Chapter Text
It was either his nightmare or the loud ringing of a phone in the neighbouring room that woke Hastings up. He blinked a few times, his heartbeat fast. He hated being woken like this.
It seemed that it was the phone that denied him the pleasure of resting peacefully, because when he realized where exactly he was, he heard a muffled voice that belonged to his dear friend, sleeping - well, apparently not anymore - in the room next to his. He was staying over in Whitehaven Mansions with Poirot - the latter asked him to do so while Miss Lemon was away on holiday, and Hastings could not be happier to oblige. After all, he was so used to spending all his time with Poirot that merely sleeping in his appartment was not such a big change in his life. Still, he felt like there is a strangely comfortable intimacy in living next to each other, with each other, even for a few days. To see his friend as he is - with his disheveled hair in the morning, husky voice and all in all, to see Poirot without his shell or proffesion facade.
Who would call in the middle of the night? flew through his mind when he looked at his watch - it was two in the morning. He heard Poirot move in the next room - it seemed he got up. Hastings immediately thought about doing the same and asking his friend what's happening - but just as he wanted to leave his bed, he decided against it. He would see what will become of the situation.
Light illuminated the hall - he registered it on the corners of his door. What could Poirot want? He heard the rustle of clothes, then steps that certainly led to Poirot's study - there, he was talking to someone again, apparently on the phone - with a silent thud he hanged the receiver and returned to the hall again. The situation was becoming a bit too weird to Hastings' liking - this was not normal, certainly not.
The captain got up, as quietly as he could, and did the only thing that came to his mind - quickly dressed himself, being sure that Poirot is doing the same just a wall away. The detective can't know he's awake - Hastings unconsciously decided that he will not be seen. He was used to not getting enough information from his friend, but he had a feeling all this is connected to the crime they were solving at the moment, the mystery of the spanish chest, and he didn't like the idea of Poirot going out into the night right after he talked with someone on the phone.
He stopped to listen more carefully - Poirot was certainly dressing himself, and Hastings knew how long this particular ritual takes him. Quiet as a mouse, he pressed his ear to the wall. If Poirot decided to check whether he's asleep, he'd have a problem. But no, it seemed the detective completely forgot there is an occupant in his flat - after a few muffled steps, Hastings saw the light under his doorstep disappear and the sound of opening and closing the appartment door reassured him that he was alone.
He waited a few little moments, making sure that Poirot won't go back inside to take something he might have forgotten. Hearing nothing but silence, he opened his door. Poirot's coat was missing. The captain quickly took his own and headed to the door. His mission has just started.
He must not be seen and at the same time, he must know where Poirot is going. He wasn't ashamed to admit he was worried about his friend - after all, in the middle of solving a crime, Poirot seems to have even more enemies than usual.
He was most careful on the steps leading down to the ground floor - as he heard the main door of Whitehaven Mansions open and close, he added up his pace to not miss Poirot's direction. At least he had some stalking experiences from the army. It felt natural to be as quiet as possible, to follow a dark figure in the empty night streets, to see the possible cover behind every bench and every tree. After a few moments outside, keeping a safe distance from Poirot, he knew where he was headed - the military club.
What in the everlasting hell could Poirot want there?
He was sure - yes, Hastings was convinced the club is Poirot's destination. But why would he go there in the middle of the night? The phone call would mean someone wanted him to come - but why would such a clever man like Poirot go when it is an obvious trap? And if it is, which Hastings was again very sure of, why would Poirot not wake him up and use him as a backup?
As they were both closer and closer to the building, Poirot's figure stiff even while walking, Hastings grew more nervous. It simply didn't feel right. Poirot didn't even look behind to check if he's not being followed, which, well, helped Hastings, but at the same time made him feel even more uneasy. Poirot was either blind or in some kind of trance. The most natural thing to do is to turn around every now and then when you're walking on a street at night, to check your back, and another natural thing is to simply not answer midnight phone calls. Poirot was successfully doing both.
