog, the only alcoholic thing on the menu, or so it seems.

He fends off for it, and I slowly but surely feel myself breaking.

This is it. This is my turning point.

Elena

I'm immersed in a novel, a something of a romantic classic.

"If your feelings," says Mr Darcy, "are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever."

I sigh with my unrealistic expectations for a man, adding well-spoken and ardently passionate to the list. There is somewhat of a commotion going on at the front of the plane, but I'm not paying any attention; too fixated on the page before me.

It's only when a woman whispers to her friend but a seat or two behind that I catch what's really happening.

"—cannot believe this, Amy. Out of all the planes in this place and we're on the one that's broken."

"Broken? You mean—"

"Either we're going to get moved to another or we'll end up in smokes'."

My stomach gives a lurch and I rest the paperback on my knee.

"Excuse me," I say to the man filing through business work. "Do you know what's happening?"

He pulls out an earphone and shrugs his shoulders, returning back to writing and assorting.

I pinch my lips together and look around the area, concerned people standing, searching for the issue at hand. It's Christmas Eve, and not a single inch of the plane is spare.

"Passengers," Says a sudden voice from way above, "due to the technical difficulties we're experiencing, the plane will need to be evacuated in order for us to fix the situation. Please exit in an orderly fashion and follow those waiting outside for further information on your flight. Thank you."

With slow movements, everyone begins gathering their belongings with frustration, trailing back into the airport where a sheepish looking man is trying to work his microphone.

I'm wearing a red nothing of a dress and not even my jacket can keep me warm. I shiver as I'm listening, the man apologising for the inconvenience, bless his soul, and reassuring us that a flight will definitely be leaving tonight. The red eye.

I look to my watch, figuring I have about four hours to spend.

Those surrounding begin to question, though I don't waste my time. I figure the bars and restaurants will be crammed if I leave it any later, and I'm not in any position to freeze in the snow.

Wading my way through the sea of onlookers, I slip into the nearest café, a radiating warmth welcoming me. There's only one seat, and it's placed beside an old woman who (through what looks to be her fourth foamy beverage) is drunkly singing Christmas songs. I'm relieved when a young man picks up his briefcase and exits, leaving an open barstool beside someone in a uniform.

I take my seat, leaning over the counter to order a hot coffee with extra cream.

The stranger beside me sips from his glass, not looking anywhere but down.

There is a sense of irritation about his tense position, so I opt out of friendly chitchat, instead, prying my book out of my handbag and leafing to the page where Elizabeth kindly accepts Mr. Darcy's irresistible offer.

He's eloping her in an embrace, giving her a kiss worth remembering, when I feel the eyes of my friend on the right burning into my book. Sneakily, I slip my eyes from the page and catch his riveted expression, reading the blurb with interest.

I'm silently stunned by his features, handsome too colourless a word.

He's dark haired and blue eyed, with a jaw that could cut through the ice paving the road.

In that moment, he glances up, unknowing to my watchful eye.

He turns away at once, acting the least bit obvious.

I'm almost embarrassed, and then I see the smitten little smile stretch on his mouth as he sips his drink, looking to the television that's silently playing a screening of Home Alone.

A ferocious and demanding blush seeps to my cheeks, and I feel myself sinking further behind the cover of Pride and Prejudice.

"Another?" The barista asks, his wide, toothy smile screaming for a tip. I look to my bookworm of a friend on the right, who is shaking his head. The barista drops his niceness and returns to clearing the stickiness from the bar.

"I don't think I could drink another drop of eggnog if I tried." He says beneath his breath, though through nervousness do I hear it.

"And here I thought Marines didn't drink."

He continues looking at the silent television, though his attention has wavered. My push in conversation has broken through his tense exterior, and he's back to smiling.

"And I thought readers were supposed to be realists."

I frown. "I am a realist."

He looks to me from the corner of his eye, and there's a deep pang of heat in my lower belly.

"Then you'd know anyone in a war will drink."

I consider this and set down my book. "Are you on sick leave?"

He shakes his head. "Just finished my second tour."

"Congratulations," I say, "your family must be proud."

He hesitates on this, draining the last of the dregs from his glass. "Yeah."

I feel I've hit a weak area, so I return back to my book.

"You want a drink?" He then asks, and I feel the want to accept.

"Yes." I say, surprising both him and me.

Something of an extraordinary smile breaks onto his face, and I swallow my pride.

"I'm Damon."

"Elena." I reply.

"I'm going to have to lay off the eggnog for a while, Elena." He says, and just like that, I've forgotten all about Mr. Darcy.