Doing Something Useful

Summary:

"But now it's happened, I don't want to hear I can't do this or can't do that... that I can't do my work... our work. It's as if these last years suddenly count for nothing, all the years we've worked together..." Sam has regrets. Set during High Castle, (S9E1).

Disclaimer:

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

Author's Notes:

If this series is to be Foyle's swan song, then there's much to be corrected in canon. Might as well start now.

...

Lovingly beta'd and improved by dancesabove. In fact, this story is for her. And the bits you like best will belong to dances ;0)

Doing Something Useful

"What did Adam have to say about it?"

Sam huffed. "It's none of his business."

Foyle's eyebrows hit the ceiling.

Noting the perplexity she'd caused, Sam relented and exhaled.

"Since you ask, he was very angry with me. We had a furious row. He seemed to think I was going to knit my way through p—um, stay at home and knit, instead of working. What's worse, when I walked in from work that evening, there was a woman standing in our living room, bold as brass, and Adam had his arms around her!"

She sniffed indignantly. "I simply swivelled on my toe and left. You'd've been proud of me—I've been observing your technique. Look."

Sam rose and did a semi-pirouette before him. "See?" She glanced over her shoulder to measure his reaction. "I've perfected the manoeuvre!"

Foyle stood agape, wondering if she'd lost her senses.

Her defiant look collapsed under the weight of his bewilderment. Deflated, she resumed her seat, smoothing her skirt over her knees. "Perhaps that was a little tasteless."

"Hhhave you been home since?" The question emerged with a certain caution.

She tossed her head. "No, I haven't. All the time you've been in Germany, I was locked inside the Del Mar mansion being snarled at by a lecherous old goat. And in case that wasn't bad enough, it all went horribly wrong, and I ended being... chased across the gravel by a man called Grant who looked like an escaped gorilla. A gorilla with a gun."

"I know," observed Foyle, darkly. "Valentine is going to get the rough end of my tongue for that. He told me you'd be safe."

"He's not to blame," Sam shot back, mildly resentful that the men were making this about them, as usual. "There were never any guarantees. But anyway, I've had quite enough excitement for the moment, thanks. I'm certainly not going home to Adam and his floozy. Let him stew in his own juice. As far as I'm concerned, Adam"—she spat the word—"can stick this marriage right in his... right where the sun..." She cleared her throat. "Any— anyway, he can jolly well stick this marriage."

Sam's chin jutted bravely, but her eyes were filling as she spoke.

Foyle lowered himself into the facing chair and let his hat swing from his fingers by the brim. He grew aware that he was chewing at his lip, and forced himself to cease.

"Sam... thhis doesn't sound like Adam. There must be some absolutely innocent explanation."

Fists balled, she half-bounced in her seat, causing the tears to spill. "I'm so furious with him, you cannot imagine!"

"Wull, I'm starting to," Foyle hedged, and waited quietly for the tears to calm.

Eventually, he picked his moment. "You, ah, don't think it might be wise to, um, go home and talk to him, at least?"

Sam stared at him in silence, which he took as acquiescence. Hands on knees, he rose decisively. "C'mon. I'll drive."

"NO!"

It was a cry of dismay, followed by a gentler, hitching, "Please. No, please... I couldn't bear it. He's... he's not the man I married. If he doesn't understand how much... how much my work means..."

"Sam..." Foyle sighed as he crouched before her. Adam had never minded in the past. "The job you chose to do this time was dangerous. It's perfectly reasonable that he wouldn't want you mixed up in this kind of work." And Adam had been right, as things turned out. Whereas he... Foyle held both hands palm up in apology. "I never should've let you take it on."

Sam sent him an accusing look. "War's over, isn't it? So it's home and babies, now—that's where you want us all again. I hoped you'd understand, at least."

Foyle raised a defensive hand. "Well, I'm ready to admit I don't. You have me baffled, Sam. My understanding was that you were eager for a family."

"I wanted... " Sam began to wring her hands. "I wanted to be able... wanted... not to be denied the opportunity. But now it's happened, I don't want to hear I can't do this or can't do that... that I can't do my work... our work. It's as if these last years suddenly count for nothing, all the years we've worked together..."

