Chapter Text
Summer had finally come to Styles St.Mary. The attic room Poirot now occupied alone had lost its chill, and was now verging on being unpleasantly hot. It was the only private place in the house, but he did not want to spend much time there, preferring to walk outside when he needed time for his thoughts. He turned down the streets of the little village, stumbling slightly on the cobbles. His leg had mostly healed, but still proved unsteady on uneven ground. The air was fresh and sweet. Queen Anne’s lace was blooming in the verges.
As he passed the little corner shop, he remembered that he had neglected his correspondence for some time. It was something to do with the lack of ink; he recalled.
Poirot stepped up through the doorway, seeing that the shopkeeper was occupied with fetching tins for a soldier. It was not common to see them in the village, although Mrs Teasdale had told him there was a convalescent hospital two villages over. She had been very specific - Styles St.Mary had been chosen to house the Franco-Belgians due to the fact that it wasn’t already overtaxed with soldiers, nurses and other personnel.
A local Tommy on leave from the front, perhaps? Poirot turned away, to examine the meagre display of stationary on the shelves. He could see the soldier reflected, distorted, in a series of shiny cans.
On reflection, there was something about the set of the man’s shoulders, the line of his back that seemed familiar. He must be imagining it.
“That’ll be two and six,” the madame shopkeeper said.
“Thanks awfully,” said the soldier.
It hit him.
It was preposterous. Absurd. But here - could that be his very own -
Poirot turned around just as the soldier did. He saw his surprise, his delight, reflected on the familiar face, and cried out. “My dear Captain Hastings! Oh, mon ami!”
He stepped forward and seized Hastings’ hand, and was halfway through la bise before he remembered that the greeting was judged somewhat suspect by the English, but he was already kissing Hastings’ cheek, and this was a reunion between long-parted friends, who could judge them for it?
“Poirot, old man!” Hastings cried delightedly. “Good lord! What on earth are you doing here?”
“I could say the same for you,” Poirot replied warmly, still clutching Hastings’ hand.
The shopkeeper coughed pointedly, and Poirot tipped his hat, choosing to forget about his ink. Bah! It would have to wait. This reunion most surprising would have to take precedence. He and Hastings burst through the doorway and into the summer air, giggling and beaming like excited children.
“Mon ami, we have much to discuss,” Poirot began. “We must go for a walk - a turn about the fields, as your Mademoiselle Austen might say.”
“I say, Poirot,” Hastings said warmly, “I’d love to, but I’ll have to drop off these ruddy bits and pieces I’ve just saddled myself with. We’ll go to Styles Court, if that’s alright with you. That’s where I’m staying.”
“Bon,” Poirot said, without adding that he would follow Hastings to hell, if he so wished. It was unbelievable. A reunion in a shop so prosaic, when he had long-since given up hope of ever seeing his cher ami again.
“I’ve missed you, old man,” Hastings said. “You’re just the same as ever!”
Poirot cast a critical eye over Hastings, an ironic mirror of the first time he had looked him most deliberately up and down. His friend also had a limp. He favoured one leg. He was a little more lined about the face, and one or two grey hairs were creeping in at the temples, but otherwise he looked the same. It was hard to come to terms with, when Poirot felt so much changed, having lost both his occupation and his country. “Am I so?”
Hastings chuckled. “Quite so.”
“And you, mon ami,” Poirot said quietly, as they turned from the cobbles to an unpaved laneway - just as rutted and hard to navigate. “You are as handsome as ever.”
There was a cruelty to this meeting. He had intended a true tête-à-tête with his old friend, but it seemed it was not to be so, for Styles Court did not wish to let them. The events of the next several days cut short Poirot’s plans. At least this time he was glad that he had no need to consider his cher ami as a suspect. To ignore the desires of his coeur and once again cast the critical eye on Arthur Hastings’ goings and motivations would have proved most difficult.
Thankfully, the case did not prove too thorny for Poirot’s little grey cells, and he was able to tidy it away most satisfactorily, and turn his attention back to the chance that he might reignite this old passion and court Arthur Hastings in the way he had so desired, for many a long year.
“Now,” Poirot said tidily, as soon as the police had left the Court, dragging away the culprits spitting like cats, “I wish to resume our little plan.”
