AN Based on the Foyle's War episode The Hide.
So this is what it felt like to be saved.
Jack cannot get the odd thought out of his head, even long after Mr. Foyle's footsteps have echoed into silence in the metallic halls of his self-imposed prison.
A prison that man had just moved heaven and hell, or perhaps even more impressively, Sir Charles, to rescue Jack from.
Jack. His hands twisting over and over, the young man paced an awkward two steps to the far cell wall, his thoughts a jumble. Jack
It has been a long time since he had even thought of himself as Jack. Never mind being addressed as such.
I knew her. Jack. It was what his mother used to call him. He hadn't heard the name in years, even Agnes only used it as a code, a message between them. Never as a proper name. He had been James for the better part of half his life, and had expected to remain that way for the last woeful dregs of it.
A smile, more warm and profound than any his fath-Sir Charles had ever deigned to bestow on him, the slightest of nods, the deepest of hidden meanings, known of which he quite knew what to make of yet, nor indeed what to do about.
I'll be away for a while, but when I get back…
He was coming back. People generally didn't, in Jack's experience. But there was just something about Christopher Foyle, something…
He had expected to die as James. Had been resigned to it. At peace even, in whatever small measure of such things could ever be found in these dismal walls.
Living as Jack, however…well, that was another matter entirely.
And it was one he wasn't any more sure what to do with than that layered smile.
I was very sorry…to hear that she died. Nobody had ever said that to him either, somehow. Not even Mrs. Ramsey, their old housekeeper. Not even his stepmother, for all her well-meaning fumbles in those later years.
He would have thought it years too late to make a difference now, but the words had been strangely cathartic.
The jingling of the guards' keys, accompanied by the tell-tale tap-step of Mr. Deacon's gait drew Jack's attention back to the present, and he spared one last glance to the long-vanished spectre of his savior.
"Thank you Sir." James Deveraux had died in Dresden.
Jack however. Well, it appeared that Jack was just getting started.
00
Deacon gazed resolutely at the guard before him, his eye unwavering, his expression implacable. After four years as an officer, after being maimed and living to tell the tale, after losing friends to enemy bullets, and a fiancé to society's prejudices, after more than a decade as a lawyer, after two decades with a card-shark for a father, Frederick Deacon's poker face was impeccable.
The guard made a show of inspecting the paperwork again, and Deacon squared his shoulders. "You will release Mr. Devereaux into my custody Sir. Immediately." It was a tone he had sworn to leave in the North African dessert, along with most of his right foot and a good portion of his face. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and these were indeed desperate times.
The guard remained stubbornly unswayed. "The prisoner's scheduled for execution tomorrow. I would have thought no amount of fancy lawyering would spare traitors their due Sir." The attitude in that sentence practically walked away by itself, and Deacon felt himself bristle, poker face be damned.
He would bet a great deal that the man in front of him had never served. That he didn't understand, not the way Deacon did.
Not the way, apparently, James Devereux did. Frederick has seen a lot of tragedy in this war, on the battlefield and off it, but the tale Mr. Foyle had laid before him scant hours ago, the evidence he had presented. Well, heartbreaking did not quite cover it, now did it.
Deacon let some of his anger leak into his voice. "As you can see, the judge has commuted his sentence, pending new evidence which utterly exonerates Major Deveraux of any wrong doing or treasonous action." He emphasized the rank, though he knew it would prove little help.
The guard began reading the paperwork for the third time.
Deacon gave up patience, and resorted to the fare of lesser men: belligerence.
"Regardless of your opinion on the matter, if you do not permit me to see my client right this moment, you will not only be in direct contravention of a judge's explicit writ, you will also be violating the War Measures Act for humane treatment of imprisoned personnel."
It was a long shot, and roughly as legally sound as a vegetable sieve, but in this instance, reverse psychology worked beautifully.
Keys jangled musically from meaty hands. "Fine, be my guest, if you're so insistent. But just remember most good men are nothing like that traitorous scum."
Deacon deliberately slapped his cane against the guard's shin with an utterly juvenile but supremely satisfying crack. "Oh, forgive me, how clumsy of me."
Snatching the crumpled release order from the guard's lax fingers, he rested a hand on the freshly unlocked door, tossing his parting shot over his shoulder in a purely perfunctory manner. "If you would be so kind as to fetch your superior for me, I will see this matter sorted at once. Thank you."
Dismissal complete, Deacon set his feet as firmly as he could on the floor and pulled the door open with a groan.
The sight which greeted him was both better and worse than he had anticipated.
James Devereaux's clothes were clean, his cell immaculate. Perhaps a little too immaculate Deacon acknowledged, grimacing slightly at the edges of a bruise just visible along the major's hairline.
"Mr. Deacon?" James' voice was as soft as it ever was, although there was a quality to it, a life, that had been starkly absent before.
But it was the startlement in that tone that caused Deacon's eye to sting, his head to duck and his chest to clench painfully. The wonder. The surprise.
Frederick Deacon has always prided himself on being a man of fairness, a man of unbiased opinion and impeccable judgement. A man who gave every client he had ever served a fair hearing, who did not judge, did not turn a blind eye, did not hate.
