Title: Duty-bound

Author: TartanLioness

Summary: When Foyle has a few choice words to say to Andrew, Andrew discovers his father's secret. Will Foyle ever take his son's advice?

A/N: I give you this as a peace offering after my last series of ficlets. This is romance, romance and romance and nothing else! There will be no angst and definitely a happy ending. I would like to thank emma de los nardos for her immense help with this when I was stuck as well as my beta dancesabove for her continual encouragement and help as well as some amazing late-night (for me) discussions about life and Michael Kitchen.

…

"So, how is Sam doing?" Andrew Foyle asked casually, leaning back in his chair. A few well-deserved days off had given him time to return home for a brief visit and he had jumped at the chance to see his father again. The trip had been ghastly and he was glad to be relaxing at home, nursing a tumbler of whiskey, talking with his father about everything; the war, his own duties in Debden, Foyle's work… And it was the latter that had led to the question his father was now contemplating.

Foyle gazed thoughtfully at his son, blinking a few times before finally answering, "She's fine. No thanks to you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Andrew asked indignantly, sitting up straighter and setting the glass of whiskey aside.

"A letter? Really, Andrew."

For a moment, Andrew looked ashamed. He should have known that his father would find out what had happened between the two of them and he mentally kicked himself for bringing Sam into the conversation.

"I just thought it was better than leading her on, after everything happened with Kate…"

"Kate?" Foyle interrupted.

"Yes. She… I met her in Debden, she's…" Andrew hesitated, realising that he was getting in over his head rather quickly with this conversation.

"Are you still seeing this girl?" Foyle asked pointedly, with only the slightest of stresses on 'this'. Andrew noticed it, however, and looked down.

"No, it, uh – it didn't work out. Look Dad, she's not important, I'm sorry for how I treated Sam, but I was lonely and with the distance it was never going to work!"

Foyle couldn't help it; he felt his blood boil with anger and the urge to reprimand the romantically arrogant idiot he had for a son was too great to resist.

"So not only could you not manage to remain faithful to a woman as wonderful as Sam, you left her for a girl who meant nothing to you? Honestly, Andrew." His disappointment with his son was evident in his eyes.

"But Dad! Sam was fine, she sent me a note wishing me all the best! She agreed that it wouldn't have worked out."

"Yes of course she did, what else could she do? You'd met someone else, hadn't you, what was she supposed to do, beg? Sam wouldn't do that. She is a brave, proud and kind young woman – and frankly, she's better than you deserve," Foyle finished heatedly.

Andrew stared at his dad for a few long moments, realisation dawning on him.

"You're in love with her," he said quietly, unsure if he was asking a question or stating the obvious. "Dad?"

Foyle returned his gaze unabashedly, hesitating before saying in a calm and businesslike tone, "Regardless of what my feelings for Sam are, you behaved like a complete pillock and honestly, I'm disappointed in you."

"So you admit it? You're in love with Sam?" Andrew pressed him. "Why didn't you tell me before, Dad?"

Foyle cringed and tried to ignore his son's words, continuing, "You stepped out with her, you led her to believe that you cared about her, you promised her you'd write…she even helped you out by letting you stay in her flat when you went AWOL, for God's sake! And then you treat her like that."

"So that's what this is all about, is it?" Andrew asked heatedly. "The fact that I stayed in Sam's flat?"

Foyle sighed. "I didn't mean to get into this, Andrew, but if you're asking me, yes, that was something else you shouldn't have done. It wasn't right of you to go to Sam and ask for a place to stay. You put her in a very awkward position, as my driver and as someone who knew that you were supposed to be on base."

"She wanted to help me out!" Andrew protested. "You saw me then – I was a wreck. I couldn't bear the thought of going back to fly another mission."

"You signed up for the RAF," Foyle reminded him not unkindly. "There are other ways, better ways, to handle battle fatigue than to go AWOL. Sam signed up for the Forces as well and should have reported you. You put her at very great risk by coming to her; she could have been arrested for treason. You both had a duty to do and not only did you not do yours, you put Sam in a position where she had to choose between her duty and her love for you."

Andrew sat back in his chair, thinking. He understood that his father was not angry with him for his combat fatigue, only with the way he had handled it, just as he wasn't angry at the fact that he'd broken things off with Sam, only the way he had done it. But even that was not foremost on his mind. Instead he was preoccupied with the news that his father had fallen in love with his driver.

