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Only You	By : Hazeleyed Category: 1 through F > Foyle's War Views: 6319 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Foyles War, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Disclaimer: Foyle’s War and its characters are a copyright product belonging to Anthony Horrowitz. No infringement is intended, no profit being made. Fic for fun only.

Title: Only You (chapter 5)

Rating: 16+ Mild

Author: hazeleyes57

A/N: Apologies for the delay, RL very busy at the moment. Hope this fills the gap.

                                        Only You (Chapter 5)

The funny thing about love is that it doesn’t just stop because you find that the object of your affections does not love you back.

Sam’s body ticked over, doing all the things required of it, but it was running on automatic while her heart patched itself up. She was mechanically going through the motions until she could cope with her new reality.

After his devastating outburst, Foyle had fallen into a deep sleep and Sam was grateful for the respite. She took the armchair on his side of the bed and settled down with one of the magazines, but her attention would not stay on the written words. She flipped through several pages, but didn’t take anything in.

Sam sighed heavily. She had not shed any tears yet, her sorrow too deep to express, but she needed some kind of release. She wanted to scream to let the pain out, but could not; her upbringing would not allow her that luxury.

She dropped the magazine and looked at Foyle instead. His face was no less dear to her than it had been this morning, her anxiety no lower than it had been hours ago.

Christopher had been with her last night. He had been angry that she hadn’t told him that she was a virgin; she had been cross that he could think that she would go from Andrew’s bed to his as if changing shoes or some such thing. No, she was certain that he had known at the time that it was her. He had even called her by name.

The comments that he had made were the result of his delirium; he didn’t know what he had been saying. What he had said, with painful clarity, was ‘Rosalind loved me, you’re not her, go away, dear God stop this torment’.

Rosalind loved me. You’re not her.

Rosalind loved me.

You’re not her!

The pain and anguish in his voice had been unmistakable. Delirium or not, they had been the words wrenched from his heart.

At last Sam’s tears started to fall, and they weren’t just for her.

X X   X   X

Foyle slept for the rest of the day without waking and Sam was relieved to find that she only need to change the nightshirt once more during the late evening. Between her and Mrs Flack they also changed the sheet on the bed by making one side up with the clean sheet, then rolling Foyle onto the remade side, then making up the other side, and rolling him back. He remained undisturbed by the whole thing, deeply asleep.

When the bed was tidy again, Mrs Flack shooed Sam out and told her to go for a little walk to put the bloom back in her cheeks. Sam’s pale face and red eyes had not gone unnoticed when she had been brought a bite of lunch. Sam had protested that Mrs Flack was far too busy to sit with Foyle, but she would have none of it.

“It’s quite all right, my dear. I’ve brought a cup of tea for me to sit and drink. It’ll be the only break I get until late this afternoon, so I might as well enjoy it.”

Sam found herself outside the bedroom almost before she had figured out what was happening and lifted her hand to knock on the door again, but then let her hand drop. She did think that a little walk would help clear her head, so she took Mrs Flack’s advice. She collected her now dry coat from the kitchen and left the pub.

Her intention to stroll for a few minutes turned into a fifteen minute walk around the village, passing the telephone box that she had used yesterday and, further on, the village pond, which sported a few hardy ducks and an impressive weeping willow. Although the weather was cool, it was still bright out, and Sam’s natural optimism began to reassert itself.

“I don’t mind that he loved her so much, I would have expected him to; he’s that kind of man. But eleven years is a long time to mourn, he needs to remember that only Rosalind died – he is still very much alive. If he can move on, it doesn’t mean that he didn’t love her enough. It’s no disrespect to her memory.”

Sam watched as a couple of the ducks waddled over to see if she had any titbits. She walked a little more quickly to evade them, but looked back to see if they were still following. The next thing she knew, she was on her knees in the dirt. Sam felt decidedly silly when she realised that she had tripped over a protruding tree root. After a few seconds to catch her breath, a brief inspection found new and still white grazes on both knees, which stung like the dickens. Tears gathered but she ruthlessly held them back. If she started to cry now it would be some time before she stopped and she couldn’t afford that.

Getting to her feet and dusting herself down, Sam made her way back to the pub. She didn’t make any mention of her mishap to Mrs Flack, merely waited until she had left before going to the bathroom to clean her grazes. The soap made them sting all over again, but it was for the best.

Once back in the bedroom, Sam managed to get Foyle to take several sips of water, but it was almost an automatic reflex as he swallowed, he certainly didn’t appear to be aware either of her or his surroundings.

