Still Being Young
a/n: I have learned something about the things I write. The first time I tackle any fandom, it is pretty easy. Pretty basic. But if I make a second trip in, I go for the more difficult, more totured sort of themes.
Insert continued appreciation of dancesabove here
Sam was there to meet him at the Southampton docks, as she had cabled she would be. Even knowing he was to expect her, Foyle was unprepared for the sight of her – or what it would do to him. He couldn't think a thing in that moment when he first saw her. All he knew was that he was smiling suddenly, and that there was the strangest tingle of anticipation running crisply through him.
She's pink in the face, he noted as he descended the gangplank. Been out in the wind more than she ought. He lowered his head and focused on his steps to avoid staring at her.
"Waiting long?" Christopher wondered as he finally reached her.
Years, she thought. And something inside of her seemed to leap.
She smiled and rocked – just a little – on her toes, like an older, more sedate version of the energetic woman he had known. Suddenly she half-lurched forward that last two feet, as if the impulse to throw her arms around him had been one she had fought. And lost to.
"So good to see you, Sam. So very good." He risked returning her embrace with his free hand at her waist. He leaned back just as quickly, to tackle what he had worried about for three weeks.
"Your last letter..." Your last three, he thought, made no mention of Adam or getting married.
They were standing in the way, she noted with a glance over his shoulder. "Over here. Please. Come with me." And he was stupefied by something in her manner, but following her. She was holding his hand tightly and she was leading him toward the bricks of the customs house and the shade there.
"What is it? What's the matter, Sam?"
"Christopher?"
That was how he had signed those letters from America. It was all part of coming to terms with the two of them not being who they had been before. Because times change, he reminded himself sadly. And any future between them would be less formal. Less defined. But also less attached.
She was leaning up against the wall now, still gripping his hand and seeming a tad undone. But then it was quite understandable, he felt. She had hinted that things were not going well with Adam.
The case Foyle had held clunked to the pavement while they stared at each other, but neither paused to look at it.
"Do you know how long I've known you?" she asked enigmatically.
"Yes."
"Down to the day, or to the week, or..."
"Down to the number of months, Sam, quite easily... because I know exactly the day you walked in. Why?"
It wasn't just that answer that buoyed her; it was the way he looked at her. His gaze was intense. Concerned and searching.
And still being young, she let herself believe the world was possible, because of something as simple as the hand he'd placed on her arm and had not moved.
All in, Sam figured. She kissed him then. Full on the mouth and not at all chastely. There was this one chance, her brain told her. He'd pull away in a second or two, and tell her she had misunderstood. It would be the end of all those fantasies.
He wasn't bolting, she noted, despite how tightly she had closed her eyes. In fact, he kissed her back – at least briefly – she was sure or fairly sure. She felt his weight shift. Registered that his arm had come up and landed on the bricks near her head so that he could steady himself.
And he ended the kiss then. But lingered just those few inches apart from her.
"Miss Stewart," he tried to joke, hoarsely. One eyebrow twitched high.
Her voice came out too sharp. "Not angry, then?"
"Confused. Slightly startled at first, but I think I'm past that. It's been forever since..." he began, with a growing smile. But he stopped and the smile slid away. He would not reveal that: just how long it had been since a woman had surprised him with a kiss like that.
"Sam? You do know that kind of welcome home is not at all de rigueur for old policemen?"
"Don't," she said, quite firmly.
"What?"
"Don't make a joke about your age because I've kissed you. Please. Don't."
He had done too much of that in his letters. Talked about his age. About being past so much. She'd admonished him about it when she'd answered.
Christopher stumbled an apology.
And for her, the swell of emotion made this the moment of truth.
"The plan was..." she said, with a heavy swallow. "I'd kiss you – just amazingly – and then..." She stalled.
"Yes, you've managed that first part."
"Ah..." She allowed herself a quick, relieved smile aimed at her shoes before looking at him quite seriously. "And then... after, I'd ask, well, offer to have..."
Suddenly she couldn't finish the sentence she had planned. She couldn't say, 'offer to have an affair with you.'
So, she fell into to telling him, "I'd offer to drive you home."
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