A/N: I have not watched a lot of Foyle's War yet but what little I have seen I've really enjoyed. I especially like the relationship between Foyle and Andrew. So here is my version of what might have happened if Andrew had gone home instead of going to Sam's when he went AWOL in Enemy Fire.

This is the first time I have published a story so please review and let me know what you think, any constructive criticism is welcome but please no flames.

This was kindly edited by LauraRaposa and all the characters belong to the creators and the wonderful actors who portray them.

Chapter 1

It was late when Christopher Foyle heard a key snick in the lock, and he frowned as he listened to the familiar sounds of Andrew entering the house. He was delighted to have his son home but Foyle thought he only had a weekend pass from the RAF.

"Andrew," he called out.

Foyle's son stuck his head around the door.

"You're up late again, Dad."

"Not that late…good to see you," said Foyle. "Thought you only had a weekend pass?"

Something flickered in Andrew's eyes but it disappeared before Foyle could catch it. It was replaced instead by a weariness the police detective had sadly become accustomed to seeing on his son's face the last few times Andrew had been home from "the damn war."

"You're out late. Another evening out?" Hmm. No lipstick this time, Foyle thought.

"Err…not exactly, I, um, I went to see Mum." Andrew ducked his head, and then continued, "I wanted to apologize for not being there the other day, and I can't believe I missed it, I mean."

Foyle sighed and shook his head. "Andrew, Andrew…" His son stopped and looked at him.

"I told you before you have nothing to apologize for, you've done nothing wrong. There's a war on, I understand that, and your mum would have, too. She'd care more that you're safe rather than if you made it back here for the, well, the anniversary."

Foyle spoke earnestly and truthfully as he always did. It worried him to see Andrew so upset and fixated on his oversight. It rarely seemed to affect him in the past. Maybe it was the war and the death that surrounded them all. Losing his best friend, Rex, in a dogfight over the Channel had really shaken Andrew.

The sound of Andrew sitting down in his usual chair drew him from his thoughts. He glanced up at his troubled son and took in the young man's ashen face with dark circles under his eyes. The darkness in Andrew's eyes almost frightened Foyle. And he noticed with concern that his son's hands were shaking.

Breaking the silence, Foyle said, "Andrew, how did you get here? I didn't hear the bike."

Andrew seemed to be a in a bit of a daze, "Um, oh, I um, walked."

"You walked," asked his concerned father, a little louder than he intended. "Why did you do that?"

Andrew, looking surprised at his father's outburst, said, "Well, I stopped at a pub for a drink after seeing Mum, and I wasn't sure if I was fit to drive, so I walked. It wasn't that far…a bit cold though."

Foyle ran a hand through his hair as he stood. "A bit more then a bit cold. I'll fix you some tea. Why don't you put a bit more wood on the fire?"

By the time Foyle returned to the lounge with the tea tray, the room was noticeably warmer and Andrew was leaning up against the mantelpiece. He turned as Foyle entered accepting the steaming cuppa with a quiet "thanks" and a wan smile.

Father and son sat in silence for a bit as Andrew appeared preoccupied, staring blindly into the fire sipping his tea. Foyle studied him while he drank his own tea and wondered what Andrew was seeing in those flames. Honestly, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

A quick look at the clock on the mantelpiece showed the late hour, and Foyle still wasn't entirely sure how long - or even why - Andrew was back at home. It became increasingly apparent that his son wasn't going to shed any light on the situation.

Foyle cleared his throat and asked, "So…your leave got extended then?"

Andrew's gaze shifted from the fire to his father and then back again, "Err, well not exactly."

"Meaning?"

Andrew brought a hand up to his face, shading his eyes. "I've gone AWOL, Dad."

Foyle almost dropped his cup. "You've done what?" He didn't bother to keep the shock out of his voice as his steel blue eyes bore into his son's forehead.

Andrew rubbed a hand across his face, "I've gone AWOL. I can't go back. I don't care what they do to me." He spoke with fierce desperation as he stared at his father almost daring him to disagree.

Foyle struggled to understand. "But, Andrew, you've got to go back. You'll be court martialed."

Andrew put his cup down and ran his hands through his thick, brown hair. "I can't…I can't fly another op, Dad. I just can't. For weeks now I've been sick. I can't sleep, I can't eat, and every day we get fewer, Dad. I can't do it anymore."

The desperation in his son's voice tore at his heart but it was the look in Andrew's eyes that hurt Foyle the most. He'd seen that look before in the trenches in France during the Great War. It had been terrible then, and now to see it reflected in his son's eyes broke his heart. He didn't think he had ever hated Hitler more then he did in that moment when he saw a desperate, broken man staring back at him through his boys' brown eyes.

