A/N: Thanks to LauraRaposa for editing. I own nothing but my imagination.

Chapter 19

After a brief account of his visit with Greville Woods - with the main focus on the younger man's engagement to Anne - and plans made to fish at the river the next morning, Andrew fell silent. Focusing on his plate with much more dedication than the wartime meal required.

Foyle wasn't surprised. When Andrew voluntarily remained silent, it usually meant he was in a funk about something. When he was still at school, silence at the dinner table meant he had done poorly on a test or on the athletic field or he had landed in hot water with a teacher. Andrew would eventually confess, but in his own time.

Foyle had no doubt that the events of the afternoon, coupled with those of the past few days, had given his son plenty to mull over. And as much as he wanted to help, he knew it was best to give him time. Patience was one virtue that the career policeman had worked hard to cultivate. It usually paid off in the interview room as well as at the dinner table with a silent Andrew.

The mask that the young pilot had carefully constructed and worn throughout their time at the hospital slowly dropped away to reveal a man exhausted by war as well as the yoke of leadership he shouldered.

Foyle felt his jaw twitch. He wished he could say or do more to alleviate his boy's pain. But he knew only time would heal Andrew's wounds.

When he saw both their plates were empty, Foyle signaled the waiter. After he caught the man's eye to ask for the check, he inquired if his son would prefer to walk home or take a taxi.

Andrew visibly pulled himself from his thoughts at his father's question. "Wouldn't mind the walk if that's alright with you, Dad. It's not too far is it?"

Foyle shook his head. "Probably a quarter hour at most."

Andrew nodded as he swallowed the last swig of his pint. "Right-o. Thanks for dinner, Dad. Jolly decent of you."

Foyle smiled. "Well, there's bugger all in the larder, so it was either this or we starve. But I am glad you enjoyed it."

Not surprised he opted to walk home. Hopefully it will help clear his head and maybe let him sleep. God knows I can do with more than three hours…

Father and son walked home in comfortable silence, and after doing the blackout, they settled by the fire for their customary nightcap. It quickly became apparent to Foyle that Andrew was still not ready to talk about what had transpired earlier at the hospital. They didn't terry too long over their drinks given that they planned an early start to the river.

Foyle the younger headed upstairs first. His father followed a short time later and was pleased to find Andrew fast asleep when he checked in on him. He pulled up the blankets and dropped a soft kiss on his son's head before crossing to his own room.

The weary DCS went through his nighttime ablutions in a daze then dropped into bed and borrowed down in the blankets. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. But his slumber was short-lived.

"HELP! GET ME OUT! SOMEONE HELP!" came a cry that tore though the silent house. The terror in his son's voice catapulted Foyle out of bed and into Andrew's room within seconds.

The young pilot was thrashing back and forth, his long legs tangled in his blankets. His hands clawing at the air as he cried, "PLEASE, GET ME OUT OF HERE!"

Foyle leaned down, caught his son's shoulders and shook them firmly as he said, "Andrew! Wake up! Andrew!"

His son's eyes flew open and he pushed himself up on his elbows to scan the room.

Foyle sat down on the bed and asked again, "Andrew?"

What's Dad doing here?

Andrew stared into his father's eyes and breathing heavily as he oriented himself.

"Dad," he croaked.

"Yes, son, I'm here," said Foyle as he reached out to grasp Andrew's bicep. "It was only a dream...just a bad dream."

It took all of one second for Andrew to sit up, collapse into his father's arms and begin to sob into his father's flannel-clad shoulder. "Oh, Dad, I…I…"

Foyle rubbed his back soothingly. "Shh, son, it was just a dream. You're safe…I'm here…"

Finally, the tears eased and Foyle felt Andrew sag against him. "Care to tell me what happened?"

As he expected, Andrew shook his head.

Foyle carded his fingers through Andrew's hair. "Come on, son, you know it will help. It always does."

Andrew shivered but remained silent as he buried his face a little more firmly in Foyle's shoulder. Foyle waited, fingers still running through Andrew's sweaty hair.

"I couldn't get out of my Spit, Dad."

Andrew shivered then continued. "The fly was stuck. I…I…couldn't get the canopy open and the flames kept getting closer. I could feel them licking at my feet and I couldn't get out. I kept shouting but no one heard me. I was stuck and thought I was going to die."

Foyle felt Andrew's breathing hitch and fresh tears dampened his shoulder.

"It's alright, Andrew," soothed Foyle. "It was just a dream."

"But it wasn't," said his son as he lifted his tear-stained face to look at his father. "Greville told me that's what happened to him. It should have been me, Dad. I should have been burned, not him. It was my Spit." He shuddered again and trailed off.

Foyle sighed. "Andrew, it isn't that simple. You can't assume that the same thing would have happened to you if you flew the op. A number of things could have changed, son. You might have avoided the guns or, God forbid, you might have been shot down over France or the Channel. I understand that you feel guilty that Greville got hurt flying your plane, but you had no way of knowing what would happen."

Andrew shook his head and looked into his father's steel-blue eyes. "See, that's where you're wrong, Dad. I knew the fly was sticking. After the last op I flew I couldn't get out, and one of the ground attendants had to open my canopy. That's why I rowed with Drake.

"I reported the problem the week before and he'd done nothing. That's why I blamed him for what happened to Greville. It could have been me, Dad. That was my op. At the last minute the WingCo assigned it to Greville."