Everyone lost something in this war, but that belief, that sense of justice and honour, the loss of that bothered Deacon far more than even the loss of his eye.
Frederick Deacon knew he had failed James Deveraux, in every sense of the word.
But standing in that cell doorway, meeting the tired, pained, over bright eyes of a man he nearly condemned to hang at the woefully young age of twenty-seven out of sheer apathy and misplaced hatred, Frederick Deacon feels the first stirring of something deep within his chest. Something he could have sworn he left out there in the North African sand, along with the corpses of his men.
Something not unlike the determination to do better. Something not unlike the desire to finally, truly, begin to move on. Begin to help others again. Begin to heal.
Begin to live.
Fred Deacon took a hesitant half-step into the cell, his hand raising almost of his own accord.
"Jame-"
"Jack," the voice was still soft, but the eyes were firm, the shoulders for once unhunched, if not exactly unburdened. "It's Jack, if you'd be so kind." Somehow, that sounded more pleading than imperious. Deacon felt his heart crack just a little.
He had a feeling that would become a frequent occurrence, around this man.
"Jack then." Deacon hesitated a moment, reading the slight wariness that remained in the man's shoulders. Really, considering the situation even that was nothing short of a miracle, but perhaps- "Mr. Foyle came to see me, before he left for America, and, well… I was wondering if you would be interested in getting out of here?" He squared his shoulders on the last, his voice growing more confident as the words poured forth.
This was at least partially an involuntary response to the marked change in Jam-Jack's expression, as if a long suffered storm of clouds was clearing before his very eyes. Sure enough, the mention of Mr. Foyle's name leeched the last of the tension from the young man's shoulders, his face open and hopeful in a way that Deacon had never thought to see in such a morose and controlled lad.
Jack edged a step forward, uncertain for the first time. "Do…do you know when he'll return? Mr. Foyle that is? From America?" He forms the sentences like he's testing out the reality of them, as if he expects the facts to distort and seep away before his eyes.
Fred isn't sure why, or how, but it's one of the saddest things he's ever seen.
"Well, I'm not sure of the details," eager shoulders began to slump, "but I could certainly look into it…presuming you do not object to me continuing to act as your counsel?" He followed this up by offering a hesitant hand, palm open and almost beckoning. They were running out of time before the guard returned with a whole new battle field of arguments and blustering.
A slender hand, scrapped knuckles, cracked nails, bruised fingers, reached out to grasp his in a firm shake. "I would like that Mr. Deacon." And wonder of wonders, there was a hesitant smile. "Thank you."
Deacon gazed at their surroundings, considered the open door and the no doubt rapid approach of the warden.
"You're most welcome." He eyed the bruise curling across Jack's temple. Oh, protocol be damned. This whole place could choke on it for all he cared. "And my friends call me Fred."
Most of the ones who had were now buried on another continent, but the point stood.
A slightly more genuine smile, a firm pump of his hand. "It's very nice to meet you Fred."
Deacon had just enough time to blink twice at that, because something about that polite tone, the set of the jaw, the courtesy and sincerity, if he didn't know better he would almost be prepared to swear-
The warden clattered in, the guard a hovering menace behind him, and Deacon, shaken from his momentary pause, gave Jack's newly tensed hand a reassuring final squeeze, and tucked his speculations away for a better time and place, before turning around and preparing to do battle.
As he has learned, better than most, there is more than one way to fight a war.
And, he realizes that day, there is also more than one way to win one.
And this, this right here? This felt an awful lot like winning.
00
Christopher Foyle hesitates on the gang-way of the ship, his coat catching in the wind, his eyes searching the dock for he knows not quite what.
For a long moment, time stands still, as his eyes sweep the faces of well-wishers for a glimpse of someone who could not possibly be there.
The steamer's whistle blows shrilly, the Steward moving towards Foyle purposefully. Time to go.
Yet Christopher hesitates a moment more, his gaze distant and thoughtful. He shouldn't leave, not now. There is suddenly so much here for him, so much he needs to do. So much time lost. So much still to be gained.
Wars don't last forever. Maybe a year, maybe ten, but I'll still be here. Waiting.
"Time to board Sir." The Steward's tone is rather direct, and quite right too. He's holding up the entire boat. Foyle grimaces ruefully, his feet moving inexorably forward.
"Sorry about that. Something I left behind."
Foyle raised Andrew to always finish what he started. To be a man of his word. To be a man of honour. He never got a chance to raise-
His fist clenching tightly on the handle of his suitcase, Christopher cuts off that thought. There is nothing to be gained from it now. For anyone.
He makes his way down the rail of the ship with steps heavy but once again resolute. He will keep to his course. He will see this through.
But he still stands against the rail and gazes behind them until the coast dwindles on the horizon and disappears into the setting sun.
He may be leaving, at the worst possible time. But he accomplished what he set out to do. He saved Caroline's son. And he is coming back, just as soon as his business in America is concluded. To offer whatever assistance he can to-
Christopher takes a deep breath, squeezes his moist eyes shut, and releases it into the fading light. To Jack.
He casts a last look at the fading coastline, and turns from the rail at long last, a final promise stealing from his lips. "It will be my honour…Jack."
He is coming back. Just as soon as he can.
