A/N: First off thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter it really means a lot! Sorry for the delay getting this chapter up, I've spent the last few days moving back home from university.

This chapter was very kindly edited by LauraRaposa, so a massive thank you to her.

Again I own nothing and really hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think

Chapter 2

Christopher Foyle woke instinctively at 6 a.m. and blinked up at the ceiling. A frown creased on his forehead as he realized it was not the ceiling in his bedroom. The frown deepened as he realized he wasn't even in a bed but rather slumped awkwardly in a chair. His searching gaze landed on his sleeping son. And then it all came back.

He sat up and massaged his sore neck muscles as the memories of the previous evening flooded back: A tired and heartbroken Andrew had turned up unexpectedly at their home on Steep Lane to reveal that he had gone AWOL from his RAF squadron.

Foyle rubbed his face and felt his chest tighten at the memory of what had followed. He hadn't seen his son that upset since his mother died nine years before.

He smiled softly at the memory of his grown up son curled up on the settee fast asleep with his head in his father's lap. He looked not much different from the little boy that he had been. Foyle sat there for hours softly stroking Andrew's hair and giving thanks that his son was safe at home.

Foyle drifted off at some point in the night. But he recalled being jolted awake by Andrew in the throes of a nightmare. He quickly soothed the writhing boy, and then guided him up the stairs and into bed. Feeling dog-tired himself he crossed the hallway and collapsed on his own bed.

But his sleep had been short lived. It was just after 2 a.m. that he bolted out of bed toward the sound of tortured yells coming from Andrew's bedroom. He rushed across the hall to find his son consumed once again in a nightmare. It didn't long to quiet Andrew, but the nightmares didn't stop. After his second dash to Andrew's side, Foyle decided to set up camp next to his son's bed. He stole across the hall to fetch his dressing gown, slippers and the eiderdown from his bed.

Foyle was pleased this morning that his son appeared to be resting peacefully. He felt a lump form in his throat when he thought of the 12 fathers who would never again get to hug their sons. The thought prompted him to rise from his makeshift bed, bend to kiss his boy's head and pray. Please, please, bring my son safely back to me when this bloody war is done.

By the time Foyle bathed, dressed and headed downstairs to put the kettle on, he realized he didn't want to leave Andrew's side today. After the events of last night and early this morning, he couldn't bear to leave his son alone. He crossed into the hallway, checked his pocket watch for the time, and rang Hugh Reid at home.

"Reid here, go ahead," said his longtime friend and colleague who sounded distracted.

"Hugh, it's Christopher. Listen, I'm going to take the day off. I know…"

"A day off," Reid interrupted. "Christopher, are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, Hugh."

"Then why do you need the day off?" Reid paused as if something just occurred to him. "Oh, Christopher, it's not Andrew, is it? Has something happened?"

Foyle opened his mouth to explain, and then closed it again when he realized that regulations would require Hugh to report Andrew's desertion. While he trusted his friend, he didn't want to put him in a career-threatening position.

He realized Hugh had misinterpreted his silence when his friend's voice came softly over the line, "Christopher, something's happened, hasn't it? I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Nnnno, Hugh, it's fine. Nothing's happened."

"Andrew's fine?"

"As fine as anyone is these days, I suppose."

The DCS heard his friend sigh. "Look, Christopher, it's too early for riddles. What the devil is the matter?"

"Why do you think something's wrong," Foyle asked.

Hugh sighed again. "Because you haven't taken a day off since…Oh, Christopher, it's today isn't it? Nine years since, Ros-…God, I'm sorry, I should have thought."

"Hugh, Hugh, please, it's fine. It was two days ago actually and I…"

"What? Why didn't you say something?"

"I was fine."

"Right. So you're not working today because you're fine?

It didn't take a career as a police detective to know what Hugh was implying. And while it wasn't strictly true, it did turn out to be the excuse he needed. He was only stretching the truth a bit.

Foyle sighed. "It was a late night, Hugh, and I'm not exactly sure I'd be fit company for anyone today. I'm sure Milner can…"

"Of course, Milner can handle whatever comes in," said Reid. "I'm dreadfully sorry for not realizing the date the other day. I feel like a terrible cad."

