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the doranelle christmas market, late christmas eve
Both Aelin and Rowan had decided that the risk was worth the reward when it came to Doranelle’s Christmas market. It would be crowded, and loud, and hectic—and most likely triggering for one of them. But the opportunity to sell their personally distilled spirits, was something neither of them could pass up.
It had started as a pipe dream for Rowan, when he first left the service. Before he’d bought the bar—he’d tried to figure out a way to raise money for veterans, to do it in a way veterans would, enjoy, or respect.
It had struck him, on one of those frequent sleepless nights, it had hit him. If there was anything, one thing, that veterans enjoyed—that active service members would enjoy too—it was alcohol, he couldn’t count the amount of smuggled-in bottles, the number of nights spent distracting himself with spirits.
But when Aelin had moved to Doranelle, with her interest in giving back to all those who had helped her during her time overseas, they’d spent many a night holed up in his bar, brainstorming for names, labels, marketing, and most importantly product type, and product flavours.
And thus, their baby had been born. Saviour Spirits was veteran-owned, veteran-made, and made for veterans. They didn’t offer a large product variety, but they’d only been open since last January. They pretty exclusively served them at Rowan’s bar, but other restaurants and bars had begun to invest.
But in order to do what they planned to do—which was to revolutionise the treatment of veterans by the government—they needed attention. And the best way to do that was to be public, and in your face. The Christmas Market was perfect, but they’d paid a couple of their loyal bartenders a little more in exchange for their work at the Christmas market.
Ever benevolent, they gave them the day off, and took the shift on Christmas Eve.
Aelin was making a run to grab them food, wrapped up warmer than she needed to be—with heavy-duty, noise-cancelling headphones disguised as earmuffs over her head—with a scarf the length of their bar wrapped around her neck.
In her left hand sat a carrier with two coffees—black for Rowan, hazelnut and brown sugar syrup for her—whilst her right held two stacked containers of burgers, fries, and onion rings. Her pockets were laden with sweet treats for her, and Christmassy trail mix for her freak of a husband.
She couldn’t hear the live band playing, but her feet vibrated as she meandered through the thinning crowd, the bass line so thick and heavy she recognised the song. her hair was tied back, but blonde strands had since blown across her face, obscuring her vision. The issue wasn’t helped as the sun sunk farther and farther down the sky.
Something brushed her back, but she shrugged her shoulders, writing it off as a dancer who wasn’t at all spatially aware. The gods knew how many of those existed at this Christmas market, Aelin had gone on a food run with being elbowed, or bumped, or just plain walked into. It made her somewhat concerned for the population of Doranelle.
Her area of expertise was how veterans were failed by the government, not how Doranelle’s citizens managed to live so close together and still manage to be spatially curios. She’d leave the liquor fundraising on that to the experts on that.
A hand grabbed onto her jacket, and she spun. Catching whoever it was off guard, they stumbled back, regaining their footing far faster than they should have done. Coffee had spilt over the top of the lids, dripping down the sides. A sigh bubbled from her; she knew Rowan would bombard her with concern upon returning. Asking if her skin was sore or burnt from the hot drinks.
She’d shove off his concerns, tell him it was unnecessary, that she’d surely suffered worse than a little stinging hot water, and he’d wipe a fake tear away, talking about how his baby was treated so badly in the beginning, all sorts of nonsense that swept over her body and kept her warm in the freezing temperatures.
It was a circus act, getting through the crowd without a person treading on her toes, or elbowing her side, or shaking her body. And she wished she hadn’t been trodden on, elbowed, or shaken, but she had.
Frazzled was one way to describe her, teetering on the edge of anxiety. Too many people had been too fucking close, too many people had touched her, or interrupted her space, the noise was starting to seep in through her headphones, and she just needed Rowan.
Her head ducked down, her husband’s imaginary voice in her ears placating her, validating her, helping her, she managed her way through the rest of the rowdy crowd, shoving back at the few who shaved at her.
Finally, she could see the entrance to the vendors’ pathway, which was woven through a collection of huts and chalets built for the occasion.
At each corner, she comforted herself, reassurance that her husband’s arms to cuddle her in mere minutes, that she would be able to luxuriate in his him-ness in not too long, that he was available for all of her appropriate needs, and wants, and desires at the market.
She turned the final corner, and found herself warmed to her heart, at the sight of her husband hanging through the back door, sending a wave her way, before ducking back inside—likely to serve customers. His foot was kicked back, propping open the door, no doubt hurting his knee.
She found herself melting at the tiny gesture—but when they were as consistent and selfless as Rowan’s were, they managed to snowball dramatically into the most amazing of gestures, of romances, of relationships.
She hurried her steps to relieve him quicker, ducking into their shed-Esque chalet, with the door slamming behind her.
“Hey fireheart,” he spoke, turning quickly to kiss her forehead before he turned back to his customers, a brief summary of their company falling from his lips. She listened as he told snippets and snapshots of their relationship, of their journey as business partners, and partners.
She couldn’t keep her hands from him, one wrapping over his shoulder as she buried her nose into his back, the other finding his hand in his pockets, wedding rings clinking together, fingers interlacing, warmth radiating from him.