Twenty-Three

[lovefromgirl]

Foyle's War, rated PG-13 (at the most). A day and a night in the life, really -- but what a day. Mild, blink-and-you-miss-it implications that something's going to happen between Foyle and Milner. So, er, preslash?

Spoilers in a roundabout way for 'The Funk Hole.'

Now AU, I guess; didn't feel like rewriting when canon proved me wrong about dates. Ah, well.

Milner stands in the office door, his hat in his hands, brim a little wrinkled. It doesn't take a detective to see he's nervous. What about, Foyle can't begin to guess, but the man's ill at ease.

'Come in,' Foyle invites. 'I was about to send for you, actually. Have a seat.' He indicates where with a wave of his hand: one of the chairs by his desk.

Milner sits. 'Is something wrong, sir?' he asks.

'Nothing at all,' Foyle says. 'It's just that... well, you've been at this quite a long time.' He hands Milner a folded letter. 'This came for you last night, by courier. It was just before blackout, or I'd have sent the man on.'

Milner unfolds the letter; his eyes move over it. The expression on his face transitions from anxiety to disbelief -- it's in the slackening of his jaw and the slight arch of his eyebrows. 'I've been promoted,' he finally says, smiling a bit. 'I... I don't understand.'

'You're a good man,' Foyle says. 'I was expecting them to pick up on that sooner.' He shakes Milner's hand. 'Sorry for the delay, Detective Inspector Milner.'

'Thank you,' says Milner, 'but I can't accept this. You know that.'

'And why not?'

Milner taps his leg -- the one that isn't quite real. 'I'm not good for much these days. Better I stay here where I can be of use.'

'Oh, you're staying here,' Foyle informs him. 'Who else is left? Sam?'

The thought of Miss Stewart in the police force brings a grin to both faces.

'No, sir. Of course not.' Milner shakes his head. 'Silly of me, really. We're short enough people as is.'

Foyle grimaces. 'That's not why I wanted to keep you.' He's right -- there really aren't enough policemen in England, these days -- but he can't possibly think he's the bottom of the barrel, can he? One look at Milner's solemn face persuades Foyle that yes, in fact, he can. This will never do.

'Come on, man, let's you and me go have a pint,' Foyle offers. It isn't his favourite thing to do of a Wednesday night, but it'll get Milner out of his shell. 'Andrew thinks I should get out more,' he explains. Andrew's right; it really isn't doing Foyle any good, being cooped up with memories of his wife in their cold little house. 'We won't need to drive -- it's just down the way.' He stands, surreptitiously stretching his back (damned paperwork!) and glancing down at Milner. 'Oh, come now. It's not even a mile.' Then another gentle smile -- Lord knows why, but he seems to have them in spades for this young man. 'I'll help you, if you need it.'

Milner has the good sense to take the arm that's offered.

---

Several drinks later, Sam finds them sitting at the bar, laughing and clapping each other on the back. 'Sir,' she says, quite disapprovingly. 'You should be home.'

A pair of blue eyes stares up at her from under the brim of a rather crumpled hat. 'Sam? Good of you to come by.' Foyle pulls over an empty stool. 'Here, sit down.'

'Try some of this,' Milner encourages her. 'Absolutely cracking.'

'You're both drunk,' she says. Well, it isn't as if there's anything else to be said about them at this point. Men. She slaps a twenty-pound note down on the bar and hopes it is enough. If it isn't, they can just send the bill to the nick. One after the other, she hauls them out to the car and bundles them into the back.

The car rumbles on towards Foyle's house. She takes the roughest roads there. Her passengers will feel every pothole, or she'll resign her post tomorrow. She's a good enough driver that she can find the bad spots, even at dusk. 'Having fun, there?' she asks, even as they moan their protest. Not so merry once you take the bottle away, hm?

By the time Sam pulls up to Foyle's house, neither man looks very happy to be alive. 'Have fun, now,' she says as she unloads them. In answer, Milner goes green and doubles over.

She's out of there by the time he begins to vomit.

---

At first, they lie on the doorstep, feeling quite sorry for themselves. 'Women,' sighs Milner, when he's not choking back bile.

'That one's clever,' admits Foyle. 'She could have had us here in two minutes. Look down that street.' He points, drawing Milner's attention to the pub.

'Bit vicious of her,' mutters Milner. 'Cor, it's cold here. Can we go inside now?'

'Probably be a good idea,' agrees Foyle. Cold in an old injury only makes it hurt more; why inflict even more pain on this man? He's had enough to deal with. So he fumbles about in his pockets, searching for his key; finally finding it, he opens the door and drags his guest in with him.

The house isn't much warmer, but it's something. 'I'll get a fire going,' Foyle offers. 'You sit down on that sofa -- yes, that's right, the one with the blanket. Cover up; it's going to take some time to heat this room.'

'Yes, sir,' says Milner, drawing the blanket up to his chin.

Foyle, crouched at the hearth, poking at the fire... this is a very different man from the Detective Chief Superintendent. He's still dressed for work, still quiet as ever, but something in his demeanour is gentler. It's easy to imagine how an evening at home might have been, all those years ago, before his wife died and his son joined the RAF.

The log catches; the fire flares up. Thank God the blacks are shut. Satisfied, Foyle joins Milner on the sofa, mindful of both legs -- real and prosthetic. 'All right now?'

'Better, thanks,' Milner says, nodding. 'Never drinking that much in one go again.'

'At least not when you're in Sam's loving hands.' Foyle chuckles. 'Women, indeed.'

'Do you miss your wife?' Milner blurts out. Oh, brilliant, just go on and reopen that wound.

