A/N: Thanks for all the kind reviews! Thanks as always to LauraRaposa for editing this chapter for me. I hope you will enjoy it and let me know what you think.

Chapter 9

Foyle paused for a minute in Andrew's doorway. His son was still fast asleep. Once again, he hated to wake him. But this time, he had no choice. He crossed quickly to the bed and gave Andrew's shoulder a firm shake.

"Andrew? Time to wake up." His voice was clipped and loud, and Andrew responded immediately. He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and ran a hand over his face.

"A scramble? I didn't hear the siren."

Foyle pressed his lips into a thin line. The idea that Andrew had become accustomed to waking up and going directly into combat was a disturbing. "No, Andrew, you're home."

Andrew blinked up at him. "Dad?"

"Yep."

Andrew's eyes darted around his boyhood bedroom as the memories of the last few days came back. He forced a smile, "Right, sorry, I forgot."

"No, that's alright," said Foyle. "But you do need to get up."

"Why?"

"We're going to have company this afternoon," said his father. "I'll tell you about it over lunch." He wanted to get Andrew up before telling him about Turner.

"Lunch?"

Foyle lips curled slightly. Trust Andrew to focus on that part of the sentence. "Well, it is nearly 1 p.m., Andrew."

"What? Why didn't you wake me," asked his son.

"There was no reason to until now," said his father. "Anyway, if you're up, I'll go start lunch."

Foyle headed toward the door, pausing in the doorway to look back at his son. "Oh, and Andrew? Make sure you shave, alright?"

"Yessss, Dad."

Nearly 30 minutes later they were both seated at the table when Andrew's curiosity finally won out. "So who is this mysterious guest, Dad? It's not Superintendent Reid is it?"

Foyle wiped his mouth before he replied. "Nup, it's not Hugh. It's actually Wing Commander Turner."

Andrew froze, eyes wide and his cup halfway to his lips. "The WingCo? How? Why?" He had paled significantly.

"Well, he wants to speak with you, Andrew."

"But how does he know where I am? Unless…" His eyes narrowed slightly and he frowned. "You told him didn't you? You turned me in!" His voice was full of hurt and growing anger.

Foyle closed his eyes. He expected this reaction, but accusation still hurt. "Andrew, that's not…"

But his son cut him off and his voice grew louder as color rose in his cheeks. "I really can't believe you sometimes, Dad! I mean the law has to come before everything, doesn't it?"

Foyle held up a hand, "Andrew, stop."

"I did not turn you in," he said. "I told you the first night you were here that I wouldn't turn you in. Do you really think that I would do that to you, son?"

Andrew dropped his head. "No, sorry, Dad, that wasn't fair of me. But then how does Turner know where I am?"

"Well, I was about to tell you."

Andrew nodded sheepishly, "Sorry, Dad, go on."

"Commander Turner came by the station this morning looking for me," Foyle explained. "I wasn't there, of course, but, fortunately, Superintendent Reid was. He was able to convince Turner to wait while he rang me. And that's why I went into the station this morning."

"When you woke me up?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you say something?" Andrew's voice was indignant.

Foyle frowned. "And what good would that have done? I didn't know what Turner wanted, and I didn't see any point in waking you from the sleep you clearly need."

"But at least I would have known!"

"So you could do what, Andrew? Wear a hole in the lounge carpet while you waited for me to get home?"

Andrew shrugged, "So, what did Turner want?"

"He came to inform me that you had gone AWOL."

Andrew looked confused, "Why? That's a job for the RAF police."

Foyle nodded. "Yes, it is. But they don't know you are missing."

"What?" Andrew stared at his father. "But how? According to regulations the WingCo should have reported me missing yesterday morning!"

Foyle nodded again. "Yes, he should have. And he has taken a great risk by not doing so. I'm sure you know as well as I do how RAF Command would react if they found out."

Andrew nodded. "So why did he do it? Not report me I mean?"

Foyle looked steadily at his son. It was clear that Andrew did not realize how much his commanding officer valued him. "He did it, Andrew, because he think you had a good reason to desert and he evidently thinks highly of you."

Andrew looked down at his plate. "I didn't think there was such a thing as a 'good reason' for desertion in the RAF."