“Oh?” Hastings frowned slightly. “Oh yes, the walk, that’s right!” He beamed. “I hear the poppies might be out.”
“Ah yes, the poppies,” Poirot smiled sadly. “I have always thought they make the cornfield appear most cheerful and gay.”
Until now. The two of them had heard too many stories of these beautiful red flowers that bloom in summer fields, now blowing atop the trenches, reminding the soldiers of nothing more than freshly-spilled blood.
“There must be other flowers too, hein? I have been learning the names of them en anglais, from my landlady’s little book.”
“Yes, of course.” Hastings smiled. The two of them turned together down the shady path that led out from Styles Court, into the fields and woodlands. The bees droned. A skylark spiralled into the clouds. “Nothing like the English countryside. I used to spend many of my boyhood hours at my uncle’s in summer, fishing and catching tadpoles. Making daisy chains.”
Poirot smiled. “You made the daisy chains?”
“With my sisters and my cousin Celia,” Hastings said. “They thought it was a real scream to drape ourselves in them, pretend we were fairies.”
“C’est très adorable.”
They came to a stile, and Hastings gallantly helped Poirot to scale it. It was made for long English limbs of rather greater flexibility than his, and he struggled a little, but managed to make it over to the other side in one piece.
“Ah, to be on the ground again. C’est un miracle!”
“I gather you don’t much like the countryside, Poirot.”
“I am rather given to enjoy it from a distance.” Poirot brushed himself down. He was sure the stile had showered him in all manner of hateful dusts. “But for the pleasure of your company, mon cher, I would go anywhere.”
“You really mean that?”
“Oui. Besides, I suggest the walk because it is the best way to discuss the sentiments without being overheard.” Poirot patted Hastings on the arm. “There is much that I wish to say.”
But where to begin? Poirot tried to give Hastings a very brief version of what had brought him to the English countryside. He did not go into details he knew Hastings might well find distressing; merely gave him a brief description of the facts. He waited, to see if Hastings would want to share, but the man instead continued to walk quietly, close to Poirot but not touching him. He plucked grass blades and twisted them around his fingers, staining them with green. He busied himself watching for birds. Anything but look at Poirot.
Poirot waited. And finally, there it was.
“Do you remember when we last met?”
Hastings’ blue eyes were solemn as they turned to Poirot. He had dropped his blades of grass.
Poirot smiled gently, meeting his gaze. “D’accord. How could I forget?”
“I’ve thought about that night rather a lot,” Hastings said quietly.
“Moi aussi.” Poirot could not begin to tell him how much. He knew it was wrong to compare men in this way, but the particular affection he seemed to hold for the genial Englishman had caused even the most ardent of his other lovers to be found wanting.
“You were so good to me.” Hastings’ voice broke a little on these words.
Poirot ached to hold him.
————
“I say, Poirot,” Hastings said awkwardly, as he watched the little man bustle off to the sal de bain, fetching all the necessary things. “Awfully good of you to agree to this, but I’m afraid I don’t quite know how it all works -“
Poirot, upon returning, flashed him a quick smile. “It is a task for which one must be patient.”
Hastings was watching him from a supine position, propping himself up a little on his elbows.
“Oh. A marathon, rather than a sprint, I suppose?”
“D’accord, that is so.” Poirot took a moment to observe him lying completely nude, in all of his glory. He could have been an artist’s model, ready to be immortalised in marble or oils.
“Yes, I suppose a sprint would be if we both just -“
“Hastings.” Poirot admonished. He laid down everything he was carrying on Hastings’ bedside table, and took a little time to bend over and kiss him, cupping his sweet face with one hand. “Please to relax.”
Hastings was not doing this. He was craning his neck at the box of preservatifs, and the rather drily named lubrifant chirurgical that went with them. “I say, Poirot, is all that really necessary?”
“Yes,” Poirot replied severely. “Poirot does not do things that are unnecessary.”
“Oh alright then, it just all seems jolly complicated,” Hastings protested, before Poirot interjected and gently pushed on his chest. Hastings took the hint and flopped back down, before a light suddenly came over his face, causing him to roll onto his front, presenting his admittedly tempting derriere to Poirot in a rather misguided lack of confidence in Poirot’s methods.
