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The afternoon sun beat down on a small patio outside a new café which had opened only a few months prior. It was mid-autumn, and as such the weather was a strange mixture of warmth and wind. The two men who sat on the patio didn't seem to notice, however, as they were deeply engrossed with the beverages that they had just ordered.
"My word! This cocoa really is extraordinary!" Hastings exclaimed.
"Ah! Did I not tell you as much? But as always, you did not listen!" Satisfied with his victory, Poirot sipped his own drink.
Hastings shook his head, a quiet smile passing across his face as he gazed across the table at his companion. "You're right, Poirot. I should never have doubted your brilliance."
Poirot's chest puffed at the compliment. "Quite right!"
"Mhm... it's better than any that I've ever tasted," Hastings admitted.
"Of course it is better! The chocolate, it came from Belgium!" Poirot exclaimed. "Our cocoa is of a finer quality than the crumbs that you English pass off as chocolate!"
Always humble, his Poirot. "I do think you're underestimating our English chocolatiers, you know," Hastings mused. "I'm sure I could find a place you'd like, there are bound to be a few..." He fanned his face with his hand, the bright sunlight quickly causing beads of sweat to appear on his forehead.
" Non , I think it is a lost cause," Poirot smiled. It was clear that he was only teasing Hastings at this point. What a sly old devil, Hastings mused to himself, wishing desperately that he could focus his eyes on the man in front of him.
He was feeling oddly faint. And was it just his imagination, or was the sun really hot?
Hastings took a shaky breath, chuckling quietly so as not to worry his companion. "I say! It... it really is quite humid, I'm sweating absolute buckets !"
"Mhm, non , I find the weather to be almost the perfect temperature for my sensibilities," Poirot said, smiling from behind his cup of cocoa.
"Huh... well, that's certainly strange..." As he tried to cool himself off, his vision began to blur, and Poirot's face quickly became obscured by the spots appearing in front of his eyes.
Distantly, he heard Poirot's voice, but he couldn't make out the words through the fog that plagued his mind.
Hastings stood up, placing a clumsy hand on the table to steady himself. "I... I really don't feel well, Hercule..."
Slightly alarmed, Poirot reached out to take Hastings' arm. "You don't look well, mon amour . Let me help you walk back home."
"I... I don't think I can walk..." Hastings felt as though his chest was tightening, every movement hurt. "Something's wrong, Hercule..."
"Is everything alright over here?" A waiter had come over to their table, looking quite concerned. "Can I get you some water, or perhaps-"
"Ambulance! I need an ambulance!" Poirot shouted at the waiter, waving him away.
Hastings could feel his heartbeat, the sound too loud and too fast in his chest. His breaths were coming out in gasps as he stumbled in Poirot's arms. "I... I feel faint... I need to rest..." He was sure that if he just closed his eyes for a few moments, he would be fine.
"My dear Hastings, I cannot permit that while you are in this condition!" Poirot exclaimed. "You will wait here for the ambulance."
"I... I..." Before he could answer, Hastings' legs folded underneath him, sending him falling to the ground.
And then the world went black.
*
"Hastings! Hastings!"
Poirot's voice was becoming frantic as he looked down at his stricken companion.
Non, I must focus . He took a deep breath, and glanced at the half-empty cup that Hastings had been drinking from. It was the obvious answer, his symptoms all pointed towards poison. "How could I be so careless?" Poirot whispered, shaking his head as he knelt beside Hastings' body.
He was still breathing, but barely, and his chest was nearly still as it rose and fell in an uneven rhythm. His face was pale, with no hint of the joyful vigour that had been there just moments before.
"Arthur," Poirot whispered, his heart beating fast with the panic that he was trying so hard to suppress. "Help is on the way."
It didn't take long for an ambulance to arrive, medics rushing out with a stretcher to collect their patient. Poirot stayed by Hastings' side, insisting on entering the ambulance with him. He would not let his partner suffer alone.
"My Hastings," he murmured softly, watching as the medics did their work. "Come back to me, s'il te plaît ."