Foyle rubbed a hand over his forehead as he contemplated his words. "Well, we both know I would be delighted if you never flew another op, but Andrew they will come looking for you, and this will be one of the first places they'll look. What are you planning on doing? Hiding in the Anderson shelter for the rest of the war? You know they'll find you, arrest you. They'll expect me to turn you in!"

Andrew's eyes flashed with anger. "Oh, and are you going to, Dad? Damn it, I should have known you wouldn't understand," he said as he stood and strode towards the door.

"Andrew! Wait! Of course I'm not going to turn you in. Don't be daft, but I'm also not going to stand by and let you get yourself court martialed. You'll have to go back, and if you really feel you can't do it anymore, we'll figure something out. But this isn't the proper thing to do, Andrew, and you know it."

He stood there watching his son's back for any sign that his words had sunk in when he saw the strong shoulders start to shake.

"Andrew," he said calmly as he took a step forward.

The shaking continued, and when Andrew finally spoke it was in a voice thick with tears. "Don't make me go back, Dad. Please. Please, don't make me go back."

Foyle felt his heart break again at his son's tearful plea. He crossed to where Andrew was standing and placed a gentle hand on his arm and that was all it took. Andrew spun and wrapped his arms around his father burying his face in Foyle's neck, muffling both his tears and his repeated pleas of "Please, don't make me go back."

Foyle was stunned for a moment but he soon found himself running a hand over the back of Andrew's head just as he had when he was a little boy. He murmured soothingly, "Sshh…It's alright…Shh…won't send you anywhere tonight…Sshh…I'm here, it's alright."

Andrew soon stopped his pleas but still sobbed with the same intensity. After a few minutes Foyle frowned and pulled back a bit to try and see his son's face. "Andrew?"

His son straightened a little and ran a hand over his face. "Sorry, Dad, I can't seem to stop. I don't know what's wrong with me." He tried a watery laugh but Foyle shook his head. He knew what the problem was even if Andrew didn't - exhaustion, stress, and the losses of friends his son hadn't given himself time to mourn. It had all caught up with Andrew, and now there was nothing to be done but let it run its course.

He had seen it in France - men who hadn't cried in weeks going to pieces over a dead bird. There was a limit to how much a man could take and Andrew seemed to have reached it. Foyle had prayed that his son would never experience this degree of trauma but those prayers had gone unanswered. So, now it was up to him to help him through it. His frown deepened when he saw Andrew's knees begin to shake. He reached out quickly and caught his elbow steering him down on to the settee.

"I'm sorry, Dad. Don't know what's the matter with me," said Andrew, his voice muffled as he sat with his head buried in his hands. The shame in his voice made Foyle close his eyes for a minute before sitting down beside his son. He paused as he often did to collect his thoughts and then placed a firm hand on Andrew's shoulder.

"Andrew, can you look at me, please," asked Foyle as his son lifted his tear-stained face. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Andrew, and you've done nothing wrong." He tried to infuse as much love and strength into the words as he could but Andrew just shook his head.

"I've gone AWOL, Dad, and, as you pointed out, they'll court martial me for it. Now I'm sitting here crying like a baby," he said, rubbing his eyes. "God, I don't know what's come over me today."

"What's come over you, as you put it, Andrew, is exhaustion." He held up a hand to forestall this son's interruption. "You told me yourself you haven't slept properly in weeks. How many ops have you flown in that time?"

Andrew shrugged, "God, I don't know, Dad. I've been on nearly 30 this week so at least double that I guess…probably more."

Foyle closed his eyes briefly, the knowledge that his son had been in direct combat that often scared him more then he'd admit. He steeled himself to ask the next question. He hated to do it because he knew it would cause Andrew pain. But he knew that in the long run, it would help.

"And how many men have you lost in that time," he asked.

Andrew's eyes flew open, and for a quick second those eyes flashed something akin to hatred, but it was quickly melted by the love and compassion that filled his father's face. He turned away and stared into the fire again, the shaking of his shoulders the only movement in the room.

Foyle swallowed down the lump in his own throat, wondering if he should have left this alone until Andrew was stronger. But now it was done.

He reached out and laid a gentle hand on his son's shaking shoulder. "Andrew?" He felt the shoulders stiffen slightly then Andrew turned to face him. The pain in his son's eyes took Foyle's breath away so much so he barely heard the mumbled reply of "Eight" before Andrew threw himself into his arms for the second time that evening.

"Eight, Dad…most of them younger then me. I'm the leader on most of the ops. I'm supposed to bring them home, not help collect their kit so it can be sent home to their families!"

Foyle closed his eyes, blinking back his own tears as he ran a hand through his son's hair. He had thought that Andrew was mourning his friends - a heavy enough burden to bear. But to hear him blame himself, to hear him describe how responsible he felt for their safety, proved just how seriously his son took his job. Foyle didn't think he had ever been prouder of Andrew or more heartbroken for him.

