Disclaimer: Out of canon, off the grid, everything out of my own head. Except, of course, that the characters still belong ultimately to Anthony Horowitz.

Author's Notes: Thanks to my Beta, GiulliettaC, without whom this chapter would have been much more insipid and not nearly as satisfying.

Enjoy the weekend, Ladies...

April, 1942

When Paul finally dragged himself home after typing out all of his notes, he had gone straight to bed and fallen into a sleep of pure exhaustion. When he woke up, it was five o'clock in the morning, but he knew it was useless to try getting back to sleep. His mind, already sharp and alert, had cast itself back to the dance at the American base a couple of nights ago, and to Sam's startling words.

I'm tired of boys…

Despite the early hour, Paul went through his usual morning routine of dressing and shaving. Then he went down to the kitchen and put the kettle on. As he waited for the water to boil, he filled the time with tidying the kitchen, putting the clean dishes on the draining board away in the cupboard. It was only when he was sitting at the table, inhaling the steam from his cup of tea, that he began to really ponder Sam's declaration.

He knew what her words had meant when she had spoken them: that she had not only been talking to him, but about him. Paul was still a young man, but he hadn't been a boy in years, not since long before the war. He had nearly a decade on Sam, and Andrew, and on the majority of the young men present at the dance the other night. The difference in age wasn't all that significant, but the experience of life they encompassed made the gap noticeable. He had spent his childhood in the shadow of the last war – events which none of them would remember personally even if they had been born before the official Armistice Day. He had seen the horrors of war for himself and lost his leg to the meat grinder of the battlefield. He had found love (or so he had thought) and subsequently watched his marriage crumble.

How long had Sam been thinking of him in this way? What were his feelings towards her? He couldn't even begin to fathom the answer to the first question. As for the second…

He thought that Sam was everything lovely, from her looks to her outlook on life. Under different circumstances, Paul acknowledged to himself, he would probably have fallen for her head over heels a long time ago and might have even made a serious play for her as well. But, when their friendship had begun, Paul had considered himself a married man. Or, rather, he had thought that he still had a marriage that could be salvaged. By the time that illusion had well and truly died, Sam had been involved with Andrew Foyle. So Paul had quite simply never allowed himself to think of her in any other way but as a cherished friend and colleague.

Moreover, he had prized Sam's friendship for the gift it was: something very precious that kept his life from being as solitary and colourless as it might otherwise have been. And now, apparently, she wanted to offer him an even greater gift – if he would take it. These past few years, he'd grown accustomed to resigning himself to things. Resigned to losing his leg. Resigned to Jane's desertion. It had been barely a conscious thought, upon learning of Sam's relationship with Andrew, to resign himself to the fact that someone as beautiful and sparkling as Sam would naturally gravitate to a glamorous fighter pilot of her own age rather than a quiet, plodding detective sergeant close to ten years her senior with an estranged wife. Elbows planted on the table, Paul buried his face in the palms of his hands and groaned aloud.

Bloody Jane. He'd written to Jane last summer (now that he thought of it, it had been after his first trip to the pictures with Sam – had that been when all this had started?) suggesting that they get a divorce. Jane had never answered. It was starting to appear as though he would simply have to wait out the time required before desertion became grounds for divorce. Sometimes Paul thought of himself and Jane as divorced already, though he knew that wasn't legally the case. The whole state of affairs was an odd sort of thing, neither fish nor fowl. He hadn't felt married in donkey's years, though he was still bound by the legal and moral restraints of marriage. How could he, in good conscience, allow himself to become involved with anybody while he was still tied to Jane? Forlornly, he wondered what he had to offer.

Paul left his house at daybreak and walked to the station in the chill spring mist. He might as well begin with the day's duties; his solitary cogitation wasn't proving particularly productive. Approaching the station's front doors, Paul saw them open and a figure barreled out towards him: Sam. Paul's heart did a painful somersault as he watched her hurrying his way. How long had she been there, waiting for him?

"I had a feeling you'd be in early." Sam's voice was breathless, but her face uncharacteristically solemn. She looked as though she had slept poorly. "I was hoping we could talk."

