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The Honeymoon	By : HagenRenaker Category: 1 through F > Foyle's War Views: 2428 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don't own Foyle's War nor do I make any money off of it.

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Sam glanced up at the clock. Mr Foyle would be coming out any moment now, she imagined. She walked into the corridor, which was dim with the fading afternoon sunlight.
“Sam?” His voice from behind her was soft, questioning.
“Sir.” She stopped, looking at him expectantly, maybe even a little warily, as she didn’t know exactly what he might want to talk about, or how he might be feeling about their earlier interactions.
Mr Foyle approached her, hat literally in hand.
“Listen, I should apologise. I’ve made, umm… judgments about you, about your personal life—which I had absolutely no right to do, and as a result I—uh—I might have spoken out of turn.”
She flushed slightly as he quietly uttered this. He managed for the most part to maintain eye contact until he finished, then bowed slightly in remorse, sounding as if he might be about to say something more, then falling silent. He looked acutely uncomfortable, but endearingly sincere. She adored him.
“It’s quite all right, sir,” she reassured him. “I should have said something earlier.”
“Well… I’m sorry about Andrew.” He glanced at her briefly, then looked floorward again.
She floundered for something to say, then gave a mock-cavalier shrug as she blamed the reliable source for most of their ills. “It’s the war, isn’t it?”
He drew a deep breath as quietly as he could as he sought her eyes. She was so brave, he thought, not for the first time. Strong and vulnerable at the same time. He wanted so desperately to hold her, and yet it was the worst possible time to have such a notion, he knew.
He conquered the urge and nodded slightly. “’S’pose so.”
Sam turned to continue down the hall, raising one hand to her brow to hide from him how overwhelmed she was by the expression she had caught on his face. For just one second she’d wondered if she might not end up in his arms. She tried to get her widened eyes back to normal and asked nervously, “Can I give you a lift home?”
He stopped, thought about it. “No… I’ll walk home. You get an early night.” Their eyes locked again. Just as he turned away, Sam chirped, “Sir?”
She cleared her throat as he paused and then turned back to her.
“I… I don’t suppose you might like to join me in a drink?” She couldn’t meet his eyes.
His heart surged momentarily, though he rigidly controlled his features and prepared to answer in a calm voice. Just at that moment Captain Kieffer entered the station doors and greeted Foyle heartily.
“Christopher! So you finally caught the killer, hey?”
“Yep.”
“And it wasn’t the wicked American.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I guess Lord Haw-Haw will be sorry about that. Oh, excuse me, Miss Stewart. Good evening.”
Sam nodded, her heart sinking with the knowledge that the American captain would probably invite Mr Foyle out for a drink, and she’d miss the chance to tell him how she felt while she’d summoned up the rare courage to do so.
“Look,” Kieffer sighed and looked steadily at Foyle, glancing at Sam, but seeming not reluctant to speak out in her presence. “I wanna say I’m sorry, OK? This business about the girl. I’m new here… I know how you British are always murdering each other—” (at this, Christopher’s face crinkled in wry amusement) “but I didn’t expect to get caught up in it like that, so, uh—maybe I behaved like a jerk.”
Foyle’s clear blue eyes were kind. “Well… you did what you thought was right.” He gave one of those slight movements of his head that always so eloquently underlined whatever he had just said.
“Could we put all this behind us?” Kieffer asked eagerly.
“Of course.”
“Good. And in the interest of furthering British-U.S. friendship, I happen to have a quart of Jack Daniels in my jeep. Don’t suppose you’d care to come back to base and help me in drinking it, would you?” He winked almost imperceptibly at Sam, who tried to smile.
Christopher didn’t even look at her as he smilingly shook his head. “I’d love to, at some time, John. But I do already have another appointment. What is it you call it? A raincheck? Could I take one of those?”
Captain Kieffer smiled back and simply shook Foyle’s hand. “Sure could. I’ll meet you for lunch tomorrow at the restaurant down the block from Briant Brothers?”
Foyle nodded agreeably, while privately wondering what constituted a “block”.
Kieffer left them, musing that Christopher was one lucky dog if half of what he imagined were true. That girl had positively beamed when Foyle had declined his invitation. Kieffer already had ideas about how Foyle felt about his driver; just the way his eyes lit up when Kieffer asked how she was, and the smolderingly jealous way Foyle had watched her dance last night with one of his men. During their peaceful afternoon at the river he had asked Foyle if he thought he would ever marry again. The policeman had remained silent for a time, then answered, “Probably not meant to be.” How John knew that he was thinking about the red-haired young “broad in uniform” (as Farnetti would so crassly put it) who’d driven him to the talk, he wasn’t sure, but somehow he did know. Kieffer smiled as he left the station. Christopher was a good man and he wished him happiness.

April’s first week had ended and still the weather had not become as spring-like as might be desired. The evening was crisp and cold as autumn. Neither Christopher nor Samantha said a word as they drove the short distance to The Plume of Feathers. He kept trying to quell his hopes that she had anything more to talk about than Andrew’s breakup with her, but he was finding it difficult. She was glad for the steering wheel on which to brace her hands, so that he couldn’t see them shaking. At the pub they took a seat close to the fireplace and he asked her if she would like anything to eat.
