#this is a Milquetoast Albatross hate blog

[oldshrewsburyian]

First line prompt: "Mum, are you going to marry Uncle Andrew?" (Foyle's War, of course. )

Ha! With pleasure (and a slight modification in view of a hypothesized godfatherly honorific.)

*

“Mum, are you going to marry Andrew?”

Sam’s knife slips; a piece of potato ricochets off the side of the sink with surprising musicality. Sam inhales deeply, and draws on decades of experience in avoiding questions she does not wish to answer. “Since when,” she asks, carefully measured, “do you call Mr. Foyle by his Christian name?”

“Oh!” says Christopher, “since he asked me to. One day I said ‘Mr. Foyle,’ meaning to ask him a question, you know, and he made a sort of noise in his throat and said did I have to call him Mr. Foyle, and I said that I called Uncle Christopher Uncle Christopher, and so I couldn’t very well call him Uncle Andrew since Uncle Christopher was his father, and he said well then, could I see my way to calling him Andrew, so I did.”

[oldshrewsburyian]

Remember Me, Sam and Andrew Foyle either during the war (aircraft Crash/Bombing maybe) or post canon. Anything you please... either fluffy funny or 'shreds my heart and glues it together again.

Well, er... what happened was that I ended up responding to this prompt late at night and emboldened by vodka. I nabbed half a premise from James Hilton and ended up with... a series 6 canon-divergent scenario that is, in fic parlance, crack, and more specifically, something that would not be out of place in 1940s melodrama. Look, I’ve watched far too many 1940s melodramas. This turned into a 1k effusion, so I’ve put most of it below the cut. (Ask thing here.)

*

Sam is late for her work at the Ministry. She stands on the pavement with what feels like half the population of London, elbows tucked into her sides, umbrella held obstinately aloft, hat brim drawn down. She squints miserably through the curtain of rain that had descended so suddenly, wreaking havoc on already unreliable bus schedules. Sam sniffs. She picks her feet up out of the wet, one after the other, trying to keep her shoes from getting sodden. She will not be able to replace them this winter.

The accident happens on the other side of the street. Sam hears it before she sees anything: the almost-musical protest of brakes, the sudden shouting of too many people, the belated blaring of a horn.

“He fell — he was pushed — there was a woman — should never have taken the corner that fast — ” The crowd around her is full of comment. Sam winces, and holds very still while the policeman at the intersection blows his whistle. With sobering swiftness, the morning moves on. The pedestrians are allowed to cross. Motor traffic navigates carefully around the taxi whose driver stands beside it, twisting his cap in his hands. Sam catches her breath before starting across the road. Her father’s response to accidents had always been the same, whether  they were paragraphs in the paper, incidents in the street, or wireless bulletins about the other side of the world. Dear me, those poor people. Let us say a prayer. Sam gives a careful berth to the men who are forming a stretcher-hold. Dear me, she thinks, that poor man. I must say a prayer. And then she sees his face.

Sam continues crossing; she has no desire to waken the ire of her fellow Londoners. Then, when she has reached the pavement, she turns around and marches back across the street. Mud splashes over her shoes.

She is very aware of her own pulse, the blood rushing in her ears, her heart unruly in her chest. The Ministry seems a very distant duty. She follows the little procession into the chemist’s shop. As the bell jangles after her, she realizes that she has no plan for what she is going to say.

“We’re closed,” says the chemist.

“It weren’t my fault,” says the taxi driver to the policeman.

“There’s been an accident,” intones the policeman discouragingly, with a glance in her direction.

“It’s all right,” says Sam, clutching her handbag in both hands. “I know him.”

There is a moment’s uncertain pause, and then the policeman and driver resume their tense colloquy, while the chemist turns back to his work. Sam sidles closer to the little group, her eyes on the man recumbent in the chair, who is so alarmingly still and pale.

“Easy,” says the chemist, holding sal volatile a few inches from his patient’s face. “You’ve had a shock.”

“Stepped right in front of me,” says the driver, half-wailing.

“Knocked down in the street,” says the chemist soothingly. “But no appearance of serious injury, I’m happy to say.”

“I…” says Andrew, and then his eyes meet hers. “Sam, thank God!”

