Fic: Poppy Fields
Title: Poppy Fields
Fandom: Agatha Christie's Poirot
Pairing: Poirot/Hastings
Rating: PG
Warnings: None really.
Author: swing_set
Disclaimer: The boys are very much not mine, and also, this is all lies.
Notes: This was written for cicerothewriter who is generally awesome, and wanted some Poirot/Hastings. Also, apologies go to T.S. Eliot for the blatant thievery. Crossposted to rarelitslash
Hercule Poirot stood at the window of Whitehaven Mansions, looking out on the grey morning. Huddled figures of people hurried up and down the street, chased by the last of the leaves, dark coats flapping in the wind, their hands holding down unruly hats and scarves.
Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn
Poirot watched two pass, a man and a woman, nothing visible of their faces under their dark winter hats, but their hands joined. His eye caught a quick flash of red from below and, automatically his hand went to his own lapel, to the smooth, crinkled flesh of the poppy there.
He watched till they passed and he saw their faces in profile, animated, vivid with the cold, till at the end of the street they rounded the corner.
Ah, the young.
“I’m sorry?”
He had not realized that Miss Lemon had entered the room with his tisane, nor indeed that he had sighed his thoughts out loud.
“Ah, the good Miss Lemon. Forgive me, I was speaking to myself.”
He took the infusion from her, and she gave him a smile and laid the post on his desk. “Will that be all Monsieur Poirot?”
“Yes, Miss Lemon.”
He saw a flicker of indecision pass over her face. Hand on the doorway, she asked “Should I expect any callers?”
Poirot turned from her and back to the window, his eyes scanning the shinning grey pavement of the wet street for a familiar figure.
“Perhaps later, Miss Lemon.”
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many.
At his desk, Poirot folded with painstaking care the morning paper. It was unread, instead of taking in the news in the lines, his mind wandered stubbornly down lanes and alleys of memory.
“…the wretched thing rather has me by the throat, I’m afraid.”
“Mais oui, it is most unfortunate, this illness. Still, monsieur le docteur has told us you will be yourself again soon.”
Wan and feverish, Hastings lay on the couch as Poirot attended to his correspondence, drifting in and out of a fitful malarial sleep.
The morning was quiet, no client called, so when outside a car backfired, the sharp sound cracked round the room stark and loud.
The shattering of glass and delft had Poirot on his feet in an instant, rushing to the side of his friend, lying in some confusion amongst the upturned coffee table, the shattered remains of glass.
“Mon ami Hastings!”
“Oh- oh I say- I am so dreadfully sorry Poirot-”
“Non, non, but you are all right, Hastings?”
Guiding him back to the sofa, Poirot felt the wild trembling in his limbs, found the humour he would ordinarily find in Hastings diving into his tea-set absent in the face of the terror in his eyes, in the shaking of his hands.
“I must have been dreaming- Thought it was a mortar-”
Poirot knelt by the sofa, his hands on Hastings’ shoulders, and said softly
“Mais non, mais non, there are no such things here.”
He felt under his hands the shoulders of his friend shake with sudden laughter,
“No, no of course not. I’m an utter fool. I’m sorry Poirot, I- I believe I’ve broken your dishes.”
“You are not well my friend. You may replace them for me when you can once again stand upright. Indulge yourself for now in a little rest, oui?”
“Yes. Yes, perhaps I’d better. You’ll have no dishes left at this rate. You know- when I
was over there I broke every set of field glasses I ever got. Kept- kept dropping them.”
He shook his head ruefully, lying back down and closing his eyes. “Yellow bloody fool.”
Once Poirot had cleared the debris away, sweeping meticulously the bitter shards from the carpet, setting the table once again at its correct angle to the attendant chairs, he observed again his sleeping friend, and wondered at the fact that he had not before known with what bitterness Hastings regarded himself a coward.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
In his chair, Poirot sighed, and returned to his correspondence. Exactly one hour and thirty four minutes later there was a ring at the bell, and calling to Miss Lemon that he would answer it himself, Poirot walked briskly down the hall and answered the door.
“Mon ami Hastings,” he said warmly, taking the other’s long greatcoat, heavy with rain, from his shoulders.
“Hullo, Poirot.” Hastings smiled at him, hung his peaked hat on the hatstand and followed him down the hall to the living room.
“And how was the ceremony my friend?” Poirot deftly filled a brandy and soda from the sideboard as Hastings moved to stand by his desk, looking over the days post in a desultory way.