Her eyes met Foyle's, and Foyle's were truly startled.

"Now it's happened, Sam?"

She cast her eyes down. "Should have told you. Sorry."

Her agitation showed no sign of abating. Foyle reached across and brought his fingers gently down to cover her hands, quelling their restless motion.

"Wull, no wonder Adam's worried."

"Worried enough to be entertaining women in our sitting room and mauling them!" The words were bitter—possibly, she admitted to herself, unreasonable. But reason didn't enter into this. The truth was sinking in. Her ticket into family life had closed the gate behind her—one that signified her freedom. And signified, if she were totally honest, an involvement that meant more to her than her marriage did.

Foyle tried the reasonable approach. "Innn Adam's shoes, I'd hope at least to be given a chance to explain myself."

Sam looked down on the mound of hands now resting in her lap. "You wouldn't ever be in Adam's shoes, so there'd be nothing to explain."

A tingle of mortification crept up Foyle's neck. He rolled his lips between his teeth.

"Well... No, of course, I realise... excuse the clumsy turn of phrase."

Sam's head jerked up. "Oh, no! I didn't mean you couldn't... that I wouldn't... that I don't..."

Flustered, she clasped his hand in hers and held it tightly. "All I meant was, that you wouldn't have tried to clip my wings, and then... made a fool of me."

There was a moment's silence, over the sudden rush of blood to Foyle's extremities. The instant she'd taken his hand, he'd found himself sweating.

"But in any case..." she went on quietly, "perhaps Adam's explanation doesn't matter either way."

Foyle's brows knitted. "I don't understand you, Sam."

She filled her lungs with a deep, sobering breath. "No," she sighed sadly. "I don't believe you do, in some ways."

Shocked into sudden light-headedness, Foyle could hear the pulse pounding in his ears. It was a wrench, but he withdrew his hand and stood, somewhat unsteadily. He would have called it cowardice, were he not so guiltily invested in Sam's touch. And this made self-denial the nobler course.

If he'd imagined that their discourse would end there, he was to receive another surprise. Sam rose with him, and closed the gap between them.

Large brown eyes locked to his. "I thought that I was going to die outside that mansion. Can you guess what my worst fear was, at that moment?"

Foyle swallowed, confident that no answer was expected, and in equal dread of hearing one. Instead, he let himself swim in her gaze, and held his breath, and waited.

She said, "I had a terror that I'd never see your face again."

The words exploded like a Roman candle in Foyle's brain, shifting his reality. In the next instant, he felt soft hands on his cheeks, taking greedy possession of his face. They traced the contours and the lines that hadn't felt the touch of feminine hand in years, and with a tender reverence that unmanned him.

"Sam... what...?" he protested softly.

"Hush. I'm married to the wrong man, Christopher," her fingers tugged at his collar; eyes begged him to understand. "You left. I tried to make a life of sorts... even convinced myself that things were going to be all right. Then you came back, and drew me back into your life. It altered everything."

Her eyes peered anxiously into his, hoping for vindication, but fearing rejection.

Foyle gathered himself, and closed his fingers round her wrists. The look he gave her telegraphed his pain. Somehow he found his voice, and used it to drown out the thundering in his chest.

"Sam, enough. Whatever you or I might feel in this is unimportant now. You have a child inside you. Adam's. Go home to your husband. Talk to him."

Sam's face crumpled. Crushed, she tried to pull away, but found herself restrained, still in his grasp. "I'm too late, aren't I?" Her eyes shone with tears of desperation. "Now I've ruined everything. I let you go without making you understand. I tried, but never hard enough. Still too green, I s'pose. Didn't know enough of life. So childish offering to help you drive in America. What a little fool you must've thought me."

"No, Sam. Never that. I never did." Her evident distress built a self-disgust inside him. Saying 'no' to Sam had never been this difficult. Now his denial of her was yanking invisible strings that tugged his guts out of alignment. Suddenly a rush of prickly heat behind his ears made him feel immensely, imminently sick.

