Disclaimer: This website is call "Fan Fiction dot Net." 'Nuff said.
Author's Notes: Every FanFiction couple deserves a happy, fluffy break from their angst and drama. This is it for Sam and Paul.
As always, many thanks to my Beta, GiullietaC, with whom I had an interesting exchange about men and household chores, and who found me a very informative website on the history of fish and chips.
June, 1942
Sam had looked forward to changing the nature of her relationship with Paul for quite some time before it had finally come to pass. She had anticipated a number of problems that might need to be addressed, most of which had yet to materialize. One of the biggest of these imagined difficulties had been how everyone else at the station would react. She had braced herself for a great deal of teasing from the other men, probably of the rib-poking variety for Paul.
In fact, however, no one at the station appeared to be the wiser thus far. To be sure, she assumed as a matter of course that Mr. Foyle knew precisely what was going on. Neither she nor Paul had informed the DCS of the change in their relationship but his powers of observation – in Sam's opinion – rivaled those of Sherlock Holmes. The only other person whom she thought might be starting to catch on was Sergeant Brooke. Just lately, when Sam arrived at the station in the morning, Brookie had begun informing her – with rather more of a twinkle in his eye than necessary – whether Mr. Milner was at work in his office or off pursuing an investigation.
They were developing a routine, most evenings, leaving the station together once Sam had returned the Wolseley for the night. Then they got a bite to eat, lingering over their food when the weather was inclement, meandering about the streets of Hastings when the weather was fine. They went to the pictures once, often twice a week, and dancing on Saturday nights. And yet, that bare-bones description of how Sam and Paul spent their time quite failed to encompass how magical the hours seemed to both of them; how full of quiet pleasure the moments that might have appeared unremarkable or dull to any outsider.
"I'm absolutely famished," Sam announced one evening as they gained the pavement outside the station. Paul smiled. Sam always seemed to be hungry.
"Fancy anything in particular?"
Sam pretended to consider. "A chocolate ice would really hit the spot," she said, allowing herself to imagine for a moment that such a pre-war delicacy could actually be obtained. The June evening was growing quite humid. "Actually," she admitted after a pause, "I've been thinking about fish and chips all afternoon. Do you mind?"
They got their fish and chips and found a public bench where they sat and ate them. Sam finished hers first, then unwrapped the newspaper it had come in. There was an article about the fighting in North Africa. She wondered how much the situation might have changed in the few days between the article's publication and the present time. Goodness knows, even when the newspaper had been hot off the presses, the information was probably already out of date. Sam stole a couple of Paul's remaining chips.
"Hey," he remonstrated in mock indignation, not in the least upset.
"Going to put me on a charge?" she smiled, popping the chips into her mouth.
"Well, given that you've eaten the evidence…" Before either of them could continue their exchange, however, the quality of the light changed noticeably and there was an ominous roll of thunder. They both looked up and saw that dark clouds were gathering, threatening imminent rain.
"Oh bother," Sam glared up at the heavens, "I haven't even got an umbrella. What shall we do now?"
Paul hesitated a moment, studying the sky. "Well…we're not very far from my place. Why don't we have a quiet evening in and I'll lend you an umbrella for the walk home?"
"That sounds lovely," Sam beamed. They hurried off as the blanket of grey clouds overhead began to spit raindrops. The sky let loose in earnest just as Paul opened his front door and ushered them both inside. Sam looked around curiously, wondering in what sort of state she would find the house. The last time Sam had been over, Jane had only been gone for a few months and the effects of her housekeeping had not yet faded completely. Since then, another eighteen months had passed, with Paul fending for himself. Sam had prepared herself to find a bachelor's hovel.
She was pleasantly surprised and suitably impressed to find that this wasn't the case. Her first impression was of a light layer of clutter: books strewn about waiting to be re-shelved, a small pile of discarded post, and, peeking into the kitchen, a few breakfast dishes waiting to be washed. Nothing that would require more than a little desultory tidying.
Then she had let loose an almighty sneeze.
And became aware of the dust. It lay thickly on every disused surface in the sitting room, offering mute testimony as to which spot Paul usually sat to read and which end table he used when he did. Sam walked slowly around the room, dabbing at her nose with her handkerchief, marveling at the accumulation of eighteen months' worth of grime. Her mother would have a fit if she saw this. Actually, any housewife would be beside herself over the state of the room.
"It's lucky you're such a good Detective Sergeant, because you'd be rubbish as a housemaid," she called teasingly over her shoulder to the kitchen, where Paul had gone to fetch them both glasses of water.
"I thought I was managing rather well," he protested as he entered the sitting room and placed the glasses on an end table. "What are you doing?" Paul asked, watching as Sam ran her index finger along a dust-dimmed mirror. After a moment, he realized that she was writing in the dust: DS Paul Milner.
