I’m (slowly!) working on a fic set during season 2, episode 2 “among the few” and I have three questions I’m hoping someone can help with:
Does anyone know if Christopher Foyle still wears his wedding ring? Hand gif sets and starting to rewatch season 1 have so far failed to answer this question.
“Moral hygiene” (information about sexual health) features in the fic. I could find information, some, about the pamphlets etc provided to soldiers during WWI, but I’m having trouble finding the equivalent that would be given to RAF servicemen c 1940. Anyone have any research suggestions please? I’m specifically looking for the text of any and all pamphlets themselves, if they exist.
does the Foyle’s war fandom do any fic events or exchanges? (I ask because I find the external pressure to very helpful in getting me to finish stuff; I’d be very interested in helping with / organizing something, too!)
Tagging @paulinedorchester and @kivrin as fellow fans of the show—no pressure to answer of course.
to you and everyone else, thank you for reading and for any help you might give!
Ok this was supposed to be something for the 'Blind Dates for Your Muse'. I'm not sure if it fits? @mercurygray?
Meet, after a fashion, Samuel Wellerun
[One London 1940 Summer Night, in a particular sort of place]
He's a striking one, he is. More eyes than mine shift towards him as he tries to slip unobtrusively through to the Bar. Of course, the fact he's a good two inches taller than anyone else in the room, rather helps the attention draw. Six foot two with eyes of blue.
Oh goodness, I've been spending far too many evenings in the clubs listening to those sentimental songs if I'm coming out with that kind of drivel. That really is quite insipid Weller. I play with my whiskey, concentrating on the flow of the liquid, the dance on the crystal tumbler, the dark backing of the wood.
“Excuse me, is this taken?” A gentle, melodious voice, deep and yet not as deep as I might have expected comes from my side. I give my head a very quick shake, then dare to look about. It is him- And His eyes really are blue, not the blue of summer sky, but slightly grey as well, as if a storm were brewing. I fix my eyes back on my glass, take a slightly too large swallow and near choke on it, hoping he hasn't caught my roving eye.
A hand reaches out and steadies my wobbling glass as I cough. Long fingers, Grecian, elegant, strong too.
“Better now?” A very steady, yet rather kind voice. Not quite cultured, but smart enough. And whatI ask myself - does it even matter about class, now of all times?
I lift my head and look at him properly. He meets my gaze for a shy second, then turns to his beer and takes a long, and by my guess nervous, drink. I likewise turn back to my tumbler, wishing only that it were fuller, but over the evening, I've been depleting it, as much for something to do. France was better, people-watching, courting, much more a thing over there.
Screw thy courage to the sticking place, I turn to him. “I don't believe I've seen you here before.”
Oh, how Bloody original.
There's an easy smile, he doesn't seem to realise how charming it is “I've been here a few times- but then I've been away, training.” His face suddenly closes down, and then he winces, pain coursing across his face. Physical pain, I'm too familiar with the expression of the other kind to mistake the two.
“Forces?” An easy cheap guess, but I don't want this to end, I want to keep this conversation, if conversation it is, going
His jaw relaxes and he nods slightly “RAF.” There's a black flash of humour in his eye “I went for a bit of an unintended dip you might say, a few bits of me didn't take to kindly to an abrupt confrontation with the sea.”
I wince and flinch at the thought of what he's implying, brush it away with a false chipperness “You're alright now?”
“Nearly, Enough to get a short evening pass away from the hospital-.” He smiles, a devil-may-care mixed with bashfulness, such bashfulness it makes my heart squeak.
“How long is short?” Rather forward, but as they say about faint hearts...
He looks at me, surprised, curious. He knows the steps of this dance as well as I do, he's older, so probably better
“Three hours at best I'd guess.” He takes another drink, then glances back at me, then around the bar in a surveying manner “It's good to be back in society, not just surrounded by nurses, sweet as they are.” He gives a wry smile, but with his whole mouth, not just a corner “They fuss, especially the young ones.”