“Oh, we were washed out, I’m afraid. The graveyard’s next to the river you know, the place was covered in mud.” Hastings looked down in sudden consternation. “Oh. I say, Poirot I’ve tracked it all over your floor. I am sorry.”
Making sure his face did not betray his inward wince, and most assuredly not looking down to the vicinity of the rug, Poirot handed the drink to Hastings. “It is of no import, Hastings.”
Hastings took the glass from him. “Thanks, old boy.”
Then he bent and pressed a kiss to Poirot’s cheek, and again to the corner of his mouth, his arms coming loosely around him and holding steady for a long moment.
A little surprised by his forwardness, (Hastings usually preferred to keep such things for the evenings, when they two were entirely alone), yet not at all displeased, Poirot leant into the embrace.
One hand rested in the small of Hastings’ back, the other stroked through his friend’s fine hair. “Ah, my Hastings.”
Hastings straightened eventually, and with one last slow whisper of lips over Poirot’s cheekbone he threw himself down on the sofa and proceeded to unlace his boots.
Poirot winced, this time unable to disguise it, and hurriedly retrieved a piece of the day’s newspaper which he placed underneath the offending articles.
Hastings let out a long breath and sipped his drink, and then sat up sharply. “Hold on a moment- Poirot, you’ve used the sports section again. I was meaning to look that over later you know.”
Refolding meticulously the rest of the paper, Poirot smiled at him.
“It is for the best, Hastings. You will simply enrage yourself and thus be impossible for the rest of the day.”
“Oh, tosh. Well, I’ll listen to it on the wireless later.”
There was a lull for a few minutes as Poirot rang for a tisane to be brought in by Miss Lemon, and attended to the rolling up of the rug for later cleaning, till Hastings’ voice, introspective, broke the silence.
“I hate to think of it. To remember it. Such waste...” He sighed, and Poirot noted the finger that tapped incessantly on the rim of his glass. “Such a waste of young life. And there’s all this talk now, of another one coming.”
Hastings shook his head, and his unfocused gaze turned to the windows.
“If it happens again, what on earth will we do, Poirot? I can’t see how people will ever recover.”
Moving to stand over him, Poirot put his hand on Hastings’ shoulder.
“If it comes, mon ami, we will turn to face it. And we will face it together this time, n’est-ce pas?”
Hastings looked up at him, clasped his own hand over Poirot’s and squeezed gently.
“Yes, old boy. Always.”
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Fandom: Agatha Christie's Poirot
Pairing: Poirot/Hastings
Rating: PG
Warnings: None really.
Author: swing_set
Disclaimer: The boys are very much not mine, and also, this is all lies.
Notes: This was written for cicerothewriter who is generally awesome, and wanted some Poirot/Hastings. Also, apologies go to T.S. Eliot for the blatant thievery. Crossposted to rarelitslash
Hercule Poirot stood at the window of Whitehaven Mansions, looking out on the grey morning. Huddled figures of people hurried up and down the street, chased by the last of the leaves, dark coats flapping in the wind, their hands holding down unruly hats and scarves.
Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn
Poirot watched two pass, a man and a woman, nothing visible of their faces under their dark winter hats, but their hands joined. His eye caught a quick flash of red from below and, automatically his hand went to his own lapel, to the smooth, crinkled flesh of the poppy there.
He watched till they passed and he saw their faces in profile, animated, vivid with the cold, till at the end of the street they rounded the corner.
Ah, the young.
“I’m sorry?”
He had not realized that Miss Lemon had entered the room with his tisane, nor indeed that he had sighed his thoughts out loud.
“Ah, the good Miss Lemon. Forgive me, I was speaking to myself.”
He took the infusion from her, and she gave him a smile and laid the post on his desk. “Will that be all Monsieur Poirot?”
“Yes, Miss Lemon.”
He saw a flicker of indecision pass over her face. Hand on the doorway, she asked “Should I expect any callers?”
Poirot turned from her and back to the window, his eyes scanning the shinning grey pavement of the wet street for a familiar figure.
“Perhaps later, Miss Lemon.”
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many.
At his desk, Poirot folded with painstaking care the morning paper. It was unread, instead of taking in the news in the lines, his mind wandered stubbornly down lanes and alleys of memory.
“…the wretched thing rather has me by the throat, I’m afraid.”
“Mais oui, it is most unfortunate, this illness. Still, monsieur le docteur has told us you will be yourself again soon.”
Wan and feverish, Hastings lay on the couch as Poirot attended to his correspondence, drifting in and out of a fitful malarial sleep.
The morning was quiet, no client called, so when outside a car backfired, the sharp sound cracked round the room stark and loud.