“This is right, isn’t it?”
Hastings’ voice was muffled by his pillow, as the charmingly foolish man had gone completely face down.
Poirot took hold of his arm and rolled him back the other way.
“Oh, I thought you had to be on your front!”
“Non.” Poirot sighed with some exasperation, conscious as he was of the ticking clock. “It is the usual way, of course, but Poirot does not do the commonplace methods. He does the methods which are the best!”
He set to work, making sure that Hastings’ limbs were arranged the way he wanted them, then slowly warmed him up with kisses, and long, lingering touches down his body, ending with a light brush against his sexe but not much more. Poirot was gratified to feel how hard he was, and how he gasped and bucked a little, aching for further touch.
“Tu es très excité, n’est pas?” Poirot murmured. “Good.”
Hastings let out a small, needy noise from the back of his throat.
“Now, mon cher, we begin.” Poirot moved so that he was sitting closer to Hastings’ rear, and began to warm a generous amount of lubrifant in his hands. “I want you to promise me something.”
“Yes?” Hastings was staring at him with very wide and excited eyes.
“If you do not like it, you tell me to stop. Do not do as your people say, and “bear up manfully.”Poirot shook his head. “This is for your pleasure alone, and if you are not getting pleasure, then we stop. Ça va?”
Hastings nodded. He let his head fall back as Poirot started to massage at him, first gently working at the outside, encouraging Hastings all the while with light, teasing touches to his cock. He was rewarded by all kinds of excited little noises, stifled though they were. Poirot took the encouragement and carefully easing a finger first outside, than inside the tight ring of muscle, feeling as Hastings clenched on him and then relaxed with a tremble of his thighs. Again, he hardly made a noise.
Poirot resolved then, as he bent his finger and found the angle that was bound to give the most pleasure - a motion rewarded by more stifled gasps - that he would set himself a challenge. Many spoke of breaking a man, of pushing past his defences and making him do something he would not otherwise do, but Poirot, he would not do this. He would encourage. He wanted to see if he could push past this sense of Hastings, whether it was modesty or terror, that made him stay so quiet. He wanted to hear him.
Poirot looked up to see how he was doing. Hastings’ eyes were closed, and he trembled.
“Ça va?”
“Ça va bien,” Hastings gasped, even his horrible accent doing little to suppress Poirot’s desire for him.
For a novice, he took it beautifully, relaxing and stretching around Poirot’s finger, and then fingers, until Poirot judged from his moans and looseness that he was ready, and pulled away, his fingers making an audible wet sound as he drew them free, leaving Hastings empty. It was something of a cruel tease, and Poirot knew it.
“Why’d you stop?” Hastings said crossly, craning his neck to look as Poirot started busying himself with attending to his own now throbbing sexe. He hoped his hands were steady as he rolled down the preservatif.
“Patience, mon ami,” Poirot growled, and clambered up on the bed with Hastings. “Now move a little to the centre, that’s good, and now -“
He aligned himself and carefully, agonisingly slowly, entered. Poirot was alert to every sound - his own, ragged breathing, the choked whimper of Hastings, and the wet slide of his movement, obscene and thrilling. He was holding himself up with his arm above Hastings’ trembling chest, using the other to guide his cock, and it was somewhat of a trial to stay so in control, when Hastings was so pretty and so willing and made such wanton sounds, even if they were quiet, and oh, the heat of him, the hot, strong sensation as he breached him!
“Yes,” moaned Hastings quietly, and Poirot realised that he too, was making sounds - groans, at how good his lover felt. “Yes”, Hastings moaned again, and Poirot did not need to ask him how he was, for his head was now flung back, his throat bared for Poirot to ravish it with kisses. He let himself fall on top of the other man, and now he could ease himself a little deeper, between Hastings’ bent legs, feeling the man’s hardness now slick and hot against his middle. He resisted the urge to thrust hard and fast and fuck the noises out of Hastings, no matter how great the desire was, instead restricting himself to a slow and gentle rhythm, rising and falling atop him, letting Hastings reach for him and kiss him and wrap an arm around his back, even reaching for his rear to grab it, which made Poirot want to laugh excitedly. He once again propped himself up so that he could look at Hastings’ delighted, flushed face.