"Of course. Where…?" It was too early and too cold to sit on a public bench. Paul didn't fancy having their anticipated discussion in the station, where someone might take note of them. He ran through the nearby cafés and tearooms in his mind, but before he could make a suggestion, Sam had gestured for him to follow her. She led the way to the parked Wolseley, opened the back door and slid herself along the seat, making room for Paul, who clambered in after her and closed the door. It was unheated, but at least it was out of the wind. They sat facing each other.

"Are you all right?" Sam began, "After yesterday? I saw how upset you were."

Paul passed a hand over his face, rubbing his tired eyes. The memory of the way he'd gone spare at Carter the day before had taken on the quality of a painful hallucination, leaving him deeply embarrassed. He hoped that Sam would never come to hear any of the specifics.

"I'm all right." The statement teetered quite close to honesty although it failed to land squarely on target. "I stayed late yesterday to get the report written. It cleared my head."

"Good. I was worried," Sam smiled wanly.

"Thank you again for the tea and biscuits." Paul gazed at Sam intently, seeming to see her with new eyes. He had grown accustomed to her concern for his welfare. He had welcomed it and treasured it, the way he had the rest of Sam's friendship. In his state of isolated self-reliance, it was a thing too conspicuously lacking for him to take lightly. But now he also saw, undisguised, a depth of tenderness and care that made his heart race despite his earlier self-doubts.

"Sam," he began gently, "what you said the other night, at the dance…" He saw Sam begin to chew on her lower lip from nerves. "Did you really mean it?"

"Yes, Paul. I did." The words rang with simply stated honesty.

"How long have you felt like that?"

"Ages," she began, absently smoothing down the fabric of her skirt, the beginnings of a blush augmenting cheeks already glowing from the cold, "Since before Christmas. But of course…with Andrew… I couldn't tell you before now." Peering anxiously into Paul's face, partially shaded by the hat he still wore, Sam gulped, "Do you think…could you…could you come to feel the same way about me?"

He took a moment before replying, tracing her features with his eyes: the curves and contours of her cheeks and chin, the lines of her nose and lips, the arch of her eyebrows above her eyes, grown huge with trepidation. And the answer he should give became obvious.

"I think…that I already do," he said, matching Sam's gravity. Then he smiled, slightly dazed by the admission he had just made, both to Sam and to himself, "Only, I needed you to show me what was right under my nose. As usual."

"Oh, thank Heavens!" Sam exclaimed, slumping back against the Wolseley's interior as the tension left her body in a sudden rush. She took off her cap and ran her palm up her forehead and over her neat hair. "I meant for us to talk everything through at the dance, but then they found that poor girl… And then of course you and Mr. Foyle had to interview everyone and there was no time to talk to you, and I couldn't distract you with something like this when of course the inquiry had to come first. But all the time I was wondering what you had made of what I said and I was so afraid," she leaned forward and clutched Paul's gloved hand, "That I had completely put my foot in it and that you were going to say that you thought of me like you would your sister and we should just go on being friends." Sam let go of his hand with the same suddenness that she had seized it. "I had the most rotten night's sleep and finally gave it up for a bad job around five and made straight for the station so that I could catch you early, and…here we are." The words tumbled helter-skelter from her lips with a return of all of her customary verve, making Paul feel with some relief that the Sam he knew and whose company he enjoyed so much had reappeared.

Even so, his earlier doubts crept back into his mind. "But listen, Sam…" Paul began, his brief euphoria fading.

"No, no, no, no, no, Paul!" Sam's interruption was immediate and vehement, "No 'but, Sam'." She grabbed his hand again and clung to it. "I won't let you take back what you just said to me."

"But how can this work? How can we be anything but friends?" he reasoned.

"What on earth do you mean?" She stared owlishly at him, and he was struck again by just how tired she looked.

"Jane and I are still married. You realize that? How can you and I start…anything?"