'Often,' says Foyle. 'But the hurt diminishes with time. I remind myself that I still have my son -- that's more than many men can say these days.' He takes a deep breath. 'I am... lucky.'

'So's Andrew,' says Milner. 'I heard what happened to his friend -- Talbot, wasn't it? That's awful luck, there.'

'Luck had nothing to do with it,' Foyle spits. 'Rex Talbot knew he wasn't coming back.'

'Did he?'

'Yes.' Foyle blinks; something in his eye? 'He came to see me shortly before the last flight.'

'What did he say?'

'He told me a few things I needed to hear. I suppose I had been wondering.'

'About...?'

'About Rex, naturally!' Foyle is suddenly quite angry. 'About Rex, and Andrew, and Connie.'

'Calm down, sir,' says Milner. 'I'm sorry.'

'No, no.' Foyle flaps his hand in the air -- all is forgiven. 'It's just that Rex was fond of my son.'

'I'm certain Andrew returned that affection.'

'Not the same way.' Foyle's eyes meet Milner's, and for the first time everything's quite clear -- more, in fact, than Foyle might have bargained for.

'My God,' Milner says softly. 'Poor man. Imagine having to go through life with that on your shoulders.'

Foyle closes his eyes and leans against the back of the sofa. He does not say a word.

And Milner begins to understand. 'Sir,' he says, 'it's all right. Really.'

'I loved my wife,' Foyle says, his voice thick with sadness. 'She gave me seventeen of the happiest years of my life.'

'But you loved someone else, once.'

'And he died in France. It was twenty-three years ago today. Dulce et decorum est, you know?'

Milner knows. It was one of his favourite poems, growing up. 'I'm so sorry.'

'Ah, well. Water under the bridge.' No, it's not, but this is hardly the time or place to go all weepy. Foyle has a guest to consider. 'It's getting late. Shall I fetch Sam back, or do you wish to stay the night?'

'I'll stay, if you don't mind,' says Milner. 'It's only me at home, anyway, so nobody's going to miss me.'

'I'll go make up the spare bed, then.'

---

In the middle of the night, Milner is awakened by movement. It's not in the room with him; it's not even on the same floor. Downstairs? Yes, the parlour. He would turn over and go back to sleep, but it's two in the morning, that eerie between-time when nothing is what it seems and everything feels like a dream.

He creeps down the hallway, towards the back stairs that come out in the kitchen. He's nearly there when someone else joins the expedition, someone with lighter footsteps and a commanding presence.

'Sir?'

'Go quietly.' Foyle sweeps past, dignified even in a dressing-gown and pyjamas. 'And follow my lead.' He carries no light; it is his house. He needs no light.

Milner mimics the delicacy of Foyle's steps -- he knows just which boards will creak and which will not. They are never more than a foot apart, mostly to make it easier for Milner to follow. It's a cheap, guilty thrill for him, skulking about in the darkness, breathing down Foyle's neck. He has always been rather like a puppy, constantly underfoot; he has never understood why. There is something oddly magnetic about Christopher Foyle, even if he is about a head shorter and twenty years older than Milner himself.

When Foyle comes to an abrupt halt at the door between the kitchen and the parlour, Milner lets himself bump into him. Accidents happen, he tells himself; nobody can fault him for that.

Foyle coaxes the door into opening silently and pulls Milner through by the hand. This is enemy territory; even the smallest noise will alert the intruder to their presence. Except... where is the intruder? The room looks empty, and nobody's moving now. Was he dreaming, earlier? But it sounded so real...

A tug on Milner's arm brings him back from his moment of woolgathering. Of course -- there, on the sofa. It's Sam, bless her, and she's got someone with her. They're both asleep by now, curled up together against the world. For some strange reason, Foyle is smiling at them, quite indulgently considering that they've just broken into his house. (And Sam's a young unmarried girl. And it's a strange man, someone they don't know. Do they?)

Foyle, perversely, is smiling. 'All's well,' he says to Milner. 'Go back to bed.' He starts for the stairs.

Milner catches him up easily. 'Sam's got a man in your front room,' he hisses, 'and you aren't a bit worried.'

'That's right.' And he keeps walking.

'There's something I'm not seeing.' Which is more than he can say for Sam.

'You weren't meant to see it. Neither was I, for that matter.' Foyle halts as he's going up, bracing himself on the railing. 'I'll tell you this; make what you will of it. Before he left the last time, my son struck up a romance with Miss Stewart.'

'But he's not here.'

'Quite right, Milner.' Pleased at having imparted this wisdom to Milner, Foyle continues up the stairs.

'Which means two things: either she's got another man on the side...' Or someone's not where he should be at all. Ah.

Milner stops just before he gets to the second floor; Foyle has been waiting on the landing all along, arms crossed in front. There's a little light left from the front room; it shows a deceptively bland face. 'You have seen nothing,' Foyle says to Milner. 'Do you understand me?'

At this rate, Milner's hiding more secrets than the entire British government. 'Of course. What's there to see?'

Foyle breathes out heavily and drops his arms to his sides. 'Right. To bed, then.' Something dawns on him then; a queer look passes over his face. 'Tell you what. Why don't we switch rooms? You'll have mine and I'll have yours.'

'But why?'

'Less noise. Or were you awake already when Miss Stewart arrived?'

And so they switch. It's only a matter of moving themselves about; Milner has no luggage, this being a completely impromptu visit. Foyle's bed is a bit more spacious than the spare, and Milner does feel a little pang of remorse, but only until his head hits the down pillow.

He does not hear the commotion just before dawn. This is for the best; a good night's sleep is a treasure, especially after one has been drinking.