"And what's your duty, Dad?" Andrew finally asked.

Foyle raised an eyebrow at his son. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, where do you fit in, with all this?" Foyle remained silent, refusing to answer his son's question. Andrew continued, "All your talk of duty – is duty what has kept you back?"

"I told you, Andrew, I refuse to discuss my feelings towards Sam with you. End of conversation."

Andrew stood up quickly and began to pace around the room. "I can't believe it. You're in love with Sam… Does she know?" Foyle shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his face still. "No, I'll bet she doesn't even guess at it. You always did keep your feelings to yourself, didn't you, Dad?"

"Andrew—" Foyle began, but Andrew interrupted him.

"All this talk of duty…that is what has kept you from speaking to her, right?" Andrew's voice grew softer, almost compassionate towards his father. "You feel it's not right because of your age difference and because she's your driver."

Foyle grimaced. The conversation had already taken a turn that he hadn't expected, and he wanted to end it as soon as possible. His policy was to never discuss his relationships with women with Andrew, and them having feelings for the same girl only strengthened that resolve. He hadn't wanted his son to ever know that, or Sam, either—he could only imagine the awkwardness that would ensue if his driver ever dreamed that he harboured feelings for her.

Realising that nothing could possibly get Andrew off the subject of Foyle's feelings for his driver, he stood and said, "Right, well. I'm off to bed."

Just has he reached the door, Andrew called out to him and he turned around to face his son with a weary look on his face.

"Don't worry. I won't tell Sam," Andrew said earnestly. "But I do think you should."

Foyle gave him his 'Honestly, who do you think you're kidding?' look but Andrew just shrugged, saying quietly, speaking with a wisdom Foyle hadn't expected in his son, "You have a duty to yourself, too."

"Thanks," Foyle said quietly before turning again and leaving the room.

Andrew remained sitting in his chair. He could hear his father rummaging about upstairs as he picked up his glass of whiskey and swirled the liquid around.

He had felt an unexpected surge of jealousy when he realised that his father was in love with his much younger driver, but it had merely flickered for a few seconds before disappearing altogether. He was certainly fond of the bright young woman, but their mutual affection had never managed to grow into love. They were at too different places in their lives for that, he mused, taking a sip of his whiskey. Somehow he would not be surprised at Sam finding love with a somewhat older man… but the idea of her and his father had never crossed his mind.

Foyle wasn't tired; he had only decided to go to bed to avoid any more of Andrew's questions. He sighed, looking at his ceiling in the soft light from the candle on his nightstand that he used to conserve energy for more important things than night-time contemplation.

Andrew's talk of duty had unsettled him and he was surprised by it. Duty was by no means a foreign concept to him; he had spent his youth knowing that he would be a policeman when he grew up, a duty he owed his father. Then he served in the Great War – a duty he had to his king and country. And he had spent his adult life bringing justice to criminals and fulfilling the duty he had to the victims. But all of those, he realised, were professional duties. Could Andrew have a point when he said that Foyle had a duty to himself as well? That he owed it to himself to be happy?

But could he really bring himself to admit his secret to her? Could he tell Sam that he loved her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her? Could he live with her answer? Either answer, he decided, would cause him pain.

If she said yes, if she told him she felt the same, would he not be terrified that she was too young to know her own feelings? Would he not fear that his position as an authority figure might have influenced her in such a way that she only fancied herself in love with him?

And if she said no… could he go to work every day, knowing that she would know when he put his hand on the back of her seat that he was trying to be nearer to her? Could he bear the look of pity? Or worse, disgust? Could he risk telling her, only to have her brought back to Lyminster because her father didn't trust him?

Foyle groaned, throwing his arm over his face and hiding his eyes in the crook of his elbow.

…

"Andrew," Sam said, surprise evident in her voice as she opened the door. He smiled crookedly.

"Hello, Sam. I have a spot of leave and I thought I might take you out for lunch?" he asked hopefully, lifting the picnic basket in his hand.

"You did?" she replied drily, raising one eyebrow slightly in a gesture that reminded him of his dad. He nearly grinned.

