A/N: Thanks to LauraRaposa for editing and to everyone who reviewed.

As usual I own nothing but my own imagination and look forward to hearing what you think of this latest chapter.

Chapter 15

Andrew awoke slowly and relished the quiet. Over the past few months, the flight lieutenant had become accustomed to being jerked awake by the scramble siren or by the frightened yells of his fellow pilots waging war in their dreams.

But to languish in bed after a good night's sleep surrounded by the familiarity of his childhood bedroom seemed too wonderful to be true. Andrew half-expected to be jolted awake and find himself back in the barracks the scramble siren calling him to battle.

He blinked and pinched himself. When the scene remained unchanged, he pushed himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He let out a big yawn as he located his slippers. He figured his father would be at the station, so he threw on his dressing gown and shuffled out into the hall.

When he wandered downstairs five minutes later he was surprised to see his father's trilby and coat on the rack in the hallway. What's Dad doing home at this hour? He opened his mouth to call out but closed it as he stepped into the lounge and caught sight of his father fully engaged in tying flies.

The normalcy of the scene - he in his dressing grown long after he should be and his father in shirt sleeves at work on a new fly – almost fooled Andrew into thinking he was home from Oxford for the weekend. In spite of everything the war had stolen from him, here was a piece of his world that remained untouched.

His father had fished at the same river for as long as he could remember. Andrew remembered that as a little boy, he and his mother would join him on the occasional summer day. He had splashed in the stream under her watchful eye while his father caught a trout for their picnic. Later on, he spent many afternoons ankle deep in the river beside his father as he tried to master the art of fly-fishing. He failed miserably.

Foyle had patiently shown him time and time again the correct way to cast, but there was a certain flick of the wrist that Andrew could not grasp. After many, many tries and much instruction, he took charge of the net and corralled the fish his father expertly caught.

Andrew wondered if he'd be any better at casting now. His reflexes had certainly improved in wartime. Any hesitation by him in his Spit could mean the difference between life and death.

He smiled as he remembered Mum's praise for their catches and the delicious meals that would result from them. When she died it felt like their fishing trips were the only thing in his world that hadn't changed.

The house on Steep Lane felt too large and quiet without her cheerful presence, and both father and son took comfort in the familiarity of the river. There on the banks they could pretend, at least for a few hours, that nothing had changed, for fishing was an activity reserved for the men of the house. It was a time for father and son to talk or often just to enjoy each other's company in relative silence.

Foyle heard Andrew come into the room. Andrew had never mastered the art of moving quietly. He continued to tie a delicate knot even though he risked interruption from Andrew. He finished the knot, looked up and gave his son one of his sideways smiles for his appearance in his dressing gown close to noon.

"Ah, good morning is it, Andrew?"

"Morning still, Dad. Another Iron Blue?"

Foyle knew that was a wild guess from Andrew. "Actually it's a Great Dun, not that you'd know the difference." What a waste of time it was to teach him one fly from another.

Andrew laughed and shrugged. "Well, they do all rather look the same, Dad. Is there anything in the larder for breakfast? I'm starving."

"Why am I not surprised? Anyway it's closer to lunch than it is to breakfast so why don't you go put on some clothes while I find us something," said Foyle.

"Right-o. Won't be long," said Andrew.

True to his word, his son appeared in the kitchen a short time later. Foyle was surprised – and a little concerned - to see that he had changed into his RAF blues. But he didn't mention it until they were both seated with their tea.

"I thought you were on leave till Monday," asked Foyle.

Andrew nodded, and swallowed his mouthful of tea before he replied, "I am, but I thought I'd go by and check on Greville. I wanted to go before but I couldn't very well drop by a RAF hospital while I was AWOL."

Foyle nodded. "Certainly not. But I'm sure your friend will appreciate the visit."

Andrew shook his head. "The WingCo gave him my op, Dad. It should be me in that hospital. The least I can do is see how he's getting on."

Foyle chewed on his lip. He knew Andrew still felt guilty about what had happened to the younger pilot, but at some point he would have to realize that so many things could have been different if he had flown that op.

Andrew may have succeeded without incident in his late-night reconnaissance mission over France or, God forbid, he could have been shot down over the Channel. It was also possible it could have been his son, rather than young Woods, who nearly burned to death when the Spit crash landed on the Hastings airfield and the cockpit slide refused to open.

Foyle shivered instinctively at the thought. He remembered the icy terror that ran through him when he learned of Andrew's crash into the Channel a year earlier. It started from the minute he received the call at the station and lasted until he set eyes on his son in hospital – whole and mainly unhurt – the fear that filled him overtook his entire body. At the time, he prayed he would never again experience such dread.

He studied Andrew carefully while he took a sip of tea and decided that this was probably not the best time to convince him that what happened to 19-year-old Greville Woods was not his fault.

"Would you mind if I came along?" Foyle asked. "There is a gentleman I met on a case out there. He was in the last war and his home is now the RAF hospital. I'd like to see how he's getting on."

Andrew's shoulders relax slightly and he smiled, "Of course, Dad, if you like."

"Right. Maybe after we can get dinner out? I need to go to the shops at some point, but that can wait until 'til tomorrow."

"Sounds good, Dad. I suppose we'll go by taxi then? I was going to ride out on my bike. Don't suppose you want to ride along," Andrew said, a cheeky smile playing at his lips.

"You're absobloodylutely right I don't," said his father. "I'll ring for a taxi once we're finished. That should give you plenty of time to do the washing up while I change."

Andrew opened his mouth to put up a token argument but was instantly quelled by the don't-even-think-of-it look his father shot back at him. "Yes, Dad," he said and looked down at his plate. It's funny. Dad can still make me feel like I'm a naughty schoolboy instead of an experienced fighter pilot…

Foyle smirked before he took another bite off his plate. Father and son finished their meal in comfortable silence and then parted – Foyle called the taxi before going upstairs to change while Andrew, at the kitchen sink, tied an apron around his waist to protect his uniform trousers.