The shattering of glass and delft had Poirot on his feet in an instant, rushing to the side of his friend, lying in some confusion amongst the upturned coffee table, the shattered remains of glass.
“Mon ami Hastings!”
“Oh- oh I say- I am so dreadfully sorry Poirot-”
“Non, non, but you are all right, Hastings?”
Guiding him back to the sofa, Poirot felt the wild trembling in his limbs, found the humour he would ordinarily find in Hastings diving into his tea-set absent in the face of the terror in his eyes, in the shaking of his hands.
“I must have been dreaming- Thought it was a mortar-”
Poirot knelt by the sofa, his hands on Hastings’ shoulders, and said softly
“Mais non, mais non, there are no such things here.”
He felt under his hands the shoulders of his friend shake with sudden laughter,
“No, no of course not. I’m an utter fool. I’m sorry Poirot, I- I believe I’ve broken your dishes.”
“You are not well my friend. You may replace them for me when you can once again stand upright. Indulge yourself for now in a little rest, oui?”
“Yes. Yes, perhaps I’d better. You’ll have no dishes left at this rate. You know- when I
was over there I broke every set of field glasses I ever got. Kept- kept dropping them.”
He shook his head ruefully, lying back down and closing his eyes. “Yellow bloody fool.”
Once Poirot had cleared the debris away, sweeping meticulously the bitter shards from the carpet, setting the table once again at its correct angle to the attendant chairs, he observed again his sleeping friend, and wondered at the fact that he had not before known with what bitterness Hastings regarded himself a coward.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
In his chair, Poirot sighed, and returned to his correspondence. Exactly one hour and thirty four minutes later there was a ring at the bell, and calling to Miss Lemon that he would answer it himself, Poirot walked briskly down the hall and answered the door.
“Mon ami Hastings,” he said warmly, taking the other’s long greatcoat, heavy with rain, from his shoulders.
“Hullo, Poirot.” Hastings smiled at him, hung his peaked hat on the hatstand and followed him down the hall to the living room.
“And how was the ceremony my friend?” Poirot deftly filled a brandy and soda from the sideboard as Hastings moved to stand by his desk, looking over the days post in a desultory way.
“Oh, we were washed out, I’m afraid. The graveyard’s next to the river you know, the place was covered in mud.” Hastings looked down in sudden consternation. “Oh. I say, Poirot I’ve tracked it all over your floor. I am sorry.”
Making sure his face did not betray his inward wince, and most assuredly not looking down to the vicinity of the rug, Poirot handed the drink to Hastings. “It is of no import, Hastings.”
Hastings took the glass from him. “Thanks, old boy.”
Then he bent and pressed a kiss to Poirot’s cheek, and again to the corner of his mouth, his arms coming loosely around him and holding steady for a long moment.
A little surprised by his forwardness, (Hastings usually preferred to keep such things for the evenings, when they two were entirely alone), yet not at all displeased, Poirot leant into the embrace.
One hand rested in the small of Hastings’ back, the other stroked through his friend’s fine hair. “Ah, my Hastings.”
Hastings straightened eventually, and with one last slow whisper of lips over Poirot’s cheekbone he threw himself down on the sofa and proceeded to unlace his boots.
Poirot winced, this time unable to disguise it, and hurriedly retrieved a piece of the day’s newspaper which he placed underneath the offending articles.
Hastings let out a long breath and sipped his drink, and then sat up sharply. “Hold on a moment- Poirot, you’ve used the sports section again. I was meaning to look that over later you know.”
Refolding meticulously the rest of the paper, Poirot smiled at him.
“It is for the best, Hastings. You will simply enrage yourself and thus be impossible for the rest of the day.”
“Oh, tosh. Well, I’ll listen to it on the wireless later.”
There was a lull for a few minutes as Poirot rang for a tisane to be brought in by Miss Lemon, and attended to the rolling up of the rug for later cleaning, till Hastings’ voice, introspective, broke the silence.
“I hate to think of it. To remember it. Such waste...” He sighed, and Poirot noted the finger that tapped incessantly on the rim of his glass. “Such a waste of young life. And there’s all this talk now, of another one coming.”
Hastings shook his head, and his unfocused gaze turned to the windows.
“If it happens again, what on earth will we do, Poirot? I can’t see how people will ever recover.”
Moving to stand over him, Poirot put his hand on Hastings’ shoulder.
“If it comes, mon ami, we will turn to face it. And we will face it together this time, n’est-ce pas?”
Hastings looked up at him, clasped his own hand over Poirot’s and squeezed gently.
“Yes, old boy. Always.”
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.