One more corner - and the building rose before him. Poirot climbed the stairs and got inside - the door was not locked. Someone must've opened it, meaning that that someone had the keys to the club. Hastings didn't have time to think about who exactly it could be - he had to be even more careful now, given that in buildings, every little sound is more audible. He followed Poirot, passing the reception, stopping and hiding behind a pillar when his friend made his way straight to the door of the gym. Opening it, Hastings was blinded by sudden lights - as he blinked himself to his eye-sight again, he noticed a person, a man other than Poirot standing in the middle of the big, now fully illuminated gymnasium.
"Colonel Curtis."
Poirot's soft voice echoed in the huge room. The colonel was holding a long object in his hand, something like a walking stick, but Hastings didn't like the way it looked. Something about it was wrong.
"You've got it wrong, you bloody little frog. You've arrested Margharita Clayton. You degraded her. Soiled her! But she had nothing to do with it."
"Two things, Colonel Curtis. Firstly, I am not a bloody little frog. I am a bloody little Belgian. Secondly, I know quite well that Margharita Clayton is innocent."
Poirot's voice was quite steady, and even though the whole situation smelled of near danger, Hastings had to smirk when he heard Poirot defend his name. Never to be degraded, his little friend.
"Go on," said the colonel, stepping closer to Poirot, playing with the stick in his hands. Hastings' heartbeat quickened when he saw him get near to Poirot, something telling him that this is all very wrong. Midnight meetings with angry colonels in gymnasiums full of swords and rapiers aren't a safe looking thing. Not at all.
Poirot started to recount the tale of their case, unknowingly telling it to two people. All the pieces began to fall into place in Hastings' mind, and he got so lost in Poirot's quiet voice that he didn't even register the colonel's face hardened even more when Poirot mentioned his love for Mrs. Clayton. He slowly started to unsheathe the stick - and no, it wasn't a stick, it was a rapier. A very sharp rapier that's end the colonel put a few centimeters away from Poirot's face. Hastings stopped breathing, his ears ringing. No. He's not going to kill him.
Poirot started to slowly back down, his tale not yet at it's end. The Belgian was determined to finish it. Hastings lost sight of him, but he knew there's no way out of the sudden situation Poirot got into. He can't run away from the colonel.
His mind suffered from a blackout - he can't let the colonel kill Poirot. With all his strength, he tried to remember the day the guard Smith showed him the whole place - there has to be another entrance into the gym, he was sure. If he stormed into the room now, he'd not help Poirot - no, he has to think, he has to save his friend and himself. He has to protect him. And with giving himself away immediately, he's not going to be successful.
Looking desperately around, he noticed a dark corridor on his left. Poirot's voice was smaller and smaller, but Hastings stopped listening to him - it has to be there. There's no way he's mistaken. No way this is not the corridor that leads to the side entrance into the gym.
As quietly as possible, nearly crouching so the colonel doesn't notice his shadow, he left his hiding spot behind the pillar and quickly headed through the corridor. He had a hard time orientating, but intuition was telling him where to go. Adrenaline was pumping in his veins. Here. That's the door. He pushed it a bit - it was unlocked. Good Lord. He would really start to panic if he couldn't open it.
The sound of him entering the room was fortunately not heard by the two men - they were both too focused on the rapier in between them. Hastings had the whole gym to his use now - he saw the rack with dozen or more different rapiers. His eyes flickered between the two men standing a few steps away from it - he'll probably have to use one to defend himself. Quietly, he undressed his coat, taking his grey blazer with it and carefully putting it on the ground. He has a bigger chance of holding on and defending himself with a free and light hand. Furthermore, he had a huge advantage in his position - Curtis was not able to see him. On the contrary, Poirot could. But not yet. He would show up in the right moment.
"...with one strike, Edward Clayton is dead - and Major Rich will hang for the murder."
Hastings didn't see the expression on Curtis' face, but he would swear it was hard as stone now. He saw him play with the rapier - it's end was hanging in front of Poirot's face. Too close to Poirot's face. Hastings was too far away to see it properly, but he could sense the fear his friend was suffering from. As if he could hear his heartbeat. Colonel moved with the rapier and pushed Poirot's hat on the ground - Hastings' muscles were twitching, his heartbeat the only thing he could hear. When is the right time to strike? He hated to think that this might be the question Curtis is asking himself in his mind.