"Yeah, as a sort of… apology. Look, Sam," he sighed. "I know I was a complete pillock and I behaved dreadfully to you. I'm sorry. You deserve better than that."

"Can't disagree with you there," Sam replied. Andrew sighed again.

"You're not going to make this easier for me, are you?"

"I don't see why I should," she shrugged, but couldn't help the smile that snuck on to her face at Andrew's utterly dejected look. Softening slightly, she said, "You hurt me, Andrew – "

"I know, Sam, and I'm –"

"– but I suppose it was for the best."

For a few moments he just stared at her, trying to compute what she had just said.

"Really?"

Sam smiled crookedly. "Lunch?" she asked and Andrew grinned, having figured that the promise of food would be his best chance of getting her out of the house.

When they'd walked for a few minutes in silence, Andrew half turned to her.

"It was for the best?"

Sam sighed. "I was really hurt when I got that letter and for a while I really wanted to hate you. I felt like you'd deserted me and somehow I wasn't feeling quite as forgiving as the RAF when you went AWOL… but then when I thought about it some time later, I realised that I wasn't angry anymore. I cared for you Andrew, I really did. But it never had the chance to grow into love between us and now when I look back I don't think it ever would have. Does that make sense?"

Andrew looked at her with surprise. First of all because he hadn't realised that she had considered their relationship so objectively after its end, and secondly because he remembered thinking the exact same thing the night before. He told her as much.

"I just… Sam, I want you to know that despite the way I treated you, I really did care about you. Deeply."

"Thank you," she said earnestly, feeling as though this talk had done her good.

For a few moments neither spoke. Then Andrew said with a chuckle, "You know, Dad gave me a complete dressing-down. Not that I didn't deserve it," he added quickly. "But he really cares about you, you know."

Sam didn't respond, but he could see the small smile on her face magnified a thousand times in her eyes. Andrew sighed and she turned to him, her smile faltering when she noticed the serious, contemplative look on his face.

"What's the matter?" she asked softly, touching his arm briefly. Andrew smiled crookedly and without happiness for a second, letting out a small huff of breath.

"I should thank you, really. For taking care of him. For what it's worth, it makes me feel a lot better knowing you are here with him. He never says anything directly, but sometimes I wonder if he'd have made it this far without someone like you."

"Andrew," Sam whispered, touched by his words and hoping that there was some truth to them; that she really mattered to Christopher Foyle.

Andrew grinned in spite of himself and said, "Just never tell him I told you that, all right?"

When they finally reached the park, they were talking good-naturedly about unimportant things.

…

Foyle had only just come home when he was roused from his dark musings by an adamant, continuous rapping on his front door. Discarding for the moment the thoughts of his unconscious god-daughter and the desperation which had driven her to walk into the ocean with her pockets full of stones, he went to open the door. On his steps stood a dishevelled Sam with one hand still raised to knock and the other holding the smaller hand of a dirty-faced James. Foyle stared.

"What on earth has happened?" he asked, ushering them both inside. As far as he could tell, neither was seriously hurt, but his stomach still knotted with worry.

"There was a bomb!" Sam exclaimed exasperated.

"A bomb?" Foyle asked, confused about the whole situation. There'd been no alarms, he had heard no planes overhead. He shook his head lightly. "Let me get you a drink."

Sam nodded gratefully.

"So, where was this bomb?" Foyle asked after a few moments, leading her into his living room. Sighing, she sat down heavily on his sofa.

"It came out of nowhere. I'd taken James out for a picnic, you know, fresh air and so on, and there we are, just walking calmly through the woods, when someone yells at us and a bomb goes off! I have to say, it was the last thing I was expecting," Sam said as Foyle poured her a drink. "Do you realise that it's the third time I've been blown up?"

"Can't say I was counting," he said, handing her the glass. It was only a half-lie. He hadn't been counting, as such, but he remembered clearly every time she had been hurt or in danger during the last three years. Every time he had failed to keep her safe.

"Well, first of all there was the pub," she said, gesturing with her drink. "And then Jerry dropped a bomb on my house and now this! I was only going for a walk in the woods; seems nowhere's safe these days."

"And you saw what?" Foyle asked, frowning as he sat down opposite her.