"It's something my mother did to remind me to tidy my room," Sam replied absently, "She said that people used to do it to show their servants when they weren't up to snuff." Sam stepped back to admire her handiwork and then stopped abruptly, a look of horror dawning over her face. "Oh Lord!" she exclaimed, "I'm turning into my mother!"
"I think I'll be the judge of that." Paul turned on the wireless, sat down on the sofa, and gestured invitingly for Sam to join him. When she sat down he put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into his side. "What is your mother like?" He had met Sam's father ages ago, but her mother was still something of an enigma.
Sam sighed noisily. "Mother's a fusspot. Everything always has to be just so. And a worrier. She's always fretting about something or other." Sam bit her lip, seeming to regret her customary candour, and added, apologetically, "It's very hard, being a vicar's wife. Worse than being a vicar's daughter, even. You have to organize everything, and suffer everyone's complaints, and know that all eyes are on you all the time. She's really a lovely person and she manages everything very well. But when I was living at home, before the war, you can't imagine how much we got on each other's nerves!"
"Well, she doesn't sound much like you. I've never known you to worry unduly about anything. Apart from me." Paul smiled and Sam gave him a playful dig in his ribs.
"Clearly I need to start worrying about your housekeeping. I'm amazed that you can breathe with all of this dust!"
"I hadn't really noticed it," Paul shrugged.
"I should say not," Sam replied, looking around. "Although you are right, everything else really looks quite nice." She took a few sips of water; fish and chips was a fun thing to eat every so often, but it always left her so thirsty afterwards. "Can I see how the rest of the place is holding up?"
"I beg your pardon?" Now that he was comfortably ensconced on the sofa, with Sam by his side, and a busy day coming to a close, Paul could feel a pleasant lethargy stealing over him. He didn't fancy getting up again for some little while.
But Sam had already stood up and walked into the kitchen. Paul sighed, wondering where Sam's perpetual energy seemed to come from, then heaved himself off of the sofa, and followed her. He leaned against the doorframe, watching Sam walk around the kitchen, peering at the counters, the stove, the sink. She held her hands clasped behind her back, and, in combination with the MTC uniform she was still wearing, looked as though she were conducting an official inspection.
"Do I pass muster?" he asked as she completed her circuit of the room and joined him at the door.
"Oh, quite," Sam replied, "Though you've left rather more crumbs about than you should; it's an invitation to mice when you do that." She brushed past him with a smile and began climbing the stairs.
"What now?" Paul felt a moment's panic that Sam was going to have a peek in his own room to see how thick the dust was in there and whether or not he had made up his bed.
"I want to see the state of your lav," Sam replied over her shoulder. She held her breath when she turned on the light in the lavatory. On balance, Paul was proving more than capable of doing his own housework. However, given the accumulation of dust downstairs, it was entirely possible that Paul's facilities would be the last word in grottiness.
Except that they weren't. The bath, toilet, and sink were all quite adequately clean. The floor needed a good scrubbing, but even that detail couldn't diminish Sam's awed reaction.
"Well you are a wonder," Sam smiled as she made an about-face and headed back down the stairs.
"Am I?" Paul asked as he followed Sam, relieved that she hadn't extended her tour of inspection to his room.
"How do you come to know about cleaning lavs? I'm sure my father wouldn't be able to do anything half as good." They returned to the sitting room and Sam plopped down in the middle of the sofa, slipping off her shoes. Paul sat down next to her and she tucked her legs up on the sofa, leaning cozily against his shoulder.
"Believe it or not, I picked that up back when I was in the army."
"Did you really?"
"When they weren't drilling us on weapons and lecturing us about how to salute superior officers, we were expected to keep our barracks tidy. They inspected the results every day. And made a to-do if they thought we were slacking. But you're just lucky that I happened to give the whole place a scrubbing last week."
"I suppose there wasn't much that would need dusting in barracks."
Paul chuckled. "No sideboards, no shelves, no ornamental mirrors. I can't think how we managed."
"Well," Sam began earnestly, "I think that – apart from the dust – everything looks quite nice. You deserve an enormous amount of credit. And a suitable reward." So saying, Sam turned her head and tilted it invitingly. Paul brought his arm back up around Sam's shoulders and bent his head over hers, their lips meeting in a sweet, gentle kiss. The music on the wireless was dreamy and lazy, and the drum of the pounding rain outside could be heard above it, enhancing the conscious cosiness of being indoors and out of the storm.
One kiss became two, then three. As they kissed, Sam relaxed her lips in anticipation of Paul deepening the kiss, which he did presently. She felt the tip of his tongue push against her lower lip, requesting entrance, and when it had been granted, she allowed her own tongue to dance along his. She could just taste the vinegar that Paul had put on his fish earlier. Sam exhaled softly, happily, as she felt Paul's other hand come up to cradle the back of her head, moving her own free hand to his shoulder.
