It was past supper time when they'd returned to Hastings. Sam had been instructed to drop Milner off at home directly, and the drive to Mr. Foyle's house was very quiet.
Something about the silence made Sam's heart jump anxiously – perhaps the memory of his hands holding her, or his kindness and quiet concern as they'd sat together earlier. Whatever it was, it made their current situation almost uneasy. Like there was an important conversation coming their way. Sam wasn't sure if she wanted it to come or not.
Finally, she pulled the parking break and settled the car outside his front door.
'Here you are, sir,' she said, tiredly.
But he didn't respond. She looked over and saw him gazing out the window, his left index finger absent-mindedly tracing the line of his lips. He came back to earth suddenly and returned her look directly.
'Sam, how far is your house from here?' he asked. Sam was taken aback, but thought it over.
'Probably about five minutes. I'm a few streets over.'
'Why don't you stay here tonight?' he asked in as unassuming a manner as he could. 'A quick dinner and you can sleep in Andrew's room. You're clearly exhausted, and I'd just feel better knowing you were safely in bed. Besides, someone has to be sure you see a doctor in the morning.'
Sam was surprised at the offer. Hadn't he had enough of her for one day? She'd stayed in Andrew's room for about a week after her billet had been bombed, so perhaps he wasn't as uncomfortable with the idea as before.
But, still, the fluttering in her stomach was taking over now, shifting and twisting into something rather unpleasant. She wasn't entirely sure what was happening.
Then again, the idea of sleeping ahead of schedule was infinitely appealing.
Foyle saw this internal dialogue playing out across Sam's face, and his lips twitched slightly as he tried not to show his amusement.
'Obviously, you don't have to if you're not comfortable. Just wanted to offer,' he said, hoping he hadn't seemed forward. Lord knows, he felt it himself – but the image of an overworked Sam lying on the side of the road at night was thoroughly unsettling, and once it presented itself, he was unable to shake it.
Finally, she decided.
'You're sure you don't mind, sir?'
'Nnnot at all.'
Don't look too cheerful, he reminded himself internally.
Sam cut the engine and surprised him with a light and relieved (albeit tired) smile.
'Thank you, sir,' she beamed.
Foyle climbed out of the car, taking his bag with him. Sam turned to reach for her own overnight bag, but paused as the ache in her neck reappeared with a vengeance. Foyle quickly took up the task and plucked her small carpetbag out from behind her before she could protest. He would hear none of her protestations as he led the way into the house.
'Make yourself comfortable. I'm just going to put on something hot.' He had already set down the bags at the foot of the stairs and was making his way toward the kitchen as he said this.
'I hope you don't mind soup. Haven't been to the shops in a while-'
'No, thank you, that sounds perfect,' said Sam, removing her gloves and hat and setting them on the end table by the sofa.
Looking around, Sam couldn't believe she had lived here at one time. It was a lovely, comfortable house, but knowing how she felt about him now she'd started to think back on that time as though it was all a dream.
Now she was back in his living room, preparing to take a late supper and retire to Andrew's room once again. With her nerves kicking into high gear, she was suddenly anxious to go upstairs. But all thoughts of making a hasty escape were dashed when Mr. Foyle came into the room with a small tray.
'It's nothing much,' he said apologetically, setting the tray on the end table.
Soup was all Sam was up to at the moment, and she assured him it was just fine.
Foyle chalked her swift selection of a bowl and spoon as a sign she was famished. He was only half correct.
They sat in silence for a few minutes finishing their soup and toast, Foyle enjoying a glass of whiskey in the process. Sam declined his offer of a stiff drink, though she was confident she could have used one.
After a few moments of staring into his whiskey, Foyle broke the silence.
'Sam, you mustn't put yourself at risk simply to save others the trouble of helping you.'
Sam was surprised at this and decided she'd had enough soup for now, setting it back on the tray as she struggled to find a response.
'… Sir?'
'You've got to take care of yourself. Now, I know I've no right to tell you what to do or how to live, but I do have a few more years of experience, and I just want to remind you that…' he pause, considered, and slowly continued. 'Your dedication is admirable. Just don't put your needs aside for others. And that includes me.'
Sam's hands were clenched in her lap, and she felt her thumbs fiddling awkwardly. She was always uncomfortable when confronted by authority figures… especially him.
'Now, just forget you heard that last part,' he teased gently, giving her another of his subtle downturned smiles as he leaned back in his chair.
She had to return his smile at this.