*
A battlefield spread in front of him, barren and lifeless. The bodies of his allies, his friends, strewn about him, broken and bloody. In the distance, cannons sang their deadly song, snuffing out more soldiers, more good men who would never see another sunrise. The shots were getting louder, guns and cannons and shouting. Bullets seemed to fly past him, cannonballs blasting apart the world around him, the very ground he stood up on giving out. He was falling, falling down, his leg, oh God... everything hurt so much, there was so much blood, his ears ringing from the shot that sent him hurtling into the dirt. Vaguely, he knew he was screaming, but he couldn't process what exactly was going on. All he knew was the pain, and the noise, the blasts beating faster like his own racing heart...
*
Poirot watched Hastings as he fitfully slept, one hand always tightly grasping his companion's own arm. "My dear Arthur," he murmured, wincing as the man cried out, clearly in distress.
It tore at his usually unflinching heart to see the man he loved in such a state. The doctors had been able to pump his stomach of the poison, but since then Hastings had been trapped in a restless unconsciousness, plagued by what seemed to be nightmares. Poirot was used to those by now - he had spent enough nights in Hastings' arms to know about the ghosts that still haunted the former soldier - but this time his gentle reassurances would do no good.
"I... I have been waiting for you to come back home with me," Poirot whispered, rubbing perfect circles on the back of Hastings' hand. "The bed is made for you, just the way you like it. I have not touched it since I made it this morning. And… and I will open a new bottle of wine at dinner for you, my love. All you must do is wake up."
As much as he urged Hastings to get better, Poirot couldn't control his companion's rate of recovery. Two days went by without change, with Poirot checking in on Hastings before lunch, at precisely 11:45 a.m. each morning.
One day, there was already a visitor in Hastings' room when Poirot arrived.
"Chief Inspector!" Poirot called out, arms outstretched to pull his friend into a hug. "How are you doing, mon ami ?"
"Not bad, all things considering." Inspector Japp sighed, shaking his head. "Poor Captain Hastings. The man deserves better than this, I've had officers searching for clues to who's done it since I heard about the incident at the cafe. I won't rest until this case is closed, mark my words."
"Ah, yes. On that, we would be in agreement," Poirot said quietly. "But the doctors, they are hopeful."
"Good. Glad of that, at least," Japp frowned. "I.. I should probably go." He was exhausted, but he didn't want Poirot to think he needed help. "Em is waiting for me."
Poirot smiled knowingly, patting the inspector on the shoulder. "Well, we wouldn't want you to keep Mrs. Japp in suspense of her great husband's return. Perhaps she could come to tea someday? I would quite like to speak to the one who captured my dear friend's heart."
Japp raised an eyebrow at the detective. "Right. Well, I'd best be off then."
With that, the policeman hastily left the room, muttering something about nosy detectives knowing too much under his breath.
Poirot chuckled to himself, then sat down by Hastings' bedside once more. He took out a book, and began to read aloud to his partner, hoping that somehow he could hear him.
*
Sunlight streamed through the undrawn window when Hastings finally awoke, his eyes adjusting slowly to the sudden lack of darkness.
"Poirot?" Hastings rasped, blinking slowly as he began to recognize the man standing over his bed. The detective smiled warmly, nodding an affirmation to his friend. "That is right, mon amour . Hercule has you, and you are safe with him now."
Hastings groaned as he sat up in bed. "Good lord , what happened? It feels as though I were hit by a train!"
"You... you were poisoned, my dear," Poirot murmured, gently squeezing Hastings' arm. "I almost lost you. A few more moments, and..."
With a grimace, Hastings nodded. "I get the picture. But where are we?"
"In a hospital," Poirot replied. "Your condition was most precarious, I did not want to take you home until I was sure that you would make a full recovery."
