A/N: Thank you, Santa: I received Foyle's War, Series 2, for Christmas. Am eager to watch Fifty Ships and all the rest. This brief, un-beta'ed ficlet, is nothing more than a small offering of Christmas joy.

Love Came Down

Perhaps it wasn't so hard after all, this older-parent thing.

Foyle shifted position – gingerly, so as not to awaken the baby – and shook his left arm in an effort to restore circulation. He had forgotten how much a small baby could weigh when required to hold one for a great length of time.

And warm! No wonder Sam had complained so much about being hot, even when the late autumn weather had taken an unusual turn and deposited snow and deep cold on Britain. He hadn't been too pleased when Sam had taken to flinging the windows wide open that first week of December, and he'd put his foot down when she wanted to sleep with them that way. Or tried to, anyway. There weren't enough blankets and jumpers in the house to keep him warm, he pointed out. Plus, he was certain that he'd been able to see his breath while brushing his teeth that night. But Sam had only smiled at him and placed a hand on her swollen belly, and Christopher knew that he was done for. The windows remained open, and Foyle had burrowed under the covers as best he could.

He had certainly been the oldest father in the waiting room the day the baby came. The two prospective fathers who paced along with him, both considerably younger men, were first-time fathers. They were also considerably more nervous, full of dreams and plans and talk of how their children would be brought up in a better world, would never need to fight in a war such as they had. Foyle had listened politely, not wanting to tell them that there would always be another war, that children would be stubborn and headstrong and follow their own paths, that there was no guarantee that healthy young wives wouldn't die young. It made him feel like a worldly cynic of sorts, but it was true, wasn't it?

But when the nurse came to the Waiting Room doorway to inform him that his daughter had arrived and that both mother and baby were doing well, Foyle's throat had tightened and tears had welled up in his eyes. And, when mother and child were finally presentable and ready for visitors, the sight of an exhausted Sam and his newborn daughter did, in fact, take his breath away. It was quite possibly, he thought, the only time that he had seen Samantha Stewart Foyle at a near-loss for words.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" Sam had said in a hushed, awed voice.

"Like her mother," Christopher agreed, and any lingering cynicism fell away.

The dark night was giving way to the dawn of Christmas Day, Foyle noted now as he stood at the nursery window, his daughter sleeping in his arms. He had forgotten that these nights of little sleep and fussy babies could lead to moments such as these. It was nothing less than a miracle, he knew, that love could produce such tenderness and sweetness of spirit.

And despite all his misgivings about age differences, what-ifs and was-he-actually-up-to-this, Christopher Foyle decided that he wouldn't have missed it for the world.