"Please, don't. I didn't expect anyone to remember. Andrew wasn't even down."

Hugh Reid felt even worse knowing that his friend silently mourned the death of his beloved wife without even his son by his side.

"Take the day, Christopher. Can I bring you anything?"

"No, no, thank you, Hugh, I'm fine," said Foyle. "Will you have Milner call me when he arrives so we can discuss what's come in?"

"No, I certainly will not," said Reid. "You need a day away from police work and Milner will manage just fine on his own. I'll come by in the evening, maybe we can have a drink?"

"No, no need for that, Hugh. But I appreciate the thought."

"It would actually make me feel better, Christopher."

Foyle could hear the guilt in his friend's voice and knew Hugh wouldn't rest until he saw for himself that his friend was in fine form.

"Well, if you insist…"

"I do insist," Reid said. "I'm off at 4."

"Right. You'll tell Sam she doesn't need to come today?"

"I will. And I will see you later, right?"

"Yes, and thank you, Hugh."

"No trouble at all."

Foyle returned to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast but kept an ear tuned to the second floor. All he heard was silence. After he ate a poached egg and toast, he cleared the table and did the washing up. When finished, he stood for a minute and thought: "What next?" He wasn't used to free time in morning.

With little to occupy him, Foyle decided to dash out to buy a newspaper. He was back within 15 minutes and immediately checked on Andrew. He found his son fast asleep, so he settled himself in his favorite chair in the lounge with a cuppa and the news of the day.

Ironically, today the newspaper listed the RAF men lost to the war. Even though he knew his son was safely asleep upstairs, he couldn't stop the spurt of panic that always ran through him as he scanned the Fs. Of course, he had little to fear by reading the list this morning. But because he had the time - which he rarely did - he carefully scanned the rest of the page for anyone from Andrew's squadron. He found one: Thomas Johnston, aged 20.

Foyle closed his eyes and muttered a soft prayer for the boy and his family. He wondered when Thomas Johnston had died, and if he was among the twelve men his son told him about last night. God forbid it was another member of the squadron for Andrew to mourn.

He knew another death of one of his fellow fighter pilots would weigh heavily on Andrew's already tortured mind. He hoped that his son already knew about Johnston. He certainly didn't want to deliver the news after last night. How much more can Andrew take?

Foyle tried to focus on the rest of the paper but soon found himself upstairs in the doorway of Andrew's boyhood room watching him sleep. Foyle reassured himself that while Andrew was not exactly fine, he was at least safe for the moment.

He had just finished his lunch at the dining room table when he heard the unmistakable sounds of Andrew getting up. How can one boy make so much noise? Shaking his head he gathered up his dishes and headed to the kitchen to make Andrew a meal. He'll be hungry…as always.

Foyle was almost done when he heard Andrew thunder down the stairs only to stop dead in the hall. Must have spotted my hat and coat. His deduction proved correct as a moment later Andrew's voice rang out, "Dad?"

"In the kitchen, Andrew."

"Dad, what are you doing here? You haven't been suspended again have you?"

"Good morning - well, I suppose its afternoon - to you, too, Andrew."

His son just looked at him with the trademark Foyle eyebrow raised.

"No, I haven't been suspended again, thank you very much," said Foyle. "Just took the day off. You hungry?"

Before Andrew could process what was happening, he found himself ensconced at the table with a plate full of beans and toast and a cup of tea. Foyle sat across from him with his own tea and studied him carefully while he ate. His colour is better than yesterday. The circles under his eyes are smaller and he seems to have lost a little of the darkness that had clung to him so heavily. Not fine, but at least better.

"Sleep alright?" Foyle wasn't sure how much Andrew would remember about last night. Apart from the first nightmare, when he had to wake him so he could get him upstairs, he had been able to settle Andrew quickly before he woke up.

Andrew looked up at him and then back down at his plate. I remember falling asleep on the settee after sobbing all over Dad. He had his hand in my hair, and I remember a voice telling me that everything was going to be fine. Maybe I dreamed that…

He again looked up from his plate and saw the gentle concern and compassion that he always associated with his father written plainly across his face.

"Yes, Dad, I did thanks." Andrew replied, "Best sleep I've had in ages."

Foyle smiled. "I'm glad, Son. You looked like you could do with it."