The afternoon passed very slowly until finally tea arrived. Sam didn’t have much of an appetite – unusually for her – but, mindful of the doctor’s advice, she forced herself to consider eating something in order to stay well enough to look after Foyle. However, the aroma of the herby dumplings and stew was very tempting and she managed to clear her plate. When she had finished her cup of tea, she took the dishes downstairs as before, but also sought out Mr Flack to complete the petrol paperwork that he had mentioned earlier. As she was downstairs anyway, she detoured outside to check on the Wolseley before going back upstairs.

Sam was aware that she was trying to fill in the hours before she had to go to bed, but she was filled with an exhausting restlessness that meant she felt too tired and anxious to do anything other than sit in the armchair beside Foyle and fret.

At about half past nine in the evening, Sam disappeared off to the bathroom to wash and clean her teeth, but didn’t change for bed until she had returned to the room. She didn’t bother with her own nightdress; as she had discovered last night, it was too voluminous and hot to wear in any practical sense, especially as Foyle still had a temperature. Instead, she shook out another of the spare cotton nightshirts. Once on, it hung almost to the floor, but it was soft and comfortable. Sam hung her clothes up, taking care to straighten her shirt especially, as it was the second of the two that she had brought with her. She would have to see about washing some clothes tomorrow; she had expected to be away only one night and so had not brought an extensive selection with her.

Just before ten, Sam gave Foyle his last drink for the evening. Although he didn’t open his eyes, he seemed to be semi-aware of her intent and managed several mouthfuls of water before he stopped. She placed the half-full glass on his bedside table and turned out the light. She cautiously felt her way around the bed and climbed in her side. At first she lay flat on her back, wide awake and all too aware of her icy feet, but after about ten minutes or so the heat from Foyle’s side had stolen across the small gap between them and Sam was much warmer. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she could just make her companion’s profile.

  Sam’s feelings were so mixed; she desperately needed Foyle to wake up, not only so that she knew he would recover, but also to find out where she stood in his life. She missed his council as her friend and mentor.

She also needed to get used to the idea that he might decide that the safest thing to do was get her moved on to another posting. If her presence was a constant reminder of what he might think of as his indiscretion he would probably deem that it was best to go their separate ways.

Perversely, while he remained asleep she could let herself believe that everything would work out all right and they would have a future together.

Sam’s natural optimism kept telling her that she had in some way misunderstood what Foyle had been referring to in his feverish mutterings. He had known who he was with last night and there was no chance that he had confused her with Rosalind.

In hindsight, his resistance had been weakened by the ‘flu, and perhaps his judgement impaired, but he had still called Sam by name and asked her if she was sure about what was happening. He had given her more than one chance to call a halt to their lovemaking. He had been considerate and gentle with her, holding back his own passion until hers had risen to meet it. She blushed now to think about how eager she must have appeared to him – no wonder that he had been surprised about her virginity, she must have seemed quite wanton. How could she explain that it had all felt so right to her, like coming home?

Sam gently touched his shirtsleeve, her voice soft.

“My darling Christopher, please, please, get well. Even if you never find out, I need to tell you that I love you, and whatever happens when you wake, it won’t change how I feel about you.”

Foyle didn’t react at all, but Sam felt the better for having told him.

X   X   X   X

  It seemed to Sam as though she had only been asleep for a few minutes - though the clock’s luminous hands showed two fifty - when she realised that Foyle was pulling at the bedclothes and trying to sit up. Part of her was overjoyed that he was awake; the rest of her was baffled about where he thought that he was going.

Before Sam could say anything, she heard a groan as Foyle laboriously swung his legs to the floor. She could see him rub at his face with both hands, obviously trying to clear the mental cobwebs. After a moment, he leaned forward, his hand on the arm of the chair, braced to move.

“Christopher? What are you doing?”

Either due to the shock of hearing her voice or weakness from the ‘flu, Foyle’s plans to stand were thwarted halfway through, and he sat back down rather abruptly. He twisted slightly to look in her direction.

“Sam?”

Despite their circumstances Sam’s sense of humour reasserted itself at the surprise in his voice. She, too, sat up.

“You were expecting someone else?”

Foyle was obviously struggling to make sense of his situation.

“N…no, I…um, didn’t realise…you were awake. Umm, what’s going on?”

“You’re ill; you have influenza and a high temperature…”

Sam reached out to touch his back with the flat of her hand. She pretended not to notice him flinch at the contact, but it hurt all the same.

“You still feel hotter than normal, but it’s not as bad as it was. You must be feeling quite weak, please get back into bed; I can get whatever it was that you wanted.”

Despite the darkness Sam could make out the humorous tilt of his head.

“I don’t think so…um, I just need my dressing gown; I have to…er, to go.”

Sam frowned, blinking in the sudden brightness as Foyle switched on the bedside light.