“How is it, mon cher?”
“It’s - yes! Good!” Hastings giggled. “But it’s so much, I don’t know if I can bear it - oh -“
Poirot stilled.
“You would like to stop?”
Hastings shook his head furiously. “Anything but that! But I’m not going to - bear up for much longer, if you get my drift -“
And now Poirot was unable to resist his own desires, and sunk down and deep into Hastings, thrusting so that his hips touched Hastings’ thighs, faster than he intended. He realised his mistake almost immediately and tried to draw back, but Hastings locked his leg around Poirot and drew him in, and there it was, that beautiful, beautiful full throated, desperate moan as Hastings bucked and clenched and finished, creaming messily against Poirot’s torso, Poirot still inside him.
Poirot let out a held breath and allowed himself to follow. He thought his cries might rival Hastings’. If the pleased, almost smug expression was any indication, Hastings must have resolved something similar.
Hastings had wanted to embrace immediately after, to have Poirot rest his head on his chest as their bodies cooled down and their breath settled, but Poirot set about cleaning him up with a washcloth, disposing of the preservatif and all other small necessary tasks, before he would allow this. After this - well, they still had ample time, did they not? He allowed himself to luxuriate in the embrace, Hastings’ body tucked against his as if it were scooping him up. He drew Hastings’ hand from where it was, clasped around Poirot’s chest, and kissed the knuckles gently.
“Is it what you have hoped, mon ami?”
Once again, a yes.
He had heard this word from Hastings so many times that morning, but he would never tire of it.
————-
“I have, well - I suppose it’s a confession of sorts,” Hastings said, his face a little pink in a way that could not be the result of the weak northern sun.
“Oui?” Poirot smiled gently. “I am sure I know what this will be, but please to tell it.”
Hastings chuckled weakly. “I suppose to you I will always be obvious.”
“I do not mean it to hurt you,” Poirot said. “Only that you wear your emotions upon your visage, where it is easy for Poirot to read them.”
“It was a long war, Poirot. Which is to say - it is long and the ruddy thing’s still going - but my war appears to be over at least for now.”
Poirot nodded. He dearly hoped that this was so.
“I thought I would never see you. I hoped, of course, but Belgium had gotten so wrecked it was not hard to imagine you lost also. I tried not to think about it too hard.” Hastings took a sharp breath. “I had this silly thought - you’ll think it rather naive I suppose, that at the very least I was back in Belgium, and if I wasn’t going to run into you, then at least I could…”
“It was the same as before,” Poirot said gently. “You try not to break the law, and so when it is not the law, you take the advantage.”
“Yes. I suppose you’ve got me.” He smiled painfully. “I thought I’d get about with the locals, and I did manage it a few times, but they weren’t always so nice.”
Poirot tried to suppress the visions that assailed his brain at these words.
“Mon ami, as-tu été blessé?! Were you hurt?”
Hastings shook his head. “No, not as bad as all that! Just, it wasn’t quite the same.”
Poirot nodded. At the very least, this was reassuring.
“They weren’t all bad,” Hastings hurried to add. “I was with one fellow officer who was an absolute brick.”
A brick? Solid, perhaps? Rigid? Rectangular in shape? Poirot was about to ask about this confusing turn of phrase, when Hastings continued.
“He was a little like me, you know. Thought that now that he was abroad, he should make the best of it and try to do something about the desires he’d been having for many years. He also thought it might be his last chance. I’d like to think I was able to pass on a little of what I’d learned. From you.”
“Mon cher Hastings,” Poirot said softly. He tried to stop his eyes from watering, but one glance at the many emotions written on the face of Hastings like a livre, and he had to take out his handkerchief and blot at them.
“I’m awfully sorry if I’ve upset you,” Hastings said, crestfallen. “I know it’s rather disappointing of me. I shouldn’t flatter myself to think that you’ve been nursing affections for me all these years, but -“
“Non, cher Hastings,” Poirot interrupted. “I do not judge you. Poirot, too, has been with others. We have not had what I believe is called “an understanding” - I thought it would be an action most presumptuous to make you promise so.”