"Nobody knows I'm here," the colonel started, his voice calm and deadly. The rapier's end touched Poirot's face. The detective closed his eyes in fear. "When the police will find you tomorrow, they'll know they were wrong to release Rich." The end of the rapier found Poirot's neck and Curtis added a bit more pressure to it - Hastings could see how the weapon bent. His nervosity and adrenaline have reached their peak.
"Leave him."
Curtis turned around, not changing the way the rapier was threatening Poirot's life - Hastings walked into the light from behind his cover, his voice calm but just as deadly as Curtis' own.
"Mon ami..." Poirot whispered, the steadiness of his voice dissapearing. Hastings had a hard time keeping his face cold as ice.
"Ah, Captain Hastings," Curtis smirked, "I wouldn't expect to see you here."
"I can say the same about you, Colonel."
"What business do you have in here? Me and Monsieur Poirot were simply discussing his case."
"I wonder if the rapier is needed."
"Oh, believe me, it is."
"I wouldn't say so."
"Have I asked about your opinion?"
"No, but there is no need to ask me. I can say what I want," Hastings answered, his eyes flickering between Curtis and Poirot. The rapier was still too close to ending his friend's life.
"Now, you should pay me some respect, Captain," the colonel hissed. "From what I remember, you are under my rank in the army."
"From what I remember, it doesn't matter whether I'm under or above you, as long as I'm not a ruthless killer, I am a better man than you, Colonel."
"Are you, really?" Curtis said quietly, pressing the rapier's spike to Poirot's neck. The detective's body froze.
"Leave him, now." Hastings hissed, making a few steps forward.
"Do you think you can make me?" Curtis chuckled, his eyes burning with ruthlesness.
"Mon cher, please..." Poirot's words were a mere whisper, but the despair they held was too much to bear. Hastings looked Poirot right in the eye and saw so much fear, so much hopelesness - his heart stopped beating, his mind stopped working - Poirot is begging him to help. And if he doesn't, he'll die.
Looking up at Curtis and seeing his expression, the sly grin on his face - it was too much. He dived in for the rack, grabbed the first rapier he could find and held it out in front of Curtis' face. The scales balanced.
"Oh, so you want to play, huh?" Curtis laughed. Hastings' hand was as steady as his determination to save Poirot. "I see..." the colonel closed his eyes for a second, looking like he's savouring the moment - then, without warning, his rapier left Poirot's neck and found Hastings' weapon, making the steadiness of his hand dissapear. Hastings made a few steps backwards, regaining himself back, holding out his rapier and looking right into Curtis' eyes. Like a military training, he thought. Like a military training I had twenty years ago.
"Now, what do you say, Captain," Curtis whispered, smirking, "have you learned how to handle a weapon? Or is the Captain's badge you used to wear for nothing?"
"I think we'll find out soon enough," Hastings retorted, his focus completely on his weapon and posture. It all came naturally to him - how to hold the rapier, how to stand, how to watch the enemy - but he very well knew he has little chance of defeating a skilled fencer like Curtis. And even though it seemed like a mere training, this was real - here, no one will care if the spike will pierce your heart.
The colonel grinned and made a few steps - Hastings reacted immediately and their weapon's met, the ringing echoing in the empty hall. Curtis was fast, too fast - and Hastings was missing those twenty long years of not holding a rapier in his hand.
They moved throughout the hall, dodging every attack and then having their own attack dodged - Hastings was the one defending himself most of the time, simply evading Curtis' attacks. One wall of the gym was closer and closer and the captain knew it - he ducked, Curtis' rapier missed his arm by inches - taking his chance, he slipped next to him and ran to the middle of the room. That's when he remembered there was another man in with them - Poirot was either still too scared to leave his spot, or he was too stunned to move.
"Running away, eh?" Curtis laughed, slowly returning to his challenger, the rapier loosely in his hand. He was not even tired. Hastings had a feeling his heart will beat itself to death.