“To go? Oh, to go! Right-ho, sit there a jiffy, I’ll help you.”

Sam quickly slid out of the bed and padded around to Foyle’s side, collecting his dressing gown on the way. She didn’t need to see his expression to know he was indignant; she could hear it in his voice.

“You most certainly will not. I can manage perfectly well.”

Sam’s tone was utterly pragmatic.

“I’m sure you can manage to fall flat on your handsome face perfectly well all by yourself, but either I’m helping you to the bathroom, or I shall fetch the chamber pot, it’s your choice.”

Foyle was so distracted by the idea that Sam thought his face was handsome that he almost missed the reference to the chamber pot.

“What? No! Er…um, your assistance to the bathroom door would be appreciated.”

Sam held the dressing gown while Foyle put it on, then he got to his feet with her help. Despite what he had said, he felt rather shaky and was grateful for her assistance, but it was the subtlest of torture to be so close to the provocative scent of her warm body.

They made reasonable progress along the landing and encountered no-one else, but as it was nearly three in the morning, Sam could not honestly say that she was surprised. They halted at the door of the bathroom.

“Don’t bolt the door, just in case you need help. I’ll wait here.”

Foyle blinked slowly, unable to voice just exactly how awkward he felt, so he simply nodded once.

It was only once Foyle had gone that Sam gave any thought to the fact that neither of them had made any mention of last night. Should she bring up the subject? Or wait until he was better? Should she wait for him to mention it? Just what was the good etiquette guide to after-sex conversation?

A few feet away, Foyle made unsteady progress across the bathroom. Given how woozy he felt, he decided that sitting was a safer option than standing.

Not having to concentrate on staying upright, Foyle finally surrendered to the uppermost thought in his mind.

Sam.

Waking to find himself in bed beside her made him think that he was still asleep and dreaming. It had taken several moments to recall just how they had ended up in bed together. The car going off the road, a long walk in the filthy weather, the warm public house, tea, food, the single room, Sam blushing but delightful. Mrs Flack coming into the room with him tangled in Sam’s nightwear.

Oh God.

Foyle rubbed a hand over his face again. He didn’t remember going back to sleep, but he did recall some terrible nightmares about both Rosalind and Sam dying; so horrible in fact, that he felt himself shiver just at the thought of them. Losing Rosalind was terrible, but losing Sam as well would have destroyed him.

He frowned as his mind moved on to another startlingly vivid dream. This too had involved Sam, but the content had been entirely different. So different in fact, that he was glad that she wasn’t in the room with him now. To wake with her in his arms, to have kissed her like that, to have made love to her…taking what she had so wondrously offered…

He would have lost her forever. Better to have her companionship; her laughter, her wit and her keen enquiring mind, than risk losing it all with a disastrous misstep such as that. He was grateful that she would never know how much he -

A soft tap on the door was heard, followed by Sam’s whisper.

“Christopher? Are you all right?”

Foyle wondered at the frisson of delight that pulsed though him when he heard his name on her lips. The same thing had happened when Sam had touched his back earlier to assess his temperature – he had been shocked at the sensation. This did not bode well. He mentally shook himself.

“Um, yes, fine. I’ll be out in a moment.”

“Okay.”

Foyle finished up and washed his hands. He peered into the mirror – much as Sam had earlier – and looked at his unshaven and rather battered appearance. The cut on his forehead was healing well, but the bruise was a beauty, just like the one on Sam’s jaw. He ran his tongue around his teeth and grimaced. He rinsed his mouth out and wished for his toothbrush. He looked back at the mirror and sighed quietly.

He turned off the light.

As soon as Foyle left the bathroom Sam took his arm and spared him the effort of having to decide whether or not to accept her support. They were back in the bedroom within a minute or two; Foyle climbed back into bed without any prompting and suddenly realised how exhausted he was from just that short walk. All his muscles ached as if he had been doing a strenuous task. He closed his eyes and savoured the comfortable mattress and cool sheets.

Foyle felt the other side of the bed dip as Sam slid in beside him. He didn’t want to open his eyes, just in case she saw something of the turmoil in them.

“Try to drink some more water if you can. The doctor said to keep you hydrated.”

Sam kept her voice low and didn’t seem to expect too much of a response from him, but Foyle opened his eyes in surprise.

“The doctor?”

Sam looked at him with concern, a little perturbed that he didn’t recall the doctor’s visit. She explained, leaving out unnecessary details.

“…and he said that he’d be back to see you again, probably tomorrow, I should think. How do you feel?”

Worried.

Foyle gave the question more serious consideration after his knee-jerk mental response. He was very concerned about his lack of recall.