"Two youths. They were both about eighteen I'd say," she replied, looking down and to the side, trying to remember as much useful information as possible. "One was tall and had dark hair and his name was Terry – I heard the other one call out to him."

"The other one wasn't called Frank by any chance?"

Sam bit her lip. "D'you know, I think that might have been his name. How did you know?" she asked frowningly, looking surprised.

"They're the same men who helped Milner when he got into trouble the other night."

"Well that's nice of them," Sam huffed, taking a drink of her whiskey. "Rescue Milner and then try to kill me. I wish they'd get their priorities sorted out."

Foyle huffed slightly in amusement before asking with a raised eyebrow, "Going to be all right?"

Sam sighed but lifted her eyes to meet his and nodded. "Absolutely. I feel tip-top. And thank you for the whiskey."

"Pleasure."

…

Foyle sighed as he left the Royal Victoria. Everything about this case had gone to the dogs and no justice would be served. The guilty people went without punishment because of the war effort or some idiotic diplomatic immunity, while two young boys would have their lives ruined by years of hard labour for simply being weak.

Could anyone blame him for no longer wishing to be a part of a police force that no longer had justice as its main goal?

At least Lydia was going to be all right. Still, he was horrified at the thought that she hadn't felt like she could come home after her husband had left her with an infant James. Seven years' estrangement had changed his god-daughter from a cheerful, intelligent, if somewhat rebellious, girl to a depressed and bitter woman with a constant need to defend herself against everyone.

…

That night, Foyle thought about his conversation with Andrew for the first time in nearly a year. Twice since that particular night had Sam been in danger; first that same summer when she was admitted to hospital with what the doctors had first thought was some type of influenza. In fact it had been anthrax, and when Foyle had first visited her, she'd been sleeping – or unconscious – her pale form lying limp on the bed. He had gazed at her for a few moments before leaving, his heart thudding with fear.

Then, as now, he'd been sorely tempted to admit to her that he couldn't imagine life without her. Then he had been ready to look beyond any and all duties he might have and simply tell her everything, but he hadn't been able to. Instead, he had reassured her of her importance to the team and tried to hint at her importance to him as a person by telling her he couldn't go anywhere without her.

Now, as he slowly sipped a glass of whiskey, he finally had time to consider what had happened to Sam. While he was working the case he'd been too preoccupied with that and Lydia's situation, but now, with the case closed and his life as a policeman over, he allowed himself to ponder the irrational fear he had felt when Sam showed up on his doorstep, dishevelled but unhurt. He had wanted to take her in his arms and hold her forever; he had wanted to kiss her and tell her he loved her. But he had kept his distance and behaved like a policeman, getting details from her that seemed vaguely irrelevant to him at that time.

Duty, he realised. Andrew had been right. That blasted four-letter word had always been a barrier in his relationship with Sam. His duty as her superior, as her elder… he nearly shuddered at the word.

But there had been something in her eyes earlier when he met her and Milner at the beach to inform them of his decision; something sad, as if she felt as empty as he did at that moment.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a quiet knock on the front door. Sighing softly to himself, he went to open it, revealing a slightly nervous-looking Sam wearing casual civvies. He raised an eyebrow.

"Good evening, sir. I thought you might, um, like to have a, sort of, resignation dinner. With me. You know, one last huzzah and all that," she prattled on, her fingers fiddling with a button on her cardigan.

Foyle regarded her thoughtfully for a few moments, then nodded. "I'd like that. Thank you."

Sam grinned.

They walked at a leisurely pace through the streets, talking softly about the future; the near future and their respective job prospects and the hopefully not too distant future in which they might see peace.

...

The streets were dark as they left The Crescent. Sam turned to her former boss with a resigned look on her face.

"Well… goodnight, sir," she said softly, her eyes flittering over his features, trying to commit them to memory. He turned the corners of his mouth down in what she knew was a smile.

"I'll walk you home," he said, gesturing with a hand for her to lead the way. It wasn't safe in the dark streets at night but more than that he just wanted to spend a little more time with her. She smiled sweetly.

They walked for a few moments in silence, Sam mulling over their evening. Their conversation had been easy and comfortable but now she felt wistful. This was the end of their working relationship and though they might stay in touch for a while, she was afraid they would eventually drift apart and it pained her.