Foyle closed his eyes for a moment, silently cursing everything about military discipline that Andrew had been taught. When he spoke, his voice was low and carefully controlled. "Well, Commander Turner thinks there is. He thinks you are suffering from a type of battle fatigue."

"And you agreed with him I'm sure," Andrew snorted.

"Yes, I did. I told him that you were exhausted and upset."

Andrew sighed. "Dad, everyone's tired. There's a bloody war on. I can't exactly tell Jerry to bugger off until I've had some kip! Too many of them are getting through as it is. I mean, look at London, for God's sake."

Foyle sighed. "I understand that, Andrew, but it doesn't mean you aren't exhausted."

"Like I said, Dad, everyone is tired. Everyone in the squadron is working on less sleep then they should. And I won't be babied just because I'm tired!"

"No one is trying to 'baby you,' Andrew. Turner also told me that you get less sleep then the others because of the time you spend with the younger pilots."

"What am I supposed to do, Dad? Leave them to drink away their nightmares so I can get enough sleep? They're young. They don't know how to deal with it yet. And I'm squadron leader. It's my job to make sure all the men are ready to fly." As Andrew spoke his voice had risen but there was steel behind his words. His eyes bored into his father's steel-blue pair almost daring him to disagree.

"I understand that."

"Do you, Dad?" Andrew asked. "Do you really understand what it's like to hold them while they cry, knowing all the while that one of you might be dead before the next op's over?"

The pain in his Andrew's voice cut Foyle to the quick. Pride filled his chest for the man his son had become, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the sorrow of knowing how vested he had become in this damn war.

He looked into his son's eyes. "Yes, Andrew, I believe I do." The pain in Foyle's voice was evident, and Andrew stared at him. "I had to do that many times in France and it's bloody terrible. I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am that you've had to experience it."

Andrew balked slightly at the sight of guilt and sadness that he saw reflected back at him in his father's eyes. He took in a deep breath before he replied. "Then you know that I am just doing what has to be done."

Foyle paused unsure of how to proceed. It appeared Andrew had recovered enough to believe he should be back with his squadron. Any suggestion otherwise would be taken as a swipe against his ability to do his duty.

He rubbed a hand across his forehead. "Be that as it may, it doesn't discount how challenging these last few months have been for you, Andrew."

The young airman sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "It's my job, Dad. Yes, it's retched but it's war, and like you said it is 'hell.' It's bad enough that I've left the lads on their own for the last few days. I'm ready to go back now. I have to go back."

He spoke steadily, his eyes fixed on his father and Foyle recognized the look in his eyes with a mixture of relief and worry. Andrew's usually laughing eyes were serious, just as they had been when the promising Oxford student told his father that he had joined up.

Foyle felt relieved to know that Andrew was no longer at the end of his rope as he had been when he walked through the front door two nights ago. But it also meant Andrew would likely decline Turner's offer to take him off active service, and given the lack of experienced fighter pilots, the Wing Commander might allow it.

As a veteran of the last war, Foyle knew that the guilt and pain Andrew felt could not be healed by two nights in a warm bed and a few heart-to-heart conversations. He knew that if Andrew returned to his squadron, the cycle of exhaustion and despair would continue. Until, in a week or a month, he would very likely lose his boy to this god-awful war.

Foyle shivered and took a sip of hot tea in an effort to compose himself. "I can see that you've got your mind made up, Andrew, but you need to listen to Turner's proposal. He is your commanding officer and you'd be behind bars if it wasn't for him."

Andrew nodded. "I know, Dad." The weariness in his voice sharply contradicted his earlier assurances that he was fine.

Foyle felt the familiar ache of worry in his chest and had to press his lips together to keep himself from pointing it out. As difficult as it was he knew there was no point trying to reason with Andrew. He only hoped that Turner would not be swayed by his son's bravado and stubbornness.

He checked his watch. "Right, well, you'd better finish up. The Wing Commander will be here in about 40 minutes."

Andrew nodded as he took another bite from his plate. "I'm sorry, Dad, I'm not very hungry," he said as he put his fork down. "I'll put my dish in the kitchen then head up to change. You don't mind doing the washing up without me?"

His father nodded and forced a smile. "Just this once." For the next few minutes Foyle sat there in deep thought as he chewed his lip and listened to the sounds of his son moving about the house.

Finally, Foyle stood and cleared the rest of the table.