"Ah, well. Thank you." As he turned to face his friend, Hastings noticed that Poirot's hand was shaking. "Are you nervous about something, old chap? I'm sure that you'll figure out who did this, if that's what you're concerned about. Your reputation won't take a blow for it, I'm sure, so-"
Suddenly, Poirot's expression grew angered. "You think I care about that? Non ! I care only about the fact that you were in harm's way because of me! I watched as your body became still and cold! Watched as the beautiful rosiness of your cheeks faded away to pale nothingness! I thought I was watching you die , you idiot! And you think I am concerned with reputation?"
"Well, um, you certainly seem upset..."
"UPSET?" Poirot glared at him. "I do not know how you can be such a fool, Hastings, after everything we've been through together! Do you not think I value your life above all else? Above even my own?"
Hastings shifted uncomfortably. "You really should lower your voice, Hercule. Someone might hear you."
"I do not care , Arthur!" Poirot snapped, waving his hand in the air. "You are my partner in every sense of the word, and I will not allow you to minimize the importance of yourself like this!" With that, he cupped Hastings' face in his hands, staring into his eyes with that intense gaze that always made Hastings feel as though he was melting into a puddle. " Je t'aime , you stupid idiot ," Poirot said in exasperation. "And I will never, never let the person who tried to kill my love get away with that. I promise you, the would-be murderer will be found."
Leaning in close, Poirot pressed his lips to Hastings' in a brief, tactful kiss. "I love you," he repeated, this time in English, brushing his thumb over Hastings' cheek.
"I love you, too," Hastings whispered. He tried to push his unease away for now, to just enjoy this moment while it lasted. "I... I didn't mean to frighten you."
"It was not your fault," Poirot replied, his voice softening as his eyes searched Hastings' face for any sign of pain or discomfort. "It is just that I could not live without you, mon amour , nor do I wish to imagine a world in which you do not exist. You have always been hopelessly romantic, Arthur. I know you will understand what I mean by this."
Hastings smiled, and, throwing caution to the wind, pulled Poirot into a gentle, adoring kiss. His hand curved around the back of his lover's head, holding him there as his lips parted ever so slightly: not enough to be indecent, but just enough to make them both want more than was proper for two men in their position. Over the years, they had come to care much less about the way their relationship was viewed by society, but they still tried to keep it a well-guarded secret. They had to be ready to hide their actions at a moment's notice, lest they be discovered.
After a few seconds passed, Poirot hummed softly, and pulled away from the kiss. "That was quite lovely, Arthur," he murmured, smiling at Hastings approvingly.
"Oh! Why, thank you!" Hastings felt his cheeks warm at the compliment. "I enjoyed it as well, dear."
"Good." Poirot stood, clearing his throat. "Now, I will tell the doctors to let me take you home. This shouldn't take long."
Hastings smiled. "Of course, Hercule. I'm feeling much better, you know, as if I could climb a mountain!"
Poirot looked down at him skeptically. "Once home, you will be getting more bedrest , Hastings. No more excitement."
"No more excitement," Hastings promised, pressing a kiss to his lover's gloved hand.
*
True to his word, the moment they were home Poirot insisted that Hastings get back into bed, making him a cup of tea before sitting down beside him.
"I like being spoiled like this," Hastings murmured, wrapping an arm around his partner. "Perhaps I should get poisoned more often."
"Absolutely not!" Poirot gasped, looking appalled at the very thought. "You have nearly been the death of me already, Arthur Hastings, and I will not be so sympathetic if it happens again!"
"Sympathetic? I say, is that what you call this?" Hastings mused, a teasing glint in his eyes.
With a huff, Poirot moved closer to Hastings. "I just worry about you. When you get hurt... it is my fault for endangering you in the first place."
"Oh, Hercule... it's never your fault. There is nowhere I'd rather be than your side," Hastings said gently.
Poirot sighed, and nodded in agreement. "I will find whoever it was that tried to take you from me."
"Oh, I have no doubt!" Hastings exclaimed. He had complete faith in the detective's skills, with or without his own help. "I will come with you, if you'd like."
The room was silent for a moment.
"For now, mon amour , we rest," Poirot murmured at last, gently running a hand through his lover's hair.
"Mhm..." Hastings closed his eyes, his arm slung around Poirot's shoulders. "Now we rest."