Seeing no one else in the country lane, Poirot took his arm. It was common now to see men leaning on each other, and the two had wounded legs, so this could be explained away. It was also the closest the two men could get to each other while still seeming decent.
“If I have hurt you for these actions, I too must apologise.”
“That’s quite alright, old chap.” Hastings squeezed Poirot’s arm a little as they walked. The gentle pressure of it was most pleasant. “We are men, after all.”
Upon the sounds of an approaching horse and rider, Hastings tugged him to the side of the lane, allowing the two to pass. The creature was a glossy shade of marron, and the rider, a boy of about twelve in shirtsleeves, wearing boots sans chausettes, touched the brim of his cap as he passed.
Poirot knew Hastings enjoyed riding, and entertained the notion of his companion mounted, riding smartly about. He was not interested in les chevaux himself - too large, too unpredictable, too animal - but one could not deny that the sight of a handsome mounted man was pleasing to the eye.
“Nice bit of horseflesh,” murmured Hastings, watching the horse with an appraising eye. “Can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t been requisitioned by the army. He’s hardly a plough horse - ah, but of course, he’s probably not old enough. Must have been a foal when they sent the last batch.”
Poirot shuddered, thinking of the beasts he’d seen struggling in the mud, the stinking corpses.
“Your use of horseflesh, it is usual to describe the living animal?”
“Well, yes.”
“I only say this, mon ami, because in Belgium it is common to manger de la viand de cheval.”
“Oh?” Hastings was still watching the rider, now disappearing behind a bend in the lane. “I’m not sure I understood that, old man. Something about horses?”
“We eat them,” said Poirot simply.
Hastings shot him a horrified glance, and then his face lapsed into understanding. “Oh, because of the war. Of course.”
Poirot did not correct him. He did not consider this aspect of his country a horror, but he thought it was best not to disabuse his dear Hastings of his false conclusion. “C’est la guerre.”
Hastings shook his head. “It’s certainly made me do things I never would have - well, I shan’t describe the taste of freshly bayonetted rat to you. Used to call them trench rabbits.”
Poirot was silent.
“Of course, I shouldn’t ruin such a lovely day by talking about all that rubbish,” Hastings said briskly. They passed a small field of dun-coloured jersey cattle, all sharp hips and large, dark eyes, contentedly grazing, their tails flicking. Hastings watched the beasts with interest. “Nice thing about the country - fresh food, clean air, none of that tinned muck.”
Perhaps Hastings was thinking of a future as a country squire. Poirot realised he wasn’t quite sure if Hastings had family in the country, perhaps an ancestral estate. It wouldn’t surprise him. So many of these English gentlemen seemed to.
“Hastings,” Poirot said. A small cloud was making its way across the sky. Poirot observed with interest that the hue of the heavens was at present much the same shade as Hastings’ eyes. “Do you give much thought to what you might do now?”
Hastings frowned, and turned away from staring at the cows, to fix his clear blue gaze upon Poirot. “War’s not over, old chap, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“Après la guerre, then. Such a time will come, eventually.”
Hastings made to speak, and then thought better of it. “You’ll laugh.”
“Non, I will not laugh. It is no embarrassment to entertain the wishes, is it not?” Poirot smiled. “I, for one, have been thinking of the apartment most comfortable I will have. How I will furnish it just so.” A cloud came over his face, as he remembered the fine apartment he had been forced to leave, able as he was to bring only what he could carry. He had but one ornament and a neatly folded cushion cover to remember the old place by.
“Well then,” Hastings began, kicking at the ground in a way that was sure to foul up his army boots even more. “Ever since I, uh, met you - the fact is, I thought you were so brilliant, that I’ve nursed this ambition myself. To be a detective too.”
Sacre bleu! This was too much. Poirot had expected a more plausible ambition - perhaps Hastings would want to train horses, or be working with his beloved motor cars - but this? No - he did not want to chastise him, but he could not in good conscience let his dear Hastings be so foolish! He could not help a scowl making its way onto his visage. Perhaps he too should kick the dirt.