"You don't really feel that you owe…that woman…any consideration – do you?" Sam's candour made Paul blink in surprise. He knew just how far removed Sam was from the stereotypical idea of a vicar's daughter. She was broad-minded and generous, not prim or naïve. She had seen quite a few glimpses of the seedier sides of life while working for the police. But he hadn't expected her to be so frank and to simply brush Jane's bothersome existence aside like so much lint. "Paul," Sam added sharply since he hadn't responded to her first question, "Surely you don't still have any feelings for her?"

"No, no," Paul hastened to reassure Sam, "My feelings aren't the problem." He never even thought of Jane from one month to the next except as a nuisance that he could never quite shake. "But I can't…we can't simply pretend that there aren't legal obligations tying me down."

"I understand all that, Paul. I've given this a great deal of thought. But none of your so-called 'obligations' bothers me in the least." Sam relaxed again, but maintained her hold on Paul's hand. They were quiet for a moment. "We've been such good friends," Sam said, "And we're going to go right on being good friends. Only now we're going to give ourselves the chance to become more."

"But what would we tell people? What about your parents? They would never approve." He scrutinized her face anxiously. It wasn't only a question of his legal obligations. She looked completely untroubled by any idea of what people might say or think if they knew she was romantically involved with a married man.

"We don't need to tell anyone anything, do we? Everyone at the station already knows that we're friends. I know how to act professionally at work. You know that you do too. As for my parents… They know all about you, and Mr. Foyle, and the work you both do from my letters. But I've never told them everything about my life here in Hastings. I never really told them much about Andrew, to be honest. So, can't we simply let people come to realize that things between us have changed…as things change?"

Paul took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, letting Sam's words suffuse his mind with their optimism and pragmatism. Maybe…maybe this could be more than an idea of castle-in-the-air fantasy. Maybe this was really a step that he could take – that they could take together. He squeezed her hand and smiled shyly, looking down at their gloved fingers intertwined. And Sam knew, looking at him, that he had acquiesced, and that a new vista was opening in front of them. As she studied his face, his smile gradually broadened.

"We never got to finish our dance the other night," he remarked teasingly.

"No, I don't suppose we did," Sam returned his smile, feeling giddy with relief and delight in equal measure.

"Don't you think that we ought to?"

"Oh, absolutely," Sam beamed, and it seemed to Paul that she filled the car with her own particular light. They sat gazing at each other in congenial silence. There was something almost worshipful about the look in Paul's eyes, and Sam thought, for an instant, that he was about to lean forward and kiss her. The thrill of anticipation, flowing from every part of her body, fell flat as the moment passed and he made no move. But before either disappointment or confusion could cloud the brightness of the occasion, Paul spoke again.

"You can't have any idea…what having you in my life has meant to me. These past two years. Having you for my friend." Their hands were still clasped, and his thumb caressed her knuckles as he spoke. Despite the layers of leather from his gloves and from hers, his touch sent delicious shivers up her arm, while the nearly heartbreaking gratitude of his words and tone brought tears to her eyes. Further words seemed to fail Paul for the moment and he tightened his grip on her hand. How to articulate all of the little ways that she brought joy and warmth into his life? The way that she had kept him from retreating further inside the echoing cavern of loneliness that his life might have been, kept him from burying himself in his work the way other men drowned themselves in drink. "You've been my lifeline," he finally managed, finding the words inadequate but unable to think of anything better.

"I'm so glad," Sam murmured, humbled and touched by Paul's words. She sat, drinking in his features and wishing, with a hollow ache inside her chest, that Paul would kiss her; wondering why he didn't. Was he afraid of being seen by some constable from the day shift? A nearby clock chimed the quarter hour and Paul glanced at his watch. It was nearly time for Sam to go and pick up Mr. Foyle. He didn't want to let go of her hand.

"When would you like to go dancing?" he asked, trying to shift his mental gears back from their idyll to the mundane routine that stretched before them.

In spite of herself, Sam's next words were lost in a huge yawn. "Not tonight, perhaps. I think I'll need an early night," she told him apologetically. She almost seemed to be emerging from a lovely dream. Except that this had been real, she reminded herself.