'I have been trying to think of myself more lately, but I suppose it's not how I was brought up,' she said. 'I was always told to put others first and manage your own affairs later.'
He cocked his head slightly, nodding in recognition of her family's values.
'Wull, far be it for me to undermine your upbringing,' he said, adjusting his waist jacket and making himself more comfortable. 'That's a very decent way of thinking. But, when it comes to your health, I think you mmmight want to consider being a bit more selfish.'
She was fully smiling now, and the beauty of that smile brought new light into his eyes. This was the only thing he couldn't control – Foyle had mastered the art of hiding his true affection for Sam under quiet nods and slow blinks, but at his very core, his soul inevitably gave him away.
Sam saw his eyes shining in her direction, and though she couldn't believe she was interpreting it correctly, her heart started to beat faster.
'After all… you are special, Sam,' he murmured, his gaze deepening just a bit more. 'We don't want to lose you… I don't want to lose you.'
The force of these final words forced his eyes down into his glass again. Panic was bubbling up inside Foyle's gut, and he knew he couldn't keep talking this way. He'd already said too much.
No more whiskey, I think, said the rational voice inside his head.
He set down his glass.
His words meant a great deal to Sam, who made a note to remember every detail of this moment so she might go over it again later that night while she lay in bed. She must remember the kind tone of his voice, the look in his eyes, the sound of the house settling around them. Everything.
There were so many things she wanted to say and prioritizing her thoughts was becoming more challenging by the minute.
' "Lose me"?' she asked quietly. 'What do you mean?'
Foyle was frustrated with himself for opening this Pandora's Box. If only he could shut the lid, but he knew that was impossible now.
'Well...' he muttered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
'And, I'm sorry to say so, sir, but I'm not the one who's considering leaving the police.' She hadn't meant to say that, and her shock at her own bitterness made her breath freeze once the words had escaped her lips.
Her words had stung, he had to admit that, but they were nonetheless true. He knew he'd have to address this sooner or later with Sam, and perhaps he shouldn't have brushed her aside so coldly when she'd tried to discuss the matter with him earlier.
And apart from all this, she had a point. What did he mean when he said he didn't want to lose her? He had planned to leave the police, so what was he implying? Had he said something he shouldn't have?
Oh, God, everything's gone pear-shaped so quickly…Damn!
'I'm sorry, sir,' she said, her eyes expressing her deep mortification. She looked as thought she might cry again.
'I didn't mean-'
'No, I know you didn't,' he said, trying to smile with his eyes, but finding it very hard.
'And you're right. I guess part of me was hoping that when I retired you'd leave with me. This all started when I requested a driver,-' he said, gesturing in her direction with his whiskey, which had somehow made its way back into his hand, 'so, it's my job to find you... a suitable replacement.'
Sam hadn't considered this. To some degree she'd concluded that she would be sent back to the MTC if Mr. Foyle left the police. This new possibility for employment certainly brightened things up a bit. Still, she needed clarification.
'Do you want me to drive you?' she pressed. Her eyes were flashing excitedly again.
He looked rather uneasy now, and he stood up to return his glass to sit with its kin beside the decanter.
'I don't know yet, Sam. We'll figure something out,' he muttered most unsatisfactorily. Sam wasn't about to let it rest there.
'Sir,' she started, shifting closer to the edge of her seat. 'Why would you lose me?'
For a moment he stood motionless, with his back to her as he thought of a good enough response. Finally he turned and seated himself beside her on the setae.
'I was trying to… that is…' her eyes were unnervingly direct now, and though they were emploring and gentle their expression seemed to ring his heart out.
'Sam… I couldn't have borne it if you had died in that accident,' he said as his throat started to close with the unsavory notion.
Her gaze lowered to the carpet at this.
'You're too important, Sam,' he continued, holding her hand for the second time today.
'And I know it wasn't that serious a crash, but if it had been… It made me realize how dreadful it would be to see you there…' he trailed off, and the distance in his eyes told Sam he was picturing the scene again: her seemingly lifeless form against the wheel, face bloodied, hair covering the worst of it. How many times had he pictured this scene? She wondered.
Sam had nothing to say. She wanted more than anything to say something reassuring and lift that pained expression from his face. But, while she could have reminded him she hadn't died – he hadn't lost her – she knew that didn't matter.
All she could think to do was to reassuring him wordlessly. With a gesture. Something.
His hands were both wrapped around hers, she noticed. She then raised his hands to her lips and kissed them passionately. Surprisingly passionately, in fact. Sam didn't know why, but she suddenly found herself unable to hold back her feelings in this moment.
