Disclaimer: The characters and plots of Foyle's War belong to Anthony Horowitz. All the dialogue in this chapter, however, belongs to me (with credit also going to my Beta, GiulliettaC, who is marvellous at what she does).

Author's Notes: Thanks to everyone for all of the positive feedback! So glad you enjoyed it, because I'm just getting started and this is going to end up being a nice little epic (I hope).

To clarify, since some of you were wondering, this is most definitely going to be a Milner/Sam romance. But I'm going to be sticking pretty close to canon as I go along, so it's going to be a little while before friendship evolves into something more. Your patience is requested, though not necessarily expected.

This chapter is kind of a downer, but just hold on: things will start looking up in Chapter 3!

Mid-September-December, 1940

When Jane did return, a few days later, Paul was genuinely glad to see her. And she seemed…less distant? Chastened? Had she missed him in Wales while he had been missing her here in Hastings? Or was she just tired from the journey? She didn't pull away when he wrapped her in a welcoming embrace, didn't flinch when he kissed her. When they went to bed that night and he pressed for more, she actually allowed him to be intimate with her for the first time in – how long? There had been an occasion shortly before her trip to Wales, and she had stayed away for three full months. Maybe Jane's going away had been a good idea after all; maybe Kate had talked some sense into her sister.

"Why don't we go out at the weekend?" Paul suggested later that night as they lay together in bed.

"And do what?" Jane queried sleepily.

"Maybe we could go to a dance."

"Oh, Paul," Jane chided, "How can we?" Hearing her, he knew she meant, 'How can you dance now?'

"I can manage perfectly well," he persisted, "Just shuffling around a bit. I promise not to tread on your toes." Paul tried to follow up this small jest by kissing the nape of Jane's neck, but she twisted around as though to see him better in the dark.

"What on earth has gotten into you?" she demanded, incredulous. A moment of silence began and ballooned.

"I've been listening to the wireless a lot during the evenings," Paul finally managed, "It brought back some nice memories. I thought we could give it a go."

"Why don't we go to the pictures instead?" Because clearly an outing that mainly involved sitting still was all that Jane thought he was up for.

"Whatever you like," Paul agreed quietly. He was suddenly glad that the darkness of the room obscured his face, hid his eyes. He realized, in a moment of painful clarity, that their time apart hadn't really changed anything. Jane was never going to see him as anything but a helpless cripple. The most he could honestly expect from her was pity. He would just have to live with it.

But, despite all that, the next few weeks weren't so awful. They both carried on. They had a routine. When Paul left for work and when he got home, Jane would be fussing about in the kitchen. They talked a bit about the war news. She would complain about the shortages and the queues at the shops. They had gone out and seen the "The Thief of Bagdad," which had been quite entertaining, but otherwise they stopped at home in the evenings. Their marital relations were sporadic, and on the few occasions when they were intimate, Paul gradually came to notice that Jane avoided touching any part of him but his arms and shoulders. Still, he counted his blessings.

...

Paul had noticed Jane taking bicarbonate of soda for a few days, but hadn't thought much of it until he and Mr. Foyle began investigating the death of the tanker driver Connie Dewar. Connie turned out to have been four months pregnant, and had been dosing herself with bicarb, apparently for morning sickness. Since Paul had let slip about Jane's recent habit, Mr. Foyle had recommended, matter-of-factly, that Paul speak to Jane.

"Have you been feeling quite well, Jane?" he asked that night as they sat eating their dinner. She looked up with no little surprise.

"Of course, I'm feeling fine, Paul. What on earth made you think otherwise?"

"Well, it's only that you've been taking bicarbonate of soda."

"Oh, that," she waved her hand dismissively, "Just a touch of indigestion."

"Nothing else?" Paul didn't know precisely what he wanted to hear Jane say. Part of him would have loved to hear her tell him that they were starting a family. That would be happy news, something hopeful to look forward to, something to anchor Jane and himself in the normal, everyday round of life.

Another part of his brain, restless and confused, wondered why they were broaching the subject in such a tentative fashion. He could certainly have put Jane in the family way since she had come back from Wales, although if that were the case it was a little soon for her to know for sure. There had been a few rare occasions before Jane had gone away when they had been intimate as well, although if that were the case, she would be well over three months gone, nearly four, and why wouldn't she have told him much earlier? Why couldn't he come straight out and ask Jane directly? More to the point, would Jane really keep this kind of thing from him? Shouldn't they be having this conversation without the prompting of his senior officer of all people, for Heaven's sake?

Jane looked up, puzzled. She squinted at her husband, then raised her eyebrows slightly, as though the penny had dropped.

"I'm perfectly well, Paul," Jane repeated firmly, "It's sweet of you to worry, but there's nothing wrong." She returned her attention to her food.

"You would tell me, wouldn't you?" Frustrated, Paul tried to fumble his way through the disappointment rising up from his stomach and into his chest, taking away his appetite. "If you were ill, you would tell me?"

"Of course I would, Paul," Jane gave a small, brittle smile, "But I'm not."

...

Everything worsened after that conversation, as though some shaky truce had been breached or a bit of temperamental machinery had slipped an essential gear. Jane started avoiding him, exactly as she had in the spring when he first came home. Conversations (on her side at any rate) became another way of keeping him at a distance. She seemed to go off him entirely again, pleading headaches or exhaustion when he made any overtures in that direction. After this happened half a dozen times, he stopped trying.

It was all gradual, yet each moment had a clarity from which Paul couldn't hide, though at first – Lord knew! – he tried. Jane baffled him. Except for the leg, wasn't he perfectly fit? Every other part of his body worked, everything else about him was the same. When he was out and about during the day, he sometimes forgot for brief periods that he was using a prosthesis. But Jane never forgot.

Paul couldn't put his finger on what was wrong with her, or himself, or them, didn't know how this whole situation had come about, felt powerless to fix it. When he tried to talk to Jane about their deteriorating relationship, she barricaded herself behind the newspaper, or her chores. They seemed, increasingly, like two strangers who occupied the same space, tiptoeing around each other. Paul wondered how long this could go on.

Work was what kept him sane. Because there was a world outside of Jane's orbit. There was Mr. Foyle, who really valued his work, and there was Sam, who had become such a good friend, and the whole of Hastings beyond. It seemed like a miracle, after the nightmare at Trondheim and afterwards, that he had found himself a place in the world again. He had a job that he did well. He was respected. He could go anywhere in Hastings and the surrounding areas, and people saw him as a whole person. Most of the people who met him couldn't even tell that he had ever lost a leg.

But Jane knew. And after more than six months' opportunity to come to terms with it all, she simply wouldn't.

...

Christmas was quiet, dispirited, and perfunctory in its celebrations. Just before New Year, Jane packed her cases again and decamped back to her sister's in Wales. This time, there was no pretence that it was just for a few weeks. There was no talk of the future.

Left alone in their house, every room and every stick of furniture seemed to mock him and his failed marriage. In all of these months, Paul had never raised his voice to Jane, never lost his temper with her. Deep down, he knew that he had been afraid to offer her such a perfect excuse to leave again, if she were looking for one. Now he felt an anger in him that seemed to simmer continually just below boiling point, always looking for an outlet.

But though his marriage had failed, Paul still knew that his career with the police was something at which he could succeed.

So Sergeant Milner threw himself into work.