Bill and coo, like courting doves, over you- quite right too, and yet so wrong. I watch him, waiting for him to take the lead. He doesn't, takes another drink of his beer. I twiddle the cigarette case in my pocket, then draw it out and proffer it to him, clicking it open. He takes one, taps it neatly, reaches with his other hand to look for matches, winces as he does so.
At my twitch the bar man pushes over a match-book between us, I flip it open, draw and strike one, offering it. He leans forward to catch the flame, then sits back slowly. I sit back even slower. His eyes flicker -oh, he knows this dance alright. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, and my treacherous eyes watch the shift in that very long, swan-elegant neck. His glance cants to me, and he blows a puff towards my face. Not at me exactly, but in the same way you might try to gun your friend with a dandelion clock and still laugh when it's only in the general vicinity.
“What's your call- your name I mean.” His eyes are bright, very very blue. I note.
“Samuel Wellerun.” I give him my true one, for some strange reason.
He doesn't laugh, just smiles at me again, oh it is a beautiful smile “Poor stick.”
I shrug, laughing off years of teasing and ribbing from the others at school, their false cockney, asking about horses.
He carries on smiling “If you went into the RAF, you'd end up going by 'Pickwick' as quick as anything.” Then he looks at me, up and down and all over, leaving an odd shiver in his eyes wake “Do you fly?”
I give my head a quick shake, and I'm ashamed to do it.
He gives a marking nod “You could - you've got the build for it, light, wiry and strong besides. It's a dashing life- his shoulders twitch and his voice goes solemn “And a bitter short one too.” There's a heavy sigh and it hurts to see his eyes so downcast “I shouldn't be encouraging you into it, we've got recruiters for that.”
Impulsively I reach out and touch his hand with mine, only here, in this company would I risk this.
“Please... “ What was I going to say?“Please don't distress yourself on my account.”
He looks at may hand, and his moves resting underneath it, but then drawing away with a sigh and sad eyes a tiny shake of his head to me.
I sit up straight, ram-rod like, but I know my eyes are big, and betraying me “There's someone else?”
He nods slowly, gives me a kind look “Yes... If there wasn't-”
But there is, and even in the short-life span this Adonis, no - this Achilles- has just assigned himself, he's loyal to that person. His own Patroclus.
Damn damn. The pang of the offer, of the chance, just makes things worse. He slips off the stool, winces and begins to walk away.
I'm down from mine before I know what I'm doing, boldly reaching out to catch his sleeve
“If you ever...” -He looks at me again with those blue eyes, and I lose my thread - “Well, I drink here.”
It's like the last splutter from a broken tap
He holds my gaze, so sad then gives a little nod, and a smile that is tinder and shelter to that little flame in my chest “I'll remember that- Pickwick.”
My fingers slip from his coat and he vanishes through the crowd and into the dark forbidding, concealing night. He's gone.
I didn't even find out his name. Stupid Weller.
Oddly enough, his name finds me, months later, in the black depths of winter. Someone brings in a paper, one of the little local ones from somewhere on the coast. Out of date, but never mind. And there he is, in smart RAF Blues, Officers cap and all. As carefully as I can I bend my neck to read, trying not to look like I'm looking.
Reginald 'Rex' Talbot,
“Poor Rex” says someone, one of the older ones, who's looking at the paper legitimately “Rotten way to go, plunging into the sea, and after an action that would have earned him all those medals too.”
It's ice water on my neck. Achilles was too apt a comparison- for like Achilles the beautiful brave man is gone, killed in war.
I remember his eyes, the way he looked at me, the echo of his voice.
Do you fly?...You could - you've got the build for it.
I raise my glass in a silent toast, then toss it back, climb down and head for the door. Tomorrow- tomorrow my university-gained deferral can go to the Devil, I'll go for the RAF
Recently discovered that Julian Ovenden and Mark Umbers (Andrew Foyle and Rex Talbot) were at Oxford at roughly the same time and were both choristers.
