A/N: Thanks everyone. I would only sit and ruminate on these ideas and fantasies of mine if I did not have lovely people who professed to enjoying them. I am hoping this is at least a little bit original without being too odd.

My thanks and apologies to dancesabove. Yes. That means I mucked about with this chapter when she wasn't looking.


His sleeves roughly thrust up, Christopher drew himself a bath. And he made it hotter than it needed to be, as if he would cook some sense into himself.

As he sank into the water with a raw and tired groan, he wondered what to make of the day.

It had been a rousing disaster or, perhaps, a catastrophic success; he amused himself by thinking in that twisted fashion.

God help him, he had had Sam here, her skin warm beneath his desperate touch. Her kisses so eager, hopeful. Real.

Even better than the ones he had fantasied about. And he had sent her away, unwilling to either end things or pursue them...

Because there was entirely too much at stake, the man reminded himself. So, tonight's indecision had been quite understandable. He needed to know just what was right for Sam. What was fair to her. And how could he have decided even something as simple as what to have for dinner when she had leant up against him, telling him the status quo of polite conversation and politer boundaries could be completely gone? That he need only say the word to...

Sam had no idea what she had done, he was sure. But she had made a near-quivering fool of him. He had sent her away, yes. Because what else is a man to do, when those things that are happening are the same things that his brain had promised him were impossible?

For far too long, Foyle had managed each day with her by assuring himself that she would never – in a sane world – see him as she professed to now. He had thought himself further protected by the fact that Sam Stewart had never wanted for suitors and had been an engaged woman when he had left the country.

And even in those moments when that sane world gave way to his fantasies, he had closed out his wayward thoughts by telling himself that he was simply too old for her.

"Why?" he said aloud. Why would she do this, and now? Why had he let the fantasy play out so dangerously long tonight? He didn't know.

He sank under the water of the bath and gave up on answers. But he didn't need to worry about being out of ideas he trusted.

Less than a mile away, Sam had assessed the same day. She fixed on what to do with that alarming sort of surety that comes when one decides fairy tales are possible, that those promises we make ourselves are worth keeping. And as she closed her eyes and thought of him, there was that certainty that comes not so much with being young, as with knowing that you are young enough to love someone quite completely.

/ / / / /

The next morning Christopher was still finishing dressing when he heard the knock from downstairs. He was distracted enough with his braces and the state of his hair that he did not even let himself hope or think as he opened the door.

"Just stopping in for a minute or two. Not to worry," a smiling Sam half-teased. She kissed him then, quite chastely, as if it was merely part of her greeting, because she knew he would need reassurance that she was not there to rearrange his life or complicate his day with more confessions and offers. "I was just feeling impulsive this morning."

"Impulsive? You?" he said, a twisted little smirk flashing across his mouth.

"Oh, not fair," she scolded, with a quick and unaccustomed tug at his shirt. "Is it so horrible that I would want to see you? That I have this notion that my whole day might go better if I just talk with you a minute or two this morning?"

He thought on it, and knew deep down that he felt the same way.

"No. It's not horrible," he conceded, nodding to point the way towards the kitchen. "Do you have time? I haven't put the kettle on yet."

"I can't stay," she surprised him by saying.

Her visit lasted only ten minutes, but he found that he smiled the whole morning over it.

As the afternoon wore on, he discovered that the idea of evening without her troubled him some. It bothered him to have darkness creep over the place, as if it were something physical that weighed him down and would keep her from getting to him.

Had he not felt entirely too old and desperate before that, sitting there in the dark made those feelings complete.

A few minutes later Sam was at his door, and he was certain the relief of seeing her was written all over his face. He stepped back to have her come in from the cold. She walked into the foyer, but made no move to take off her coat, he noted.

"How was your day?" Sam asked. She was smiling and happy, as if the whole of their relationship had not been upended yesterday.

"Fine. Fine. Just catching up on things around here."

She kissed him on the cheek. And when he did not object, or flinch, or move at all away, she read his mind and kissed him softly on the mouth.

"How was your day, Sam?" he whispered.

