Once again, I am awed by the very kind words of those who leave reviews. Just a little disclaimer here, I don't own the characters. I just like to play with them. Also, anyone who knows anything about fly fishing will quickly catch that I know very little, except what I read on the internet. The bit here about it was prompted first by the importance of it in Foyle's life and also a snippit I read where Michael Kitchen commented on having to learn something about it to play the part. And while on the subject of Mr. Kitchen- in trying to capture the essence of Foyle, I've watched some of his other works, especially The Guilty from years prior to FW and Alibi. Rewatching Alibi I was astounded by the breadth of MK's abilities. He played Foyle and Greg Brentwood in the same year and there couldn't be more opposite characters ever. I expected to see some bleed from one character to the other and while facial expressions were sometimes the same, MK put different nuances behind those expressions and gave them complete different meanings. And while MK's Foyle is a buttoned up, self contained, has his act together type, Greg Brentwood is all over the place. Both are somewhat reticent but even that quality comes across as distinctly different. In other words, as an actor I find MK fascinating and brilliant! And now...

Sam was unusually quiet again the next morning but Foyle was relieved to see that her quiet was more contemplative in nature than dejected. She did eat a reasonable breakfast although she still wasn't showing her normal appetite. Still, he considered breakfast a small victory. After the breakfast things were cleaned, he settled at the table to work on some of his fishing flies. Sam was sitting in the front room reading but soon put the book down and came to the table to sit and watch him work.

"Do you have a special one you make or do you make different kinds?" She asked after a few minutes of watching the detailed work.

"Oh, I make a few different ones," he replied. "Which one I use depends on the conditions and the method. Although most of the time I use dry flies. Sometimes use the wet ones though and sometimes I'm nymphing. All use different flies. This one's my favorite though," he said as he proudly held up a finished fly. "Have the best luck with these."

Sam studied the little bundle of bits seriously. "Looks like you took some hair and tied it all together."

Looking down at his prize Foyle grimaced. "No, not hair. But I s'pose I see what you're getting at. With any luck I can catch our dinner with this, tomorrow perhaps."

"Oh a fish dinner sounds ever so much better than one prepared off rations. Could I go with you, sir; when you go fishing?"

Foyle looked up and saw that Sam looked almost eager. "If you like," he replied carefully. "Might be a bit sedate for you though. Nothing to do but sit quietly and watch."

"I.. I could bring a book. Read. That's quiet." Her expression almost recaptured the enthusiasm that had been more or less incessant since he'd known her. Yes, his Sam was coming back to life... but you can't think of her that way, he reminded himself.

They set out early the next morning for the river. Foyle hoped that by doing that they would avoid seeing many people along the way. The bruising on Sam's face was still rather pronounced and new bruises still seemed to be cropping up, deep ones that seemed even more sinister than the initial ones. He had no idea what the rest of her body must look like but he had sensed awkwardness from her over breakfast, as if she'd finally gotten a good look at things. She kept pulling her cardigan tighter around her like it might further hide the marks left by the two brutes.

He'd gone around to Adam's guest house the day before to collect some things for her. The inquisitive lady who was boarding there had forced him into some lies and he finally said that Sam's mother had been taken ill rather suddenly and she'd boarded the first train. He would put her case with spare clothing on the train that afternoon for her to have something to wear while at home. Last evening he'd had Sam call home to ensure her parents wouldn't be phoning her anytime soon. Sam told her father that Mr. Foyle was called away for the next few days and had asked her to drive for him. She said that she'd write to them when she returned to Hastings. Foyle had been amused to watch her standing at the phone with her fingers crossed behind her back while speaking with her father. It was such a Sam thing to do, he'd mused.

She was tugging at the cardigan now as they moved down the road toward the edge of the town. Christopher glanced around and saw only a few people about and they showed little interest in the odd pair out for a morning of fishing. Still, Sam suddenly seemed to need to watch her feet as they moved across the pavement, her head down and her arms pulling at the placket of her jumper. "You alright, Sam?"

"Hmmm? Oh, yes," she replied as she glanced briefly at him. Then ducking her head again, she began to ramble. "Just watching where I step. The cobbles are all wobbly here, don't you think? I suppose there's too much work elsewhere to worry about a few cobbles here on this road, isn't there; what with the bombings taking out so many homes and making holes in the main roads. So I'm just being careful; wouldn't want to trip."

Christopher grimaced as she rambled. Perhaps it was too much for her just yet. Coming to an abrupt halt, he watched as she did the same and turned to look at him, her expression full of surprise. "Sam, are you uncomfortable, being out? We could do this another day if you'd like."

She swallowed and glanced over his shoulder. "I... I am, a little. But I want to do this; I need to... to feel... alright again." She ducked her head once again. "Could we just... keep going?"

Chewing the inside of his mouth, Christopher nodded, swallowing the anger that was rising in his throat again. "Yes, of course. But you will tell me if it gets to be too much?"

"Right," she agreed as she turned to continue their journey, soon leaving the town behind them.

Christopher had been in the stream for a while, casting his line and catching a fish or two. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Sam on an old blanket he'd brought along, her back against a tree with a book in her hands. But she wasn't reading, she had fallen asleep. Feeling a wave of warmth and contentment wash through him, he returned to his fishing.

