A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed and LauraRaposa for editing. It didn't feel right to not finish what I started so here is another chapter.

I still own nothing but I do hope you enjoy the chapter and that you will leave a review to let me know what you thought.

Chapter 4

Andrew awoke slowly, then blinked and stared at a grey waistcoat that looked very much like one worn by his father. That can't be right. He blinked again and tried to roll over so he could look around, only to feel a firm hand on his shoulder that restricted his movement.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Andrew," said Foyle.

"Dad?" Am I still asleep? Why on earth is Dad here?

"Yep, and unless you have a desire to fall off the settee onto the floor, I suggest you lie back down for a moment."

Andrew did as he was told and felt his father's hand leave his shoulder and his gentle fingers running through his hair. He relaxed instinctively at the touch. Andrew closed his eyes for a moment before they flew open as everything came back: Greville getting burned in his Spit, going AWOL, coming home, Dad's talk, the relief of being able to cry and being the one to fall apart for a change instead of the one being strong.

As one of the few veterans in his squadron left, Andrew was usually the one the chaps turned to after an op went bad. It was on his shoulder that tears were shed. And it was his job to wake them from their nightmares when their yells filled the barracks, and hold them afterwards as they cried.

It used to be Rex's job, and then once he and Douglas came along, the three of them took turns comforting the younger airmen during the night. It was a sort of insurance policy against the entire trio being too exhausted to fly the next day. But then Rex died, and he and Douglas had been left to take care of the new blood. Now, with Douglas gone, it was Andrew's sole responsibility.

Andrew swallowed against the lump in his throat. He missed his friends terribly and suspected that he always would. But as the most seasoned pilot in the squadron he felt responsible for the safety of the younger men. It was an exhausting burden that weighed heavily on his shoulders.

"You know how much the others look up to you, Foyle. Don't let them down," Wing Commander Turner had told him just the other day. It was a stinging reminder of that cross he had to bear and one that he suddenly found himself too tired to carry.

Looking back on it now, he wasn't sure what the actual tipping point had been. But somewhere between forgetting the anniversary of his own mother's death and Greville nearly being charred to death in the cockpit of his Spit, that it all became too much. There was too much death, too many ops, too much wrong with the whole bloody world. So he had done the only thing that felt right and come home where it was safe, warm and, more importantly, where his father was.

He closed his eyes again and focused on the feel of his father's hand as it brushed through his hair as well as the sharp, clean smell of his aftershave. He sighed. All his life he had felt the safest in his father's arms. As a boy his father comforted him during his nightmares, bandaged his scrapes after football matches and carefully guided him through the heartbreaking loss of his mother. There was nowhere else he wanted to be right now.

Never had he been so grateful for his father's love and strength as he had over the last two days. He had been wired with tension and consumed by grief. He was exhausted by the number of ops he flew and by the lack of sleep; to such an extent that he felt physically ill.

It wasn't just the other lads' nightmares that kept him up at night but his own. In his dreams, he replayed the op when Rex's plane crashed. Andrew had watched the Spit piloted by his best friend as it spiraled down into the drink in flames. As Andrew, to no avail, screamed over the radio for best friend to bail out.

Andrew shuddered instinctively at the memory, but calmed immediately when he felt a strong hand rub gently at his shoulders and heard his father murmur, "Ssh, ssh..."

His father had pulled him from the depths of that nightmare last night. Foyle had gathered his son into his arms and let him sob before he steered Andrew up the upstairs and into bed. Where after two other nightmares he finally fell into the best sleep he had in weeks.

But now he felt exhausted again despite having just woken up. He yawned and closed his eyes only to open them a minute later when his stomach reminded him that it had been an awfully long time since lunch.

"Dad?"

Foyle looked down, slightly surprised, he had been sure Andrew was about to doze off again, "Yes, Andrew?"

"What time is it?"

Foyle glanced at his pocket watch, "Almost six."

Andrew sat up so rapidly that he would have slipped off the settee if Foyle hadn't grabbed his arm to steady him, "What? Dad why didn't you wake me?"

Foyle frowned slightly as he set his book aside and turned to face his son, "Why would I? You clearly needed the rest and neither of us had any engagements to keep."

"Yes, but…" Andrew ran a hand through his hair as he tried to comprehend the fact that he had just slept for 4 hours, half laying in his father's lap. "You must have better things to do then act as my pillow."

"Nope, not today. Anyway, since you're up, I'm going to raid the larder and see what I can come up with for dinner. I don't know about you, but I'm famished."

"Sure, Dad," said Andrew, still a bit dazed. "Dinner sounds great."

Foyle smiled as he stood, stretching his legs. "Good, I'll go get started then."

Andrew leaned his head back against the settee and listened to the familiar sounds of his father moving about the kitchen. The contrast between the comfortable quiet of home and the airbase was sharp. The base was never quiet. Planes landed and took off, the scramble siren screamed, men called to each other across the field or talked quietly in groups. And at night the sound of anti-aircraft fire filled the air. He closed his eyes and let the comfort of being home seep into his bones as he wished, as he so often did now, that he could find a way to take a piece of this homey calm away with him.

When he had first been attached to the RAF squadron he had felt more like a boy away at overnight camp. There was the thrill of flying ops with Rex by his side as they did their bit for king and country. They joked, laughed and reveled in the adventure. When they had been given weekend passes, Andrew had been pleased to see his father but always felt anxious to get back to the airfield and into his Spit.

But that was months ago. Now, Rex and Douglas were dead and the excitement he first felt had matured into a sense of duty and dread. He knew what he had to do. He was proud to play his part. But each time the siren to scramble sounded, he wondered if he would come back or if any of them would return safe. Would there be another empty bunk in the barracks?

He shivered and tried to focus on the familiar creaks of his childhood home and the smell of hot food being prepared in the kitchen by his father. Once his mind settled, he rose off the settee and headed upstairs to wash for dinner.