"At the weekend, maybe?" Paul asked, forcing himself to flex his fingers and detach his hand from Sam's.

"All right," Sam agreed with an eager grin, then took note of the time as well and reluctantly began to stir herself. "I'll see you soon, then?" she added, already missing the feel of Paul's hand holding hers.

"Yes," Paul replied, "Quite soon." They climbed out of the Wolseley's back seat, and Sam took her usual position behind the wheel, driving off with a radiant backwards smile. Paul watched her turn a corner and disappear, then, with a new spring in his step, walked into the station to begin the working day.

...

Their evening out, three nights later, began promisingly enough. They met up at the dance hall and left their coats with the cloakroom attendant, discovering, to their mutual delight, that each had decided to wear the same clothes as they had to the ill-fated party at the American base. Walking in together, as they made for the dance floor, Paul enjoyed the heady pleasure of being accompanied by the prettiest girl in the room. Added to this was the sheer awe that, of all the places that Sam could have gone, and all of the fellows with whom she could have chosen to spend her time, she had actually chosen to be here with him.

And then everything had started to fall apart. After their first couple of dances, Paul found that he couldn't think of anything to say to Sam. It was as if he'd regressed from a thirty two year old man to some lad of fifteen, trying to work up the courage to talk to a pretty girl at school. As if he and Sam hadn't spent close to two years talking to each other about everything under the sun. His mind was paralyzed by an undercurrent of panic; every idea that flitted through his brain sounded trite and clumsy.

It wasn't until they were sitting out a dance, sipping drinks, that Sam began to notice Paul's unease. He wasn't a hugely chatty person as a rule, but just now he seemed enveloped in a fidgety sort of silence, not one of repose. She was essentially keeping up both ends of the conversation, and while talking the hind leg off of a donkey had always been one of her strong suits, even she sensed the atmosphere between them growing quickly awkward and cast about in her mind for something to say.

"I promised to teach you the jitterbug. Shall we try that at the next fast number?"

"Yes, that's a good idea." Paul's tone was wooden. Sam had been on awkward dates before, but usually with chaps she didn't know very well, which could make finding common ground difficult. She and Paul had known each other for so long, it had never occurred to her that this sort of awkwardness could crop up between them. She studied Paul's face for a moment as he stared down at his drink and decided to face this new problem as she usually faced others: head on.

"Is everything all right, Paul? You've been so quiet." Paul grimaced and seemed to hold a momentary inward debate with himself.

"I can't think of a blessed thing to say," he finally admitted, frustration writ large over his face, "Not a blessed thing. I don't know why."

Nerves, Sam reassured herself, Just nerves. Now to tackle reassuring Paul. "It's just because everything seems so new," she began, projecting self-assurance as best she could, "even though it isn't – not really. I'm still Sam Stewart and you're still Paul Milner, even if we are dressed up and out dancing. I don't want you to talk to me about the moon and stars. I don't want clever words and poetry because you think that's what you ought to be saying to me." I had enough of that with Andrew, she added to herself, and what did it really amount to at the end of the day? She paused and watched as Paul's posture relaxed slightly. "Tell me what you did today," Sam suggested.

"What?"

"Start telling me every blessed little thing that you did at the station today. Every piece of paper you touched. Then I'll tell you everything that I did and everything that I watched Mr. Foyle do. I think that somewhere in all of that, we'll remember how to have a genuine conversation. What was the first thing you did this morning?" Paul cast his mind back to the beginning of the day, then a mischievous grin tugged at one corner of his mouth.

"I opened my eyes and reached the obvious conclusion that I wasn't dead." Paul tried to keep a straight face as Sam dissolved into giggles, but her laugh was infectious and he started laughing too, the nervous tension draining from his body. When they had both recovered, she made him play the game in earnest. Then they returned to the dance floor and Sam taught him how to jitterbug, as promised.

...

It was a wonderful night after all. As Paul walked Sam home afterwards, they both agreed that they would go out dancing again next week, if not sooner. As they walked side by side, the arms of their coats just brushing each other, Sam pondered the past few days at the station. She congratulated herself that they had both behaved with irreproachable professionalism, despite the delicious frisson of awareness she now felt whenever they were in each other's vicinity.