When they broke the kiss at last, each drawing deep breaths of air, Paul's hand left Sam's hair and trailed down her arm, finding her hand and enclosing it with his own. Even after all these weeks together, Paul still found himself marveling at how natural and easy it felt to be with Sam, their former camaraderie unfolding gently into something deeper alongside their gradually increasing physical intimacy.
Paul's instincts urged him to capture Sam's mouth again, but he wanted to savour this moment as well. If he still felt any anxiety about the new direction his relationship with Sam had taken, it was a concern that if he moved too quickly or indulged himself too deeply in their physical displays of affection that it would somehow mar the exquisite bloom of their maturing relationship. So instead, he brought Sam's hand up to his lips and kissed her palm.
Sam sensed the passion and depth of feeling behind this caress; it thrilled her quite as much as Paul's other kisses had done. When he had finished kissing her hand, Paul turned his attention to tracing the lines of her palm, the veins of her wrist, and the outline of her fingers. Sam admired Paul's own fingers as she enjoyed his exploration of hers. She thought Paul had beautiful fingers, long, dexterous, and gentle. She shivered slightly under their touch, imagining how they would feel, at some indeterminate point in the future, exploring other parts of her body. They both sat quietly for a long time, not saying very much, simply enjoying each other's warm proximity and letting the music from the wireless wash over them.
When their reverie ended, a glance at the clock told them that Sam ought to be getting back to her own place. They disentangled themselves reluctantly and stood up, straightening their clothes and putting themselves to rights. The rain continued to beat down, but it was a warm summer rain, making the air sweet and fresh. Paul walked Sam home under the shelter of an umbrella.
"If this keeps up, everyone ought to have a quiet night," Sam commented as they walked, "Jerry's not likely to venture out on a night like this."
"Let's hope so," Paul replied.
"I had the loveliest time," Sam said as they approached the door of her lodgings, directing a half-shy, half-mischievous smile up at Paul, "I can't remember the last time I enjoyed a quiet, rainy evening in nearly as much." And though she didn't say it, Sam was already looking forward to the next time that they would be able to enjoy another evening like this one.
"I don't think I've ever enjoyed a discussion of housework so much." Paul returned Sam's smile, then leaned forward, kissing her in the shelter of the doorway, triply screened from passers-by by the dark, the rain, and the umbrella. Sam stood on her tip-toes to put her lips in closer proximity to Paul's and grasped both his shoulders to steady herself. One of Paul's hands was occupied with the umbrella, but with the other, he grasped the back of her neck, drawing Sam forward and deepening the kiss. When they finally drew apart, he murmured, "Until tomorrow."
As he turned to begin his walk home, Sam called out a final word from her doorway.
"Mind you give the whole place a good dusting, Paul. The next time I come over, I expect to actually be able to see myself in your sitting room mirror." Sam's eyes sparkled with merriment over some private jest that Paul didn't feel he quite understood, although her meaning became clear when he returned home. In addition to having written his name on the sitting room mirror, Sam had left other messages scrawled on the dusty surfaces of the sitting room, including "Dust Me," "Help," and "Atchoo!" Paul remembered going upstairs to use the facilities just before walking Sam home; she must have written these messages during those few minutes before he had returned.
Paul stood surveying all of the cheerful imprints that Sam had left in his dusty sitting room, feeling himself in a quandary. He was loath to erase any of them, but quite apart from the fact that he really should get rid of all this unhygienic dust, whenever Sam came over next, she would be expecting to find that he had obeyed her instructions and tidied up.
After standing about uncertainly for a few minutes, a flash of inspiration came to Paul. He rifled through the inner pockets of his jacket, extracted the note book that he always carried, and found a clean page. With the same meticulous care that he would use on a crime scene, Paul made a slow circuit of his sitting room, copying each of Sam's messages, with an accompanying note regarding which piece of furniture it had graced. Then he hunted out a dry rag from the kitchen scullery and did his best to set the sitting room to rights. He had sneezed three times by the time the job was done and he conceded that – as usual – Sam had the right of it.
But there was one more surprise left in store for him. When he went upstairs to begin preparing for bed, an unusual gleam caught his eye when he opened the door and the light from the hallway struck the mirror above his dresser. He turned on the light in his room and examined the mirror more closely. It was as dusty as the one in the sitting room had been. And Sam had written him one final message: Sweet Dreams.
He stood staring at the words Sam had written in the dust. She had also come upstairs to freshen up before they left; she must have sneaked in here then. Paul glanced nervously around the room, relieved to see that the bed was made and that he hadn't left any dirty laundry lying about. He looked back at the mirror and felt an idiotic grin stretching across his face. It was like a kind of magic spell that Sam had cast, making him feel her presence, and her warmth, and her care for him even though she wasn't present in the flesh. She was a sweet dream incarnate. He pulled out his notebook again and added a new entry to his list.
But he left the mirror, and the dust, and Sam's message intact.