"Lovely," she said, as her eyes fluttered open. And he wondered, quite self-servingly, if she were remarking on the kiss and not her time working with Mr. Harris. "But I don't want to overstay my welcome. I just wanted... needed to..." She smiled shyly and brushed at the lipstick that she'd left on his cheek. "I'm glad you're home. No matter what. Home and safe."

He didn't know what to say. The whole of this scene was nothing short of surreal to his rather staid policeman's brain.

He nodded. Knew that he was smiling faintly and, against his better judgement, leaning towards her. She took the initiative then. Again. "Goodnight, Christopher," she told him, as he stood there, half bewildered and wholly aching for her touch.

And then she was gone.

With agitation, Christopher paced across the front room and back. Twice. And then strode hard for the kitchen. He put the kettle on. Took it off. Emptied it. And finally slapped himself lightly in the head, as if that might help. He was beyond relieved when the telephone rang to rescue him from himself.

Christopher had to smile to hear his son's cheerful voice on the other end of the line.

"How is Sam?" Andrew asked, after their initial greetings and confirmations of each other's good health.

"I thought you were checking on me," his father joked.

"Oh, I get all my intel on you from her and vice versa. Neither of you would ever admit anything was wrong. Well, she did, finally – I mean over the engagement. Bad business."

"When was it that that ended, exactly?" Christopher asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Oh, almost two months ago," Andrew said. "It really rattled her. I could tell. I used to ring her up once a week just to see how she was keeping, after that. I thought she seemed better the last couple of weeks. She's been looking forward to you coming home. She was so happy you were getting back, and she said she was going to meet you at the dock."

"Yes, she met me."

"Did you have a good talk? I figured that was what she needed... to talk to you."

Christopher smiled at the awkward memories. "Yes. We talked. It was..."

"I could come out this weekend to see you; take her out," an enthusiastic Andrew put in. "Do you think that might cheer her up?"

"I don't think you need to rush out to see Sam. I think she will work through this. She needs time." We need time, he thought. Because I frankly have no blessed idea what is going on. "You forget how to deal with change when you get older. But Sam..." he trailed off.

"What, Dad?"

Christopher didn't really mean to say the rest of his thoughts out loud, but he did. "Sam is so young."

"Well, of course she is young. She's about my age."

The elder man shook his head, a woeful smile on his face. He wouldn't say what he wanted to. Something like, 'No, Andrew. She's young in a way you aren't. It's not about years. It's about possibilities. Sam believes in things others give up on.'

Andrew covered the silence. "I'm glad you are there for her, Dad. You will let her talk to you about things if she needs to, right? I know that might not be the kind of thing..."

Christopher gripped his head, again glad that this conversation was not happening in person.

"We'll see," Foyle said. He could not imagine that his son would welcome knowing just how badly he wanted to be with Sam… or in what way. Or how eager he was to talk and, then, pointedly not to talk with Sam, when they saw each other now. Certainly, Andrew would not guess how easy Sam wanted to make that fall into an affair that she had offered.

"She couldn't manage with you gone. I thought it was..."

"We've gotten used to each other, I suppose," Christopher offered quickly. "Used to having each other around."

"That's what she said. Just how odd it was, you being gone three months. That you had never been half that long without seeing each other. Dad... you don't think she's too devoted to you?"

"Devoted?" Christopher seemed to grow rankled at the word. "I wouldn't think it goes so far as that..."

"If you can't even see that there is at least a little bit of hero worship going on, then you are completely the wrong person to know what is what with Sam," his son tried to joke. "But do try to be understanding. Not be the boss, you know."

"Any more instructions for the old man, Andrew?" he asked when he was done wincing.

"Nah. But I'll come out. See you both." Andrew laughed quickly then. "I'll straighten you both out."

The young man had absolutely no idea what he was saying, Christopher thought with a sad shake of his head. And he needed to put him off.

"No. I might be out to your neck of the woods soon enough, Andrew. Some opportunities. People I need to talk with. Things your uncle has been trying to fix up for me."

"You still thinking about making the move to intelligence?" Andrew asked, sounding intrigued.

"We'll see," his father allowed. "Everything is a bit... confused just now."