“Headache. Drained. Lacking in energy. I just want to sleep for a week.”

Sam nodded.

“No ‘get up and go’. It’s to be expected. It’s obvious you’re still unwell, especially if you can’t remember the doctor’s visit.”

Foyle nodded tiredly, unable to disagree as his eyes closed again. He shifted his legs slightly and his thoughts digressed further.

“And the nightshirt?”

If his eyes had been open, he would probably have seen Sam’s face go pink, but he would have misunderstood the reason for it.

“Yes. Well. You were very poorly; the temperature made you uncomfortable, so I changed your pyjamas for the shirts when you were soaked.”

A jolt of alarm made Foyle’s eyes fly open; he looked at Sam as she calmly lay beside him.

His voice was faint with disbelief.

“You…?”

Sam nodded, her eyes still on him.

Foyle swallowed, trying to wet a mouth gone dry. His gaze clashed with Sam’s and he couldn’t seem to pull away.

The silence was deafening.

Foyle couldn’t think of a thing to say. He tried anyway.

“Er…umm.”

The moment passed, so Sam spoke instead.

“It was hard…”

Foyle looked startled.

“What?”

Sam flushed when she realised what he was probably thinking. She hurried on.

“It was difficult changing your…you…um, on my own, but I could hardly ask Mrs Flack to do it instead of me, ‘your wife’, could I?”

Foyle pursed his lips in thought, his heartbeat nowhere near back to normal.

“N…no, I see that.”

And he did, only too well. His brain was giving him picture after picture of what had probably happened.

Sam’s hands on him.

Removing his clothing.

Oh God!

And he’d been oblivious. How could he not have known?

Foyle wasn’t oblivious now and he was only a man. His body was feeding on the imaginative reconstruction and he was not unmoved by it. He was exhausted and had no energy whatsoever, but his manhood was ready for action.

How ironic.

Foyle shifted in the bed, subtlety lifting his right knee to hide any chance discovery of his condition. He was grateful for the thickness of the eiderdown.

“I’m sorry to have caused you so much trouble. It’s not how I imagined this visit would turn out.”

Sam unexpectedly smiled, making Foyle wonder what she was thinking about.

“Me neither, but it’s all right; you’ve been a very good patient.”

Foyle raised one eyebrow.

“I hope I behaved myself?”

He wasn’t altogether joking.

Foyle noted the slightly dreamy quality to Sam’s smile this time.

“Oh, you were perfect.”

The second eyebrow joined the first, making his forehead wrinkle.

“Mmm?”

Sam shook herself out of her revere. She smiled brightly at Foyle.

“I mean, you were the perfect gentleman and a perfect patient. The best - absolutely.”

Foyle’s tired brain was fairly certain that it had missed something important in the conversation, but for the life of him, he couldn’t see what it was. Foyle promised himself that he would come back to it later, when he felt better, and examine it further.

“That’s good.” He reached for the lamp. “Light out?”

Sam settled down on her pillows, masking her disappointment, and looked at her erstwhile lover. Either he didn’t remember last night, or he didn’t want to remember it. She needed time to think about what to do next – as if she hadn’t spent all day doing just that.

“Yes, thank you.”

The room went dark, and Foyle settled back too.

“‘Night, Sam.”

Oh, to hear that every night!

Sam’s smile was tremulous in the dark, but there was nothing of it in her voice.

“Goodnight, Christopher.”

Sweet dreams.

Sam lay awake for some considerable time. Somehow in her calculations, she had not allowed for the fact that Foyle would not – or could not - recall their night together.

So where did she go from here? Was he lying about his memory loss? He did seem genuinely surprised that the doctor had been to see him. He certainly appeared to have no memory of her changing his clothes; the expression on his face had been so funny - it was the first time that she had seen him that disconcerted.

If he was lying, then it was either to protect her or to protect him; he wasn’t a cruel man. If he was telling the truth, then she had to decide whether or not to tell him, or to wait until he remembered.

If he ever did.

Perhaps I shouldn’t tell him at all. If he does already know, and I tell him, he’ll have to admit it happened and he’ll probably send me away. He obviously still loves Rosalind; I’ll never forget the despair in his voice when he cried ‘Please don’t let her die!’

Sam finally decided, about five in the morning, that the merry-go-round her thoughts were on had to stop. She was not going to say anything to Foyle; he would remember or he would not, and based on her Father’s principle of ‘least said, soonest mended’ she would wait and see what happened.

Sam turned to face Foyle, slid a hand under her pillow and left the other resting on her stomach. She closed her eyes and let out a small sigh.

Sometimes we choose our destiny; sometimes it chooses us.

Let it come.
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