She ignores the driver and the policeman; she ignores the chemist; she ignores the fact that her handbag will collect dust on the floor and that she’s probably torn a stocking in going to her knees. She puts out her hand, and Andrew grips it. Sam is very conscious of the movement of his thumb over her knuckles, the seam of her glove that is giving way, the wedding ring that sits cold against her finger.

“Wasn’t sure you’d recognize me,” says Sam softly. She is very conscious of having aged since she first knew him, of being an anxious housewife in a shabby coat, a very different person from the girl who drove and mended cars and fearlessly teased an RAF pilot.

“Know you anywhere,” says Andrew, sounding impossibly fond. His eyes seem too large in his face.

“Are you sure he’s all right?” demands Sam.

“As I can be.” The chemist is regarding them both with an indulgent eye. “How are you feeling, sir?”

“I…” says Andrew, still looking at Sam. “I had an unlucky knock, I expect. Head aches. I’ve had worse.”

Oh, Andrew, thinks Sam.

“It weren’t my fault,” says the driver again.

“Yes, all right,” says Andrew, before the policeman can interpose; “I’m sure he’s right. I’ll be all right in a minute.” As if to assure the assembled company of this, he sits up, begins to stretch and brush off his sleeves. And then he stops. “Sam,” says Andrew, suddenly very earnest, “why am I in civvies?”

She can feel the blood drain from her face, even before she feels the silence in the chemist’s shop change. Outside, the rain still beats against the windows. Sam moistens her lips, and swallows. “Andrew,” she says very quietly, “the war’s over. It’s 1946.”

“Oh,” says Andrew, a little blankly. “Oh, that’s… well, we clearly aren’t living under the Nazi yoke, so that’s all right.” No one laughs. “Look,” says Andrew, “I’m sure that’ll come right, I was just…”

“Are you quite sure of yourself, sir?” asks the policeman gently.

“Oh, far too sure of myself,” says Andrew, with false briskness. “Just ask her.” Sam blinks away tears. “Andrew Foyle, sometime poet, sometime pilot, ex-student, future something-or-other.”

“In the City,” whispers Sam.

“Ah,” says Andrew. “Eminently plausible. You see, she’ll have me right in no time. We haven’t got two adorable children that I’ve inexcusably forgotten, by any chance?”

Sam drops his hand and scrambles to her feet, as though that would help her confront this astonishing suggestion. “No.” The word emerges almost soundlessly.

“Ah,” says Andrew again, and something in his tone makes her think that he is, as usual, seeing far too much in her face. “Tactless of me. Look — ” he stands up, and sways only slightly on his feet — “we’ll go, and I’ll make my apologies, and we’ll have tea and buns, and she’ll forgive me far too quickly because she always does, and I promise on my honor that I will trot dutifully round to Harley Street if I haven’t recovered complete awareness of the date and year by this time tomorrow morning. All right?”

“If you say so, sir,” says the policeman. “Madam.” The chemist, still frowning, hands Andrew an attaché case that shows evidence of its recent acquaintance with a London gutter.

“Hm,” says Andrew, taking it. “Lends an air of artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.”

Well, thinks Sam, it can’t be so bad as all that, not if he’s quoting The Mikado. Because she knows he will not ask for her support, she goes to his side and slips her arm firmly through his.

“That’s better,” says Andrew. He smiles down at her, and Sam thinks it is unfair, that he should still look at her like that. “Marvelous feeling of security. Sam, that is a truly unfortunate umbrella; is it the only one we have? Well, never mind, come along. Don’t worry, gentlemen,” he says, and Sam’s heart skips at the dreadful familiarity of Andrew being airy and brave and still transparent to her. “Omnia vincit amor. And the rain’s letting up.”

[oldshrewsburyian]

@darkhorse-javert asked for a follow-up on a Foyle’s War prompt, and this is the result, in which I craft some canon-divergent melodrama.

She ignores the driver and the policeman; she ignores the chemist; she ignores the fact that her handbag will collect dust on the floor and that she’s probably torn a stocking in going to her knees. She puts out her hand, and Andrew grips it. Sam is very conscious of the movement of his thumb over her knuckles, the seam of her glove that is giving way, the wedding ring that sits cold against her finger.