Historical Note: The Battle of Britain was fought from July 10 - October 31, 1940 so this is set in the late stages and after three months of fierce fighting between the RAF and Luftwaffe.

Early October 1940

A knock sounded at the door and Christopher Foyle called for them to enter glancing up from his paperwork and then starting badly, for there in the doorway, dressed as ever in his RAF blues, was Andrew "Andrew!"

His son grinned "Hullo Dad!"

"You didn't say you were coming"

"Wasn't sure the leave would come through, didn't want to get your hopes up, I've only got 48 hours."

He looked exhausted the circles under his eyes deeper then they had been last time he was home and Foyle couldn't help chewing worriedly on his cheek as he approached his son. If he had been a more demonstrative man he would have hugged him but as it was he just shook Andrew's hand and let his other hand rest warmly on his son's shoulder for a minute. "You look like you could do with a good meal, what do you say we head to the pub?"

Andrew grinned, "Works for me Dad, better than your cooking."

Foyle raised an eyebrow, "Says the man who would have starved to death by now if left to his own devices."

Andrew laughed, "I'm not as bad as all that" he protested mildly, Foyle raised an eyebrow but said nothing, too relieved to have his son safely home again to tease him.

The pub had supplied what would have been a rather mediocre meal before the war but was now about as good as one could hope for and they were soon back home again, situated before the fire with a tumbler of scotch apiece.

They sat in companionable silence for a while and then Foyle noticed with concern that Andrew's hands were shaking, not so much so that he couldn't hold his glass but trembling all the same. He bit his lip worried but not wanting to embarrass Andrew, after all he remembered similar moments from the last war when he would be consumed with tremors only after they were safely back behind the lines for a spell.

After ten minutes though the shaking had increased and Andrew was squeezing his hands together tightly. Foyle frowned deeply, "Andrew?" His voice was gentle and his son looked up at him with an almost rueful smile.

"S-sorry Dad"

Foyle shook his head instantly, "Don't be. You alright?"

Andrew nodded, "Yes happens all the time now, except when I'm in the air."

"I see" Foyle's voice was grave and Andrew winced.

"Please don't worry Dad, it happens to the other lads too."

Foyle did not find the knowledge that other young men were equally traumatized comforting but he nodded anyway, "Anything I can do?"

Andrew shook his head, "No just have to wait, it will pass, always does" he smiled weakly and then closed his eyes as a great shudder ran through him.

Foyle could not simply sit and watch his son shake so he built up the fire, then retrieved the blanket from the settee and wrapped it around Andrew's shoulders before heading to the kitchen to make him a cup of tea, adding the last of his sugar ration in the hopes that it would help. When he returned Andrew was shaking too badly to hold the cup himself so Foyle helped him drink the sweet milky tea, pleased that it seemed to help a little but increasingly concerned as Andrew continued to tremble.

"Christ I hate this" Andrew muttered, "Haven't had a spell this bad in weeks."

Foyle's brow creased deeply in concern, wondering again if it was the strange blessing and curse of being temporally safe that was forcing Andrew to acknowledge, at least physically, all that he had endured. He'd had spells like this when he was first home after the last war, where he would shake like a leaf no matter how warm it was and the only thing that seemed to help was for Rosalind to hold him tightly and remind him again and again that he was safe and the war was over.

He looked at her picture, knowing that if she were still alive that's what she would be doing for their son now. She would have wrapped Andrew in a warm embrace and soothed him as if he were a little boy again. Doing everything in her power to shield him, at least for a little while, from the horrors he had endured. Foyle was not a physically demonstrative man but he knew what Rosalind would expect of him at this moment and he could not bear to let her or Andrew down.

He looked down at his trembling son and squeezed the back of his neck gently, "Think I know something that will help. Come and sit on the settee."

Andrew looked slightly skeptical but did as his father asked. Foyle took a deep breath and then sat beside his son and put an arm over his shoulders. Andrew looked at him in surprise and then, reading the love and comfort in his father's eyes, turned into the embrace and buried his face in Foyle's neck.

"I've got you Andrew it's all right, you're safe now son" Foyle murmured running one hand over the back of Andrew's head. Andrew made no reply only held his father tighter his tremors shaking them both now.

Foyle didn't know how long he held his son, telling him again and again that it was all right, that he was safe, but finally Andrew stopped shaking. Instead of pulling back however Andrew curled his long legs onto the settee and rested his head in Foyle's lap, seemingly too exhausted to move.

Foyle looked down at his son, Andrew was pale and thin, his young face prematurely lined by the hardships he had endured and he felt an overwhelming desire to protect his boy from the world. He knew he couldn't stop the war, but maybe just for tonight he could keep Andrew safe from it's demons. Picking up the blanket that had fallen to the floor at some point he carefully spread it over his son, lips pulling down into a small smile as Andrew let out a contented sigh. "Rest son" he murmured, gently running a hand through Andrew's hair, "Just rest, Dad's here and I won't let anything happen to you."

Andrew's only reply was the gentle rise and fall of his chest and Foyle rested his head back against the settee, ready to stay here as long as Andrew needed him, incredibly grateful to have his son home once more.

The End