Foyle's lashes fluttered slightly as he took in what was happening. He wanted more than anything to be the one doing this for her – and more besides. His eyes smiled for a moment before he stopped himself.
'Sam-' he murmured with an agonized crease of his brow. Sam refused to listen.
'No, sir,' she said, resting her forehead on his hands. 'No, I won't let go.'
'I know. That's what I'm afraid of.'
She looked up to see if he meant it. His eyes fixed hers with a mixture of interest and disappointment. She could only hope the latter was not because of her.
'Why should you be afraid of it?' she asked, feeling slightly lightheaded. Surely this couldn't be happening. Had she just done that? Would he throw her out?
'Because I'm still your boss, and… it wouldn't be proper.' His words were so soft Sam realized she'd held her breath the whole time.
No. NO! No, she'd waited too long to let this excuse deter her. He clearly didn't want that either, she could see it in his face.
'Sir, you can't mean it. You can't!'
'Sam, please,' he looked so mortified she wondered if he might cry. 'Please, don't say it-'
'I'm not ashamed to. Because… because I rather think I love you - I have for quite some time now, and if I don't tell you now I might never have the strength.' This came out quickly, even for Sam, and she felt certain she couldn't have stopped if she'd wanted to.
She'd done it. She wasn't sure she felt better, for now Foyle's eyes were closed. He was taking in what she'd said, yet even once she'd finished he fixed his eyes on her fidgeting hands rather than face her.
The silence seemed endless. In actuality, it was perhaps five seconds.
'Please say something,' she begged.
His mouth opened and closed several times as he tried to formulate a sentence.
'Was I wrong? Do you not feel the same?' She wanted to die on the spot, and if he said her feelings weren't returned she was sure she would.
After a moment he answered.
'Of course I do,' he whispered, creased eyes finally meeting hers. Sam thought they'd never been lovelier than they were at this moment.
'But it's not right.'
'You said this would be your last case with the police, yes? Well, you've solved the case, and until you offer me another job I'm no longer your driver!' This was rather a desperate ploy, and she saw that he recognized that. Still, his eyes began to glow again, and she thought she even caught a ghost of a smile cross his lips. Just for a moment.
'I don't see what's so wrong about caring for someone,' she added.
'It's against protocol,' he muttered lamely.
'Surely that's not your best excuse'
'Certainly not. What if someone else found out?'
'Are you ashamed, sir?' she asked.
'Nnno, of course not, but if we were found out it could stir up all sorts of ethical concerns,' he said, fully drawn into her eyes at this point, looking from one to the other as though fervently trying to find a shred of reason within them.
'Such as?'
'Wull, there's my age for a start. I'm much too old for you.'
'I don't think so. Besides, I don't care. It doesn't matter!'
'Yes it does, Sam. You need someone who can keep up with you-'
'Ever since I started here, I've been trying to keep up with you,' Sam said, remembering her first week on the job and how she'd helped him chase down countless criminals ever since.
'Nonetheless, what would your friends say that if they knew?' he asked, raising a sardonic eyebrow.
'I don't know about you, sir, but I'm rather good at keeping secrets,' said Sam somewhat cheekily. The glint of mischief in her eyes made Foyle chuckle despite himself.
This was her moment, before he could protest again.
Summoning all her might, she took a deep breath and kissed his cheek, resting there a moment to see if he'd respond to her gesture.
He did.
A slight grunt of dismay came from his throat, but even he couldn't deny how lovely she was at this moment. Cautiously, he reached to hold her arm with one hand, thinking perhaps he could push her away.
Nope, not possible, he thought as he felt her soft skin against him.
He had exhausted the last of his restraints against her, and now, with a gentle prompt, he left them behind willingly. Finally, he could hold her freely, and without fear of judgment, and his happiness at reaching this point was almost agonizing.
Holding her waist, he drew her close and breathed in her familiar aroma. It was warm and comforting.
He took a quick moment to take in her expression. He had to smile at her look of utter euphoria. His hand on her jaw, he tilted her lips toward his and kissed her deeply.
As she wrapped her arms around his neck she heard him sigh contentedly against her, lips still connected.
She couldn't believe this was happening. Finally.
'You're so bloody stubborn' he whispered warmly as he rested his brow against hers.
She smiled.
'I learned from the best,' she replied. He laughed quietly, resting her head against his shoulder.
'Glad I could help,' was all he could think to say.