He shivered again and ran a shaky hand over his tears-soaked face.

Foyle also felt a shudder run through him. I know every sortie he flies is a flirt with death. The thought of Andrew being killed in a hail of German bullets is one thing. But being burned alive because of the nonchalance and carelessness of the RAF mechanics? It's unfathomable and unforgiveable.

It was several minutes before Foyle had composed himself enough to speak. "That doesn't make it your fault, Andrew. It was Drake's job. You reported that the work needed to be done and it was his duty to fix it. The fact that he neglected to do so is atrocious, but it has nothing to do with you. You did your job. He didn't do his."

Andrew, who had made a study of his blankets while he father spoke, looked up and said, "it still feels like it's my fault."

Foyle nodded. "I know, son, but you have to get past it. I promise you it wasn't your fault. Moreover, I suspect Greville would tell you the same."

"He did, Dad," said Andrew. "I tried to apologize but he said it was Drake's responsibility as well as his own because it was his op."

"And he's absolutely right."

Andrew nodded but stayed silent as he took stock of his childhood bedroom - the books, sports trophies, a framed photograph of his smiling mother with her toddler son taken down by the river. He missed it all while he was away and was painful aware each time he was home that it might be the last time he saw it. Damn the bloody Luftwaffe.

They sat in silence for a few minutes then Andrew shifted, suddenly looking rather embarrassed.

"Sorry about all that, Dad."

"Nothing to be sorry about, son," assured his father. "Now, I don't know about you, but I could do with some tea."

"Tea sounds brilliant," smiled Andrew. "Shall I put the kettle on?"

"Why not let me do the honors while you get yourself cleaned up?"

Andrew nodded and began to untangle himself from the bedclothes. Before Foyle made it to the door, his son called out, "Dad? Thank you."

His father smiled, nodded and said, "I won't be long." Andrew heard him cross the hall to his own room, presumably to collect his slippers and dressing gown.

Foyle entered his room and leaned back against his door with his eyes closed. The surge of rage that tore through him when Andrew described Drake's indifference toward maintaining his Spitfire had returned. During his discussion with Andrew, it took every fiber of his being to keep his anger in check so he wouldn't alarm Andrew any further. But now…

God, forgive me. But drowning was too good for the bastard.

Foyle looked down. His hands were balled into fists at his side and his breathing was staggered. After a few seconds, he took a deep breath and pried his fingers apart before he crossed to the bed to put on his wool dressing gown.

While he hunted around for his slippers, Foyle heard Andrew cross the hall to the lavatory. A short time later, he made his way to the kitchen to prepare their late-night brew.

As he collected the tea things on an enamel tray, Foyle continued to stew.

At least Drake was dead and he couldn't put Andrew or any member of his squadron at risk. It wasn't much, but it would have to do for now. Just wait until I tell Hugh about Drake's cock up. He'll be just as angry – as if the mechanic needed more people cheering his demise…

A much calmer Andrew, dressed in a fresh pair of pajamas and his dressing gown, met his father at the door of his bedroom and relieved him of the tea tray. He accepted a cup from Foyle with a nod of quiet thanks. The men sipped their tea in silence until Andrew checked the time on the clock by his bed.

"Christ, Dad, it's 2 a.m.," Andrew said in surprise. "We're supposed to be up in a few hours to go fishing!"

"Couldn't matter less, Andrew," said Foyle with a wave of his hand. "We can go later or, another day if you'd rather."

Andrew shook his head. "No, Dad, I want to go."

There was a note of urgency in his voice that surprised Foyle but he made no comment, merely nodded and took another sip of tea. "Well, we can go around 9, but there's always the weekend."

Andrew nodded. "Nine o'clock it is."

Once they had both finished their tea, Foyle stood, took his son's cup asking as he did so, "think you'll be able to sleep now?"

"Yes, I think so," said Andrew.

"Good, I'll take these down then," said Foyle as he placed both cups on the tray and headed for the door.

"Dad?"

Foyle stopped and turned back toward the bed. "Yes, Andrew?"

Andrew opened his mouth only to close it again. He frowned slightly before asking, "Umm, you'll come and wake me in a few hours then?"

"Absolutely will," said his father. "If we waited for you to get out of bed, all the fish would be gone."

Foyle returned the tea things to the kitchen then went into his bedroom to grab his eiderdown for yet another night of sleeping in a chair next to his son. He heard the question that Andrew had not asked earlier, and even without it, he had no intention of sleeping anywhere else for the next few hours.

He walked quietly across Andrew's room to place the eiderdown on the armchair before sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. His son stirred and asked, "Dad?"

"Yes, Andrew, I'm here. Go back to sleep."

Andrew nodded and shifted slightly. "Love you, Dad," he said in a soft voice as he closed his eyes.

Foyle closed his eyes, rose from the bed and whispered, "And I love you, son."

As he drew the bedclothes up around his boy, Foyle found couldn't recall the last time he had heard Andrew speak those words to him. Was it after another bad dream?

Neither he nor his son was outwardly affectionate with each other now like they were when he was a small. Rosalind was the one who rained kisses and hugs upon her precious boy and told him "I love you" every night as she tucked him into his bed. There were many nights when Foyle, hidden on the landing outside the bedroom door, had heard Andrew giggle, "And I love you, Mummy."

But after her death, while their affection for each other never waned, those words were very rarely spoken aloud.