"I think," he told her soberly, "I'm going to be... please excuse me... for a moment." He disengaged himself with gentle care, and walked briskly through the office door towards the lavatories.

Sam sank back down onto the chair, covered her face with her hands, and began to weep.

Some minutes later, the sound of his returning footsteps rang out in the corridor, and she turned to see him enter, pallid, jacket over arm and collar loosened.

Foyle quietly closed the door behind him, and without much hesitation—though against his former better judgement—slid the inside bolt across.

He took in the chastened state of Sam.

"Didn't handle that too well, did I?" he offered, shamefaced.

"Don't think either of us did," she answered glumly.

He crossed the room, and as she watched, he lowered himself onto the floor and leant his back against a desk leg. Pulling up his knees to stabilise himself, he brought his arms to rest atop his knees and quietly regarded her.

Sam wiped her nose on her sleeve, and addressed the corner of the ceiling. "I did rather… spring that on you, didn't I? And it's hardly the most straightforward of situations." She managed a small smile of apology, and catching his eye, was bucked to receive a lopsided grin in return. "May I join you down there?"

"Wull, plenty of room. Not exactly luxurious, though. Austerity's the byword here." He nodded his enumeration of the furnishings. "Desk, chair, chair, lino, mat, filing cabinet. I'm lucky even to have a window."

Sam grinned. "Two windows. You must be important."

Foyle stretched up an arm to help her down, then wrapped it round her, folding her against him.

"Adam knows that you're expecting."

"Yes."

"It's an unholy mess, Sam."

"Yes. I know."

"And he'll have every right to see his child when it's born."

Sam turned toward him, jolted into hope. "Um, yes. Yes, he will."

"Mmight not even consent to a divorce."

Sam hardly dared to breathe.

Foyle tightened his embrace. "We'd be living in sin."

She licked her lips. "What a delicious prospect. Especially the sin."

"And I'm too old for you."

"No, you aren't."

Foyle closed his eyes and let the moment settle. "I should've read the situation better. This... mess... isn't your fault."

Sam swallowed. "One bit of it certainly is..."

He winced. "Do I need to hear this?"

"What have I got to lose? Already feel like the Whore of Babylon."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Sam." He squeezed her shoulder.

"Judge for yourself. The, um... actually," she grimaced, "the baby might as well be yours..."

Foyle chose the safety of silence.

"It's true," Sam blurted. "You've been in my mind every single time Adam and I..."

Foyle blinked slowly, outwardly calm, though waves of heat rolled through him.

"Yyyou don't have to tell me this."

"Christopher?" Sam gazed greedily at his lips.

"Hmm?"

"Just one kiss, on account? It'll make everything so much easier to bear."

At last Foyle let himself gaze back into her eyes, his brow scrunched in suppressed emotion he no longer had the power to contain. To stare unceasingly into the warm, soft brown eyes was a perfect indulgence. Eyes so dark and yet so bright. One of the paradoxes of—he dared to think it now—of his Sam.

So he'd 'been in her mind'. He'd been there as she felt what he'd so often wished that he could make her feel. He had to close his eyes, squeeze them shut for a moment. He shifted one hip before opening them again.

And Sam returned his gaze, marvelling at all the flecks in those … well, cliché it might be, but they really were like pools of clear blue water. Stormy when he was angered, sun filtering through the azure when he was glad. Just now the colour was the deepest she had ever seen, and with a glint within their depths that told her of his longing.

"You'd better hurry up, then," he smiled, fidgeting. "This floor is bloody hard, and I'm not getting any younger."

"Good." She snuggled closer, reaching for his face. "Neither am I. I think I've aged a decade in this last year."

He gently grasped her wrist again. "Just one thing to get straight first, Sam."

She sent him an anxious look.

"You," he instructed, "are going to give up undercover work. Is that clear? Field work is out. And I don't mean planting potatoes."

She frowned, then smiled. They'd come an awfully long way together. In some ways, standing in a muddy field, up to her ankles in the dirt, had been a rather cleaner business than SOE.

Sam shrugged. "All right, then. 'Now I think on it, doing something useful' isn't all that it's cracked up to be."

*** FIN ***

GiuC