Look there are exactly 6 Andrew Foyle/Rex Talbot fics on Ao3. This is a travesty. One of them is canonically queer, in love with the other, and dies, yet there are a total of two fix it fics. They have oodles of chemisty and yet here we are
You know what? I don’t understand the Foyle’s War fandom, because there are plenty of gay fanfics between the straight men who literally have no chemistry at all, but the canonically queer characters who are pining for the hot son? Haha why would there be any fanfic about that?? And the old man and the driver who is less than half his age and practically his daughter? Plenty of fanfic about that because apparently that’s a thing people ship . I don’t understand
Fandom: Foyle’s War
Rating: M
Unrequited Love, Anonymous Sex, Internalized Homophobia
Summary: Rex can have Andrew every way he wants, and he never has to know.
Notes: So, I thought I'd published this around the time I wrote it, so, uh... whoops? Written for Season of Kink that I completely failed to finish, double whoops. Making my slow progression toward writing fix-it fic for this boy.
(AO3)
It's a damned fool thing to do, Rex tells himself, in the middle of a war. Somebody will find him. The Home Guard’s everywhere. There's a damn blackout, as if the woods weren't dark enough already. If he were smart, he wouldn't be out here in the pitch black, stumbling over roots and shivering as much from fearful anticipation as the cold. (Of course, if he were only a better person, he wouldn't be out here in the first place, wouldn't need to sneak around like the criminal he is.)
There's just enough moon to see by and even that disappears by the time he reaches his tree. God -- his tree, because he has been out here enough times to choose. Close enough to hear the road and the field, far enough to not be detected.
He's not in uniform. He did that once, his first time, and the horror of being recognized nearly sent him into a panic. Better to be as anonymous as possible. Just another unknown shadow in the dark.
The worst part is the waiting. There's never a guarantee anyone else will be out in the woods, even less of a guarantee they'll be who you want. Not that who Rex wants would ever come out here in the dead of night, anyway, but still.
Tonight, though, he doesn't have to wait long.
Dark hair, young, maybe just a little taller than Andrew-- Good! There's no fear he'll go too far in his fantasies tonight.
The other man comes closer, face mostly hidden in shadow, but Rex can tell from the way his hands clench and twitch, ever so discretely, over his groin that he's ready.
It's too cold to pretend they're not.
Rex moves first. He catches the side of the man's belt and pulls him closer, just enough room between them for Rex to kneel. It's not a bad prick. It's clean and it's hard and that's all he cares about right now. It'll do.
The stranger muffles a moan as Rex sucks him. Everything sounds louder in the dark -- a reminder of their sins, most likely. Rex doesn't think about how much penance this would cost; he stopped wondering six months ago.
The prick -- not Andrew’s, but it could be -- is hot in his mouth and heavy on his tongue. It's solid; it will fill him up tonight.
The man lets out an involuntary groan when Rex pulls away, hands grasping for more. Rex is already halfway out of his trousers when he catches them.
“Fuck me.”
It's little more than a whisper, but it's enough for Rex to find himself bracing against a tree as the stranger enters him.
It's easier, now, to pretend it's Andrew fucking him. Andrew’s warm body pressed against him, Andrew’s breath on his neck, Andrew’s hand stroking him as he pushes deeper into Rex. If not for the bark scratching into his palms, Rex can almost pretend they're just in some unheated room, maybe christening their own flat.
He laughs at that, an odd sort of manic twitter that ushers in his orgasm, spilling his semen onto dark wood. And with that, the dream goes.
There's no flat. There's no Andrew. It's the middle of the night and he's being buggered against a tree by a stranger he'll -- hopefully -- never see again. It's a cold and broken thing to come down to, but they're both finished and the shiver in their bones has more to do with the wind now.
The other man disappears back into the shadows and Rex fights himself to keep from lighting up a cigarette. He's broken enough laws for one night, and there is a war on.
Silently, he makes his way back to base. It's not what he wants -- certainly not who he wants -- but he'll sleep well tonight, and tomorrow Andrew’s bright smile won't hurt quite as much.