She smiled slightly as she remembered Foyle's indignant look when she protested against him paying for their dinner; growing up she had learned that the one who issued the invitation should also be the one to pay, but he had insisted and she had eventually conceded.

Her small smile turned into a frown as she once again realised the finality of the evening; that she wouldn't show up on his doorstep tomorrow morning, all present and correct, hopefully a bit early so that she might catch him without his suit jacket and coat on.

She wouldn't spend her days driving him to and fro, watching him surreptitiously – she hoped! – as he pondered their current case, watching the delicate movements of his features as different thoughts ran through his mind. The raising of an eyebrow, the gentle pursing of the lips, him biting his inner cheek softly… the sparkle in his eyes when he was amused and the downturned corners of his mouth when he was trying to hold back a smile. It had taken her a while to understand the subtle expressions, to read in them what was going on in his mind, and she still wasn't always good at it. For instance, she couldn't read him now as they walked together towards her digs; his expression was pensive, as she was sure her own was, but she had no idea what he was thinking.

Too soon they neared her billet and, realising that this was her last chance to tell him how much he'd meant to her, she said without turning to him, "I will miss you, sir. Working with you has been, well, it's been really important to me." She cast down her eyes, unable to look at him as she whispered, "You've been important to me."

Foyle stopped walking, forcing Sam to halt beside him as well. His blue eyes were wide as he looked into hers, searching them for something, though he was unsure what.

"Sam," he said softly, turning to her and placing his hands on her arms. Slowly, he pulled her closer.

Sam felt her heart beat faster at the caring look in his eyes and the warmth of his hands though her clothes. She could count on one hand the number of times he had touched her and here he was, holding on to her with a grip both firm and tender; the butterflies that were always present when he looked at her a certain way were now doing somersaults and other crazy antics in her stomach at the sensation of his hands on her, the proximity of his body.

"Andrew once told me I let my sense of duty get in the way of my happiness. With regards to you I, um, think he was, um… right. I suppose I never really thought it was proper to, um, let you know how much you meant to me."

"Really, sir?"

"Really, Sam," he affirmed gently, noticing the thin sheen of tears that covered Sam's eyes. He wasn't sure what made him continue tenderly, "More than you'll ever know."

A lone tear spilled down Sam's cheek and Foyle reached up slowly to wipe it away with his thumb, cupping her face with his hand.

"I'm old enough to be your father." He said it more to himself than to her, trying to convince himself that telling her that she meant more to him than anything, except maybe Andrew, was a bad idea.

"I don't care," she whispered, and he could see the honesty and longing in her eyes.

He decided then and there that he did have a duty to himself. Sam cared about him, longed for him, wanted to be a part of his life and there was nothing he wanted more. Why should he care about their age difference if she didn't? What duties stood in their way now?

Drawing her infinitely closer, he waited for the slight move that told him she wanted this as much as he did; then he lowered his mouth to hers.

Chaste at first, the kiss soon turned passionate, fuelled by their longing for each other. Encouraged by their closeness and Foyle's fingers in her hair, Sam let her hands travel up his broad chest and around his neck, allowing herself to play with the little curls at the back of his head as she had so often fantasised doing.

When they parted, both were short of breath and for a few moments Sam stared into Foyle's clear blue eyes, uncertain of what had just happened (and wishing desperately that it would soon happen again). When they crinkled at the corners, however, she let a happy smile burst out on her face, laughing quietly in the still night air. Shivering a little, she stepped back into his embrace and wound her arms around his waist inside his coat, taking heat from his body and enjoying their nearness.

"Y'know," Foyle said drily, revelling the feeling of her in his arms. "I was planning on writing a book. About the role of the Hastings constabulary during the war… But, eh, I'm not a very good typist." It was a lie. He wasn't a professional but he was certainly proficient.

"Oh," Sam said slowly, her voice sounding for all the world as if she wasn't in the embrace of a man she loved dearly, but rather having a work-related chat with her boss. "Well, I can type. And do short-hand." And she could more or less. She wasn't very quick at typing and while she could write short-hand, well, she had a few problems reading it.

"Hm. Don't suppose you could help?" His eyes twinkled and he did that down-turned smile again, cocking his head slightly.

"Certainly, sir," she grinned before bringing her lips to his again.

END