The walk home proved more challenging. More people were about and even though he was careful to guide her away from any crowds, it was inevitable that someone would notice the battered young woman. And unfortunately it was the baker's wife, who had a nose for scandal and a tendency toward gossip.

She stepped out of the shop just as Christopher and Sam were walking past. "Miss Stewart?" she gasped.

Sam groaned as she slowed to halt but Foyle grasped her elbow and forged ahead, barely giving the woman a nod. "Mrs. Simmons," he said as they passed.

But Mrs. Simmons was not a woman to be put off so easily and she fell into step. "Miss Stewart, what happened?"

"I umm... oh," Sam stuttered.

"She had a nasty argument with the pavement," Foyle answered in her stead. "Pavement won," he muttered as he propelled Sam forward.

Once they reached the steps of his house on Steep Lane, Sam all but collapsed into him as he unlocked the door. Mindful of neighbors peering through the curtains, he shoved her through the door, kicking it behind him when they were safely in the entry. By this time, Sam had turned and had her head buried in the fabric of his waistcoat on his shoulder.

Inwardly cursing himself for not thinking ahead, he dropped his fishing basket and rod to better hold her against him. "It's alright, Sam. Sssafe now. No one here but me."

He felt the soft shudder of a sob and then she nuzzled against him before straightening up. She wouldn't look at him though and cast her gaze down to the floor instead. "I... I'm sorry; don't know why... It just all..."

"I know; nothing to apologize for. The baker's wife was far too inquisitive. I should have known someone would be about this late in the morning."

Her head shot up and her head was shaking. "Noooo, sir. You... were... wonderful. And I really did enjoy being outside... at the river. But her question really did bother me. After that I felt like everyone was staring at me."

Foyle let a grin play at his lips. "Only because they were wondering what a lovely young lady was doing with me since it wasn't official business."

Regaining some of her fight, Sam sniffled. "Well, it's none of their business at all, I'd say."

Gratified to see some spark in her again, he did let a smile form. "Nup, none at all. Quite right."

Sam looked down and sighed. Then spotting the basket on the floor she spoke. "Should we get clean these fish? I feel like I haven't eaten in ages and we could have a very nice lunch."

Feeling calm settle in him again after the last few minutes, Christopher nodded his agreement. "Yup. We'll have the smaller one with lunch and perhaps the larger ones will make a supper or two?"

"Of course they will!" she exclaimed. "They're huge; why should you doubt they'd make two meals?"

"Wull, didn't know how hungry you'd be since you've not eaten in ages," he said with a teasing glint in his eyes.

Sam looked up, startled. And then her face broke into a grin, one that lit her eyes. "Oh sir, you're teasing aren't you?"

Returning her smile, he nodded toward the kitchen. "Let's get to it then."

Foyle thought Sam was calmer through the rest of the day, not as introspective or morose as she had been since the ... attack. His blood still threatened to boil whenever he thought of what had been done to her and it was difficult to not think of it.

He was once again settled in his chair in the front room, attempting to read. Sam had declined his suggestion that she have a lie down after lunch only to promptly fall asleep on the sofa almost as soon as she'd opened her own book. Emboldened by the knowledge that he wouldn't be caught out, he let his eyes meander over her. The bruises really did make her all the wrong colors but even so, as the swelling receded from around her eye she looked more and more like his Sam. And the way her hair fell in waves to frame her face softened features that might otherwise appear homely, especially with the bruising. But it was her expression that tugged at his heart, such innocence in her face, such contentment... did she feel that way because she was here with him?

He grimaced at the hope that sparked within him at the thought. Mustn't think it... But how could he not? Sam had literally knocked him over with her vivaciousness since their very first encounter. In her company he often felt younger and more alive than a man his age and in his situation ought. With Sam around, life had possibilities again. But likely Adam or some other young man would take her away from him and that was as it should be, he reflected. But at least for now... a man could dream, couldn't he?

And dream he did, very vividly that night. Sam was there, beneath his fingers, next to him, her warmth enveloping him. Consequently, he awoke during the night with overwhelming need and no way to resolve it. Oh, the physical aspects might be assuaged but it was the deeper need, the ache in his heart that was unremitting. Still, he would trade the heartache for these last years with Sam. She had slowly brought him out of the deep fog he'd lived in for far too long.

Regret enveloped him as his mind caught on that last thought. Rosalind's death had devastated him but he'd had to move on, perhaps too quickly; he'd had a son to care for and there was his job and... if he were entirely honest, he'd been afraid to pause long enough to properly grieve. When he'd lost Rosalind it felt like he'd been ripped apart and as he slowly put himself back together over the following months there'd always been a part of him that was missing. He'd attended his duties well enough, he supposed. But that hole inside him never healed. Sam, however, had filled it somewhat with her bright disposition and impetuous trust in him. At times her faith in him was a heavy burden but ... well, it did wonders for his self regard having a spirited young thing like Sam believing in him.

A long sigh escaped him. He certainly didn't understand why she placed her trust in him so easily; he'd failed her on more than one occasion. The events of the other night was his greatest failure to her, but allowing her to be put in positions where she'd almost been blown up, three times no less, had to score close second. But she had forced him out of mourning, though even now there were days he felt the tug of grief. His heartache had been a constant companion for such a long time and it felt wrong to give it up. But with Sam at his side, grief had slowly untangled itself from his heart to be replaced with something new, something entirely to do with Sam.