“I say, Poirot,” Hastings said rather peevishly. “I’m not trying to step on your toes. There’s room for more than one detective in Blighty, if you must know.” He sighed. “We can even draw a ruddy great line through the country and stay on one side or the other if you’d prefer.”
“Non.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Hastings bristled. “What do you mean, non?”
“Non, cher ami. You will not be the private detective. Your trusting nature prevents it. You are too easily led - too easily manipulated by those around you.”
“I say, Poirot, that’s a bit rich!”
Poirot sighed. “I do not mean to offend you, mon ami, but Poirot must be truthful.”
“Well then - have you got a better idea? I don’t much feel like returning to working at Lloyds.”
His poor Hastings, so crestfallen! He had only hoped to be honest, not to crush the man’s dearly held dreams. Surely there was -
It came to Poirot then. A proposition most excellent. He could tell his eyes were most likely sparkling. “Non, I have a better idea.” He seized Hastings by the arm. “I, of course, will be the detective, but you, mon cher, will assist me!”
Hastings looked confused. “As a secretary, of sort? I’m afraid I can’t type -“
“Non,” Poirot said impatiently. “As my associate. You will accompany me on my cases, and provide another set of the eyes and the ears. Not everyone trusts the foreigner, hein? But the Englishman, especially one so genial and red-blooded as you, with your natural charm and good nature? Mais oui! You will be a great help at Poirot’s side.”
He could see it now, the two of them working as a team. It was magnifique.
“And of course, you will live with me,” Poirot added casually. He snuck a look at Hastings through his lashes.
“I say!” Hastings looked flabbergasted.
“Of course, Poirot will be the one choosing le decor, n’est pas -“
“Poirot, dash it, I don’t care about the ruddy decor!” Hastings’ eyes were alight. “I - are you serious? Do you - do you really mean it?”
“But of course I mean it.” Poirot smiled. He knew he was turning on the full force of his charm. “It just so happens that I care for you very much.”
“Poirot -“
Hastings began to look wildly about him, peering into a nearby copse, squinting to look over the backs of the cattle, who looked curiously at him, heads raised.
“What are you doing, mon -“
Poirot stopped as Hastings, satisfied in what Poirot now realised was his search for onlookers, seized him by the shoulders, steered him beneath a spreading oak on the verge, and grabbed his face and kissed him.
He could feel his moustache being disordered, and Hastings’ uniform cuff was rough against his jaw and neck,, but Poirot did not care. At this moment, he even loved the countryside, with its smells of merde and choking hay and interminable droning of bees, for here, they had found privacy enough for Hastings to kiss him with a need that spoke of nearly half a decade’s longing.
“Mon amour,” Hastings whispered as he broke the kiss, in the awful accent that Poirot was beginning to find most charmant, despite himself. Mon amour -
He stopped thinking about how the words were spoken, and what they meant. Hastings had stepped back, but his hand still lingered on Poirot’s cheek.
“Then it is true,” Poirot said quietly. “It seems you love me.”
“I never thought I could say it,” Hastings said hoarsely.
“Oui. Because you did not believe it could be true. Or that I, too, could love you in return.” The little man had managed to remain composed thus far, but did not know how long he could hold in the tide of emotions welling within him, the rapid beating of his coeur. “I had hoped, but I thought that maybe you might have had a better offer.”
“Jamais!”
Poirot smiled, and the two resumed walking.
“I got a phrase book, you see,” Hastings confessed, proudly. “I thought I’d try to learn a bit before we next saw each other. Or - well, I hoped we’d see each other.”
“And now you have. Let us hope that it is not another four years until we next meet.”
And so the two of them returned to Styles Court, sometimes brushing against each other, sometimes clasping arms, as Poirot, unable to stop the smile spreading across his face, sketched out his plans to Hastings.
“Oui, and my study, it will be there - I shall of course employ a secretary most skilled in the filing, for the disorder of the files contributes most grievously to the disorder of the mind, and the little grey cells cannot abide untidiness. And you, of course, shall breakfast with me In the morning - I shall prepare for you my…”
It is best that we, the readers, leave this tidy pair where they are, and give them the privacy they have not been afforded earlier. Their life together has not always been straightforward, and has not always been easy, but it has turned out to be what they hoped it would. It has always been worth it.