Andrew felt himself flush slightly, and took a big sip of tea to try and cover it. "Look, Dad, I'm sorry about last night, I'm not sure…"

Foyle shook his head. He expected this, but it still hurt him that his son seemed to think he wasn't allowed to show his emotions. That's one thing the military teaches you too well.

It had taken Rosalind's gentle love to remind him that he was allowed to express emotions again, and it looked like Andrew would have to be taught the same lesson. He wished, as he so often did, that his wife was still alive. She would know how to gently reach past the war-hardened exterior and find their boy again. Help me, Rose. Help me to do this properly.

Foyle cleared his throat. "Andrew, last night is nothing to be ashamed of."

He heard his son snort, and raised his head to look him in the eye.

"I'm serious, Andrew. What you have seen and what you have had to do over the past few months are bloody awful. I'd be very worried if it didn't upset you. I understand that as one of the veterans in the squadron you feel that you need to be strong for the others and try and keep their spirits up. I respect that and I'm very proud of you. But, Andrew, please don't ever feel that you need to hide your emotions from me, especially when you are home."

Foyle paused and took a sip of tea while he considered how best to continue. "War is hell, Andrew. You know that now although I wish you didn't. One of the worst things about war is what it does a man's heart. It makes him question things he has held as true his whole life. I always believed that killing was wrong. I still do. But in France I found myself having to choose between killing or being killed - just as you do everyday."

He paused again to choose his words carefully. Andrew had been so fragile last night, and although he seemed better today, he knew he had to tread carefully.

As for Andrew, he sat in stunned silence for he could never remember his father speak so candidly about his time in the army. He had known all his life that his father had served in the last war, but he quickly learned the topic was not open for discussion. A pained look had filled his father's face every time the Great War was mentioned, one that he had never understood - until now.

Now Andrew had his own demons. He realized with sudden clarity that if he should be lucky enough to make it through, and eventually have children of his own, he would be just as reluctant to discuss this war as his father was to discuss the first one.

He blinked at the sudden moisture in his eyes. He was humbled by his father's willingness to dredge up his own painful memories of what he called "the worst three years of his life" to help him.

Unaware of his son's personal revelation, Foyle took another sip of tea and continued, his speech slow and measured as always.

"If you let it, war will fill you with so much hatred and bitterness that you will forget what you were fighting for in the first place," said Foyle. "And instead of hating war, you will come to embrace it, using it as an outlet for all your anger at the world. As soon as that happens you have lost everything that is worth fighting for. You have lost the thing that makes us all human - your compassion. I saw it happen to too many men around me. I worried it was going to happen to me, and it might have if I hadn't had your mother."

He took a long drink of tea trying to ease the lump in his throat. "It was her letters, so full of love and hope that kept me going. They helped me to believe that there was still a spark of goodness in the world that was actually worth fighting to protect. You see, without that, Andrew, a man is lost.

"Military disciple tells you that tears are a sign of weakness, and that's complete nonsense. It is the very fact that you care enough to cry that tells me that you haven't lost yourself to this bloody war. And while I hate to see you upset, I would rather have you cry then have you turn into a battle-hardened man who is incapable of showing his feelings.

"Tears do not make you weak, Andrew. They show me that you are strong enough to still care despite all the horrors that the war has thrown at you. I am so very, very proud of the man you have become."

Andrew sat there unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

He was not surprised by the love and compassion that had filled his father's speech. However, Andrew was shocked by how much he needed to hear his father's words. He hadn't realized just how much he had needed his father's strength and love until he had fallen to pieces last night and let his father soothe his aching heart.

Andrew stood trying to blink back the tears, and walked toward his father. Foyle, his face filled with worry, wondered if he had said too much. But before he could fret further, Andrew was in his arms, his face buried against his neck.

"Thank you, Dad," said Andrew, his voice was thick with tears and muffled by Foyle's shoulder.

There was so much more that Andrew wanted to say to his father. But "thank you" was all he could manage to repeat through his tears.

For a few seconds he tried to fight the tears, but then he remembered his father's words: "Crying means you are strong enough to still care despite all the horrors that war has thrown at you."