But it was odd, now that she came to think of it. From the time they had emerged from the Wolseley until going dancing tonight, Paul hadn't touched her once. And he had always used to – never inappropriately, of course: a sympathetic or encouraging pat on her shoulder, or her arm, or her elbow when sympathy or encouragement were warranted. An occasional fleeting pressure of his fingers on the small of her back when she preceded him through a door. These informal physical contacts had driven her rather wild when she had been pining after him. Now they had all stopped completely, which Sam assumed was part of Paul's conscious effort to behave professionally at the station. Still, she found herself missing them.

Their footsteps slowed as they approached the door of Sam's lodgings and their conversation petered out. Sam's stomach began to fill with hopeful butterflies, anticipating a kiss to crown their first real, official outing as a couple. When she glanced up at Paul's shadowed face, however, Sam perceived, with dismay, a kind of frozen hesitation settling over it.

Of course, Sam knew that Paul wasn't…impulsive the way that she was. He was more thoughtful, more cautious. This was part of what made him so good at his job. But in this instance, Sam could sense Paul's restraint – or was it something else? – holding him back almost against his will, and she determined not to be cheated out of a kiss twice in one week.

For his part, Paul couldn't say why he was suddenly afraid of kissing Sam. The idea of doing so had hovered at the back of his mind ever since they had left the dance hall. He knew that Sam must be expecting a kiss at this point in their evening. He was sure she would welcome one. She was so beautiful, and golden, and inviting, even in the dim light of the blacked out streets. Yet something in him seemed to have frozen from the inside out, holding him in check. A dread had awoken in him that once he finally kissed Sam, their relationship would change irrevocably, with no going back.

They reached Sam's doorstep and came to a halt. She turned to face Paul and stood still, waiting. He stood, looking down at her as though she were suddenly transformed into a crystal statue liable to shatter under his lightest touch. Sam studied his face, looking for the key that would solve this problem for them both.

"Aren't you going to kiss me?" she asked gently, reaching out and capturing one of his hands in hers.

"I want to." The contrasting emotions of terror, frustration, and desire warred across Paul's face and roughened his voice slightly.

"Well then…?" In a flash of insight, Sam divined part of the problem. Jane. It wasn't that Paul still loved Jane. It wasn't even that he thought it was wrong to kiss someone else while he and Jane were still legally married. But Jane had been the last person to whom Paul had opened himself romantically. And she'd been so horrible to him, leaving him in the lurch, leaving him so utterly bereft. Sam reached out and took his other hand, holding both hands tightly as though to say: I'm not going anywhere.

"But then everything…" Paul faltered, struggling to find the right words.

"Yes?" Sam persisted.

"Everything will have changed and I couldn't bear to lose…"

"Lose what?"

"Your friendship," Paul managed. Sam nodded her head briefly in comprehension. Her friendship. His lifeline, he had called it during their conversation in the Wolseley a few days ago. And once they kissed, they would move beyond friendship to a place where both the rewards and the perils were much greater, as Paul already knew to his cost.

"You're not losing my friendship, Paul," Sam replied emphatically, "You'll always have it. I've always thought that was how the best romances started, don't you agree? Not the ones you see at the pictures, with eyes meeting across a crowded room. But the real ones, the ones that last, they're always built on friendship." Sam released Paul's hands and laid her palms flat against the lapels of his coat. Through the layers of broadcloth and linen, she could feel the gentle rise and fall of Paul's chest as he breathed in and out. "Please, Paul, won't you kiss me?"

His hand rose from his side and covered one of hers. Taking a deep breath, Paul leaned forward and captured Sam's lips with his own. With the boundary crossed, instinct took over. As his arms circled her waist and drew her closer, he felt Sam's own arms reach up and twine themselves about his neck. The exhilaration and headiness of physical reaction would come moments later, with their second kiss, but just in this moment, with Paul's arms wrapped around Sam and their lips meeting for the first time, he felt simply…safe. As though he had finally come home.