Sam surprised him by shaking her head. She smiled at his expression. “Not just now, anyway,” she added, laughing. The moment relaxed both of them slightly. After their drinks had arrived he looked at her somewhat expectantly.
She took a breath.
“Thank you, sir, for passing up Captain Kieffer’s invitation on my behalf.”
He shook his head once, his expressive face needing no words: no question that he would have done the same for any friend who’d invited him first.
“Not at all. I’d have only had too much to drink with him, to prove that we can keep up with the Americans, and I don’t need to do that to mark the closing of the case.” His smile teased, but Sam felt her heart flip over. She swallowed hard.
“Well…” She fell silent.
A look of concern came over his face, though he still smiled slightly. “What’s wrong, Sam? Is it about Andrew?”
“Erm. Indirectly, I suppose, yes,” she said, her words hesitant. “I’ve been thinking a lot about his letter, and I wanted you to know that you aren’t to worry about me. I think I’m actually quite relieved to have received it, although it muddled me at first.”
He nodded in understanding, genuinely relieved for her that she wasn’t in pain.
“That’s… good, isn’t it?”
Sam looked into his eyes and thought she saw a flicker of … trepidation? Worry? If only she could now read his thoughts, as she’d found she sometimes could. He had a bit of a shield up just now, however.
“I was happy to try to cheer up Andrew when you asked me to, sir… and I was flattered that he went on to ask me out later. But I don’t think I accepted him for the right reasons.”
Foyle nodded, uncertain whether to coax her to say more. He remained silent, but was obviously listening carefully.
His lined face and attentive eyes looked very handsome in the firelight, and Sam smoothed up one side of her hair and then kept her eyes on her hands as she went on.
“We… we had a few dates and we wrote to each other for all that time, but it never was a grand passion, really. What I found was that when he—” She hesitated. Was this the right thing to be telling his father? Special circumstance; yes. Sam blushed. “…When he... um... kissed me, I didn’t feel what I think I should have felt.” Her eyes flickered upward to check his reaction; he was studying the table in contemplation, as he might when questioning a witness, but she had no doubt that she held his entire attention.
“So I began to wonder why it was that I had kept on trying to make something out of what was actually very little between us.”
Although Foyle was glad to be hearing all of this, he also remained uncertain and guarded. What was the dear woman working up to?
Sam risked a longer look at his face, and saw him characteristically twisting his lips upward on one side, chewing the inside of his mouth. She was not at all sure how he could be just as appealing to her as ever when contorting his face thus, but he was.
He caught her gaze and she stared into his eyes, hoping she could stop talking now and just have him know in that way that he often did.
“Sam…” he shifted restlessly, his fingers grasping his glass. “Did you ever figure out why?”
Not breaking their eye contact, she nodded. Then, brave Sam took a chance. “I figured out that I was trying to have feelings for one Foyle because I wasn’t sure I should be having them for another.”
His eyes widened abruptly, and she waited in suspense for him to laugh, or to raise his eyebrows and show embarrassment. He opened his mouth to speak, but somehow nothing would emerge. When finally he did speak, his voice was soft. “Shouldn’t be having feelings for a man who was too old for you, you mean.”
Sam was pained by his defeated expression. Not even conscious of doing so, she lay her hand on his. “That wasn’t it at all. I thought I shouldn’t be having feelings for my boss… for someone older… but what does ‘too old’ mean? You may be older, but that does not mean ‘too old.’ At least, not to my way of thinking.
“I once thought, just as Andrew bent to give me a goodnight kiss, ‘You could pretend that it’s Christopher instead,’ but then I realized that if I had done, I’d have kissed him back much more warmly, and the encouragement would not have been honest.”
Sam’s expression was flushed but earnest. Her desire for him to know outweighed her difficulty with the subject matter.
Christopher coloured, turning his hand until his palm touched Sam’s, wrapping his fingers softly around hers. His voice shook. “Oh, Sam…”
She took courage from his gesture, and looked at him with a plea in her face. “Am I a fool to want this? Do you think I’m too young for you?”
He pulled the hand he was holding toward his lips and unbent her fingers to kiss her palm. She actually thought she would faint, and started to tremble.
“Are you cold?” He asked anxiously. “Here—” he rose and guided her to sit beside him, their backs to the fireplace. Sam breathed a sigh both contented and uneasy, fighting the urge to nestle her head on his shoulder; it could be that his concern was fatherly, and that he had no idea what any sort of kiss from him could do to her.
At the same moment each of them glanced at the bartender, who, though quite buried in the racing form, was standing only a few feet away.
“I think we’d be warmer…” She stopped, wincing. What did she think she was doing, inviting herself to his home? But she just wasn’t certain they could talk alone at her lodgings.
Foyle sighed deeply, trying with a dip of his head to raise the eyes she had cast down in her agitation. Again Sam had shown such courage, and again he had the urge to hold her that he had felt in the corridor of the station—except it was magnified. He yearned to feel the kiss that Sam had imagined she would return if he—he!—were the one kissing her. Finally he knew it was time for him to let his diffidence fall away and tell her that he felt everything that she did; but this was not the place.
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The Honeymoon