And oh, how he cared. Each loss – Rex, Douglas – cut at his very soul despite how much he tried to hide it. But here at home, being comforted by his usually reticent father, he suddenly felt safe enough and strong enough to let go and grieve.

So for the third time in less then 24 hours, Andrew Foyle found himself sobbing uncontrollably in his father's arms.

Foyle had breathed a sigh of relief at Andrew's words. The last thing he had wanted was to add to his son's burden by accidently saying the wrong thing. He heard Andrew's breathing hitch and felt his back stiffen as he tried to hold back the tears.

Foyle rubbed gently at his son's stiff shoulders. Come on, Andrew. Let it out, Son.

Almost as if his son had heard his thoughts, the sobs suddenly intensified and Foyle found himself temporarily off balance as Andrew sagged against him sobbing desperately.

He closed his eyes, his heart torn between pain at his son's despair and relief that Andrew was finally letting it out. Yes, he had cried last night but that was from exhaustion more than anything. Now, his son was in mourning, the names of fallen friends uttered in shaky breaths against his father's collar.

Foyle didn't try to quiet Andrew. He just held him and let him pour all his hurt and sorrow out on his shoulder. He wasn't sure how long it took, but finally his son's sobbing abated and his breathing started to level out.

Foyle pulled back slightly to get a look at his son's face, but Andrew kept it buried determinedly in his shoulder. "Want to try and sit down for a bit?" He felt Andrew nod. "Right. Come on then."

He gently led Andrew toward the living room and sat him down on the settee. He lowered himself next to his aggrieved son and placed a hand on the back of his neck. Andrew turned, and, as he had last night, buried his face in his father's waistcoat.

"Why, Dad? Why did they have to die?" His voice was rough from crying and it tore at Foyle's heart. He gently carded a hand through Andrew's thick hair and answered, "I don't know, Andrew, no one does."

"But it's not fair, Dad."

"No, it isn't." It was the same discussion they'd had last night and one he had with himself many times.

"I…I miss them, Dad." Andrew's voice was soft and full of pain.

Foyle cursed Hitler for the hundredth time for causing his son such pain.

"I know you do, Son, I know you do."

Andrew was quiet for a long time. He was comforted by the scent of his father's aftershave, but it was Foyle's presence that eased the ache in his heart. Andrew knew he had to go back to his squadron. I can't leave the lads to face Jerry alone. He would return, but not yet. He wasn't quite ready to tear himself from the cocoon of his father's embrace where nothing, not even Hitler, could harm him.

His eyelids felt heavy, and he shifted slightly to find a more comfortable position. Sleep was tugging at him but there was something he wanted to say first.

"Thanks, Dad," said Andrew for what seemed like the 40th time in 24 hours. And with that, he fell asleep – once again - with his head in his father's lap. He was exhausted but somehow felt lighter then he had in weeks.

Christopher Foyle looked down at his sleeping boy, a sad smile on his lips.

"Anytime, Son," he murmured as he brushed back the hair that flopped across Andrew's eyes.

Foyle leaned his head back and closed his eyes against the tide of grief and memory that roared up at him. He felt sorrow for Andrew and his friends, and regret that he couldn't do more to ease his boy's pain and the old ache of loss. The faces of his old war buddies swam before him covered in mud, just as they had been back in those bloody trenches.

He took a shuddering breath and looked down at his son again as he remembered another boy so many years ago that had slept in much the same position worn out by the grief of too much war and too many lost friends. But that man had been Christopher Foyle, and he hadn't been lying in his father's lap on a settee in Hastings. He was in a cold, muddy trench in France, leaning up against a fellow soldier whose name he'd never learned for he had died in the next charge.

But Foyle neither forgot him nor the words he had whispered to him: "Let it out, laddie. No one will think less of you. If you can still cry then ye' know your still alive."

In the long months that had followed that day, Foyle often thought of those words. In fact, he repeated them to other soldiers as they all worked to keep each other sane in the hell on earth in which they had found themselves.

He glanced down at his son once again, thankful that Andrew was in the RAF, if only because it meant he could come home when the war got too much. Please let him come home safely. It was a prayer he had said everyday since Andrew had enlisted. He whispered it aloud now and again ran a hand through his boy's hair as he fought back the memories of 24 years ago.