He looked down at the young man who was sobbing into his waistcoat and whispered a small prayer of thanks that his son had not been one of those eight. As changed and broken as he was, Andrew was still in his arms. Alive. He let him cry, gently rubbing his back and trying to marshal his own emotions enough to speak.

Andrew was sobbing uncontrollably, half lying on his father, one hand clinging tightly to his waistcoat as he poured out all the tears he hadn't let himself cry. He found that since he started shedding tears, he didn't seem able to stop.

Foyle chewed on his lip slightly as he wondered just how long it had been since his son had let himself cry. The only time he could bring to mind was Rex's death and that was months ago now.

He looked down again and couldn't quite blink back the tears at the memory of the last time he had held his son like this almost exactly nine years ago. When Rosalind died he hadn't been able to get Andrew to come out of his room. Foyle allowed his son to grieve silently while he, numb with loss, went through the necessary motions of informing family and friends and calling the vicar.

It was hours later, when he had finally collapsed on to the settee with a glass of single malt, that he felt Andrew sit beside him. He looked over to see his own grief reflected in his son's sad, young face. All he had asked was, "Why, Dad," before collapsing into his father's arms much like he had this evening. And it was only then, as Foyle held his sobbing boy, that he had let those first tears fall.

"Why Dad?" Andrew's voice was deeper then it had been at 13 years old but just as heartbroken. And, just as before, Foyle had no answer for him as some questions have no answers.

"I don't know, Son, I don't know..."

"But it isn't fair!"

"No, it isn't, but war and death seldom are," he answered as he raised a hand and wiped away his own tears. Andrew had quieted but was still crying softly, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

Foyle ran a hand gently across his back as he spoke. "It wasn't your fault, Andrew. I know you did everything you could to keep them safe, but it wasn't your fault that they died." His voice was soft and loving, but he chose his words carefully. He wished he could erase his son's guilt with his words alone.

He felt Andrew shake his head. "But, Dad…"

"No, Andrew, look at me." His son lifted his head and Foyle looked squarely into his blood shot eyes. "It wasn't your fault, Andrew. Men die in war and it's bloody awful but it wasn't my fault when two of my friends died in the Battle of the Somme, and it isn't your fault that your squadron lost eight men."

"Twelve, if you count Rex, Douglas, Peter and Murray."

"Twelve then," Foyle said. "If you must blame someone blame the Germans, blame Hitler but do not blame yourself, Andrew. They knew, just as you did, what the risks were when they signed up. The fact that they died is tragic - and it always will be - but it is not your fault."

Andrew ducked his head, wiped his eyes and then mumbled, "Will it always hurt like this, Dad?"

Foyle felt his jaw twitch. God he hated the war! Bloody Hitler! What happened to the 'war to end all wars?' What had they fought for if not to save their sons from this kind of pain?

"No, you will always miss them but it gets easier to bear…" He paused and swallowed before continuing "…just like Mum."

Andrew nodded and laid his head down on his father's leg. He was too wrung out and exhausted to move or care that he had been 13 years old the last time he had purposefully fallen asleep against his father.

As he watched Andrew settle against his leg, Foyle suddenly became aware of just how chilly the room was. He looked across and saw that the fire was only smoldering now. It won't do Andrew any good to get a chill. 'He squeezed his son's shoulder, "Andrew?"

"Mhh…I'm tired, Dad."

"I know, Son," Foyle said. "Want to go up to bed?"

"Fine here"

Sensing that his son was probably too tired to make it up the stairs just now - and was certainly too big for him to carry - he settled for the next best thing. "Right. Well, sit up for a moment."

"Why?"

"I need to stoke the fire."

"Alright," said Andrew as he pushed himself up sleepily and leaned back against the settee with his eyes closed.

Five minutes later, his father had stoked the fire and retrieved his book as well as the ignored tumbler of whiskey. He then began to work off Andrew's boots. "There now, put your legs up…that's it." He eased his son's long legs up onto the settee and covered him gently with a blanket before pausing to decide where to sit.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Stay?" The question was soft and almost childish, and Foyle felt himself smile.

"Yes, Andrew, I'm staying." With those words he carefully settled himself on the settee by Andrew's head. A minute later he felt Andrew squirm. He looked down just as his son rested his head on his leg.

Andrew let out a contented sigh. For the first time in weeks the RAF fighter pilot felt safe. He was covered with a blanket knitted by his grandmother many years ago as he rested like a child against his father's leg on their settee. He felt Foyle's hand brush the hair off his forehead and sighed again before giving himself over to a sleep he so desperately needed.

Foyle took a sip from the crystal tumbler and smiled softly as he watched Andrew drift off to sleep. He let his mind wander back over the years to the first time he had put his son to sleep like this.

Late into the night Christopher Foyle sat on the settee in his dimly lit lounge, gently smoothing his son's hair, as his eyes and thoughts took him far away.