"Poirot, you have to leave -" he breathed, turning quickly to Poirot and grabbing him by the arm "- you have to go and call the police, or else -"
"Hastings, I will not leave you-"
"You have to, right? I can handle him fine," he said, being well aware he is not able to handle his enemy fine, but at the same time being too caught up in the moment to care. Poirot's eyes scanned his face, still full of fear, but now there was a different kind of fear, one that was even more painful to see. Hastings knew he knows very well that Curtis is too good to be defeated by someone like him.
"Mon ami, I cannot -"
"You can, Poirot, and you have to. Go before he decides to kill you again."
"Hastings-"
"What is it you're talking about, Poirot? Are you too scared I will kill your dear Captain Hastings first?" Curtis laughed, being too close to ignore. Hastings let go of Poirot's hand, standing to his full height again, the rapier pointed directly at Curtis.
"I was merely stating that this is not a fair fight, Colonel," Poirot said, his tone so deadly it made Hastings shiver.
"Oh, so you don't believe your friend can defeat me? Pity. Neither do I, actually." With these words, Curtis moved so quickly that Hastings had no idea how he dodged the swipe of his weapon. The ringing of their rapiers echoed in the hall again - but this time, the rapier was suddenly too heavy to hold - Hastings was quickly losing, backing away the whole time. And then it came - he stumbled over an old piece of wooden parket that was a bit higher than the others - Curtis took his chance and swiped his rapier - the sharp weapon found it's target and Hastings hissed in pain as the weapon dived into his forearm, making him drop his own. He could hear a loud and desperate "No!" from the other side of the gymnasium, but his vision blacked away and flickered - the pain was too familiar, like a bullet that misses you by inches but still manages to scratch you deep enough that you feel as if it found it's right target.
He stumbled a few other steps, his other hand immediately finding his wound, feeling the hot blood stain his fingers.
"I think we're done, Captain," Curtis grinned, his rapier in front of Hastings' face, under his chin, making Hastings look at his enemy. He was blinking very fast, trying to not think of the pain that was spreading through his arm into his whole body. A few drops of blood fell on the ground. He registered a movement, the sound of steps echoing through the hall - before he could muster an answer, a small figure on his right spoke.
"What has he done to you, Colonel, that you want to kill him?"
"Poirot, leave -" Hastings said, his voice more like a whisper. He straightened himself up, trying to focus on the adrenaline pumping in his veins that silenced the pain for at least a little moment.
"I wouldn't meddle into this if I were you, Poirot," Curtis spit his name like a curse, "I'll take you right after I'll take him."
"I'd not say that twice, Curtis."
A voice from behind the colonel made Hastings look away from Poirot who was slowly stepping closer to him - his vision was blurred, but he registered a sharp spike right next to Curtis' neck. When his defeater slowly turned around, he caught a glimpse of a man - standing behind the colonel was Major Rich, his rapier threatening to pierce Curtis' neck at any time.
"Rich."
"Put your weapon down, Curtis, or I'll kill you."
"Do you think you can-"
"Now," Rich said, pressing the sharp blade of the weapon on Curtis' skin. Hastings, taking his chance, lifted his own rapier from the ground, his left hand supporting his right. The pain was threatening to overcome his strength, but he didn't give in.
Curtis turned around and, realizing there are two rapiers at each side of his neck, sighed and slowly dropped his weapon. Hastings kicked it away, just in case Curtis had a trick up his sleeve.
"Now, I think you'd like to say something to Chief Inspector Japp once he'll arrive with his men, hm?"
"Men?"
"I thought you could use little chat," Rich smiled, glancing at Poirot and winning an approving nod.
"I'll find you, Rich."
"I'm sure you will, Curtis. In the crowd that'll be watching you hang."
Hastings felt his muscles twitch - with a loud thud, his rapier fell on the ground. He felt dizzy as the hot blood stained his fingers. The world turned around and he would've fallen down if it wasn't for two hands that quickly ushered to support him and help him make a few steps to reach a little bench.
"Mon ami, hold on," Poirot whispered, the soft touch of his hand barely recognizable because of the pain Hastings felt.
"Poirot, I-"
"Do not tire yourself, mon cher," Poirot said, crouching in front of Hastings, taking out his handkerchief. "Now, may I?"
He pointed at Hastings injured hand and sought approval in his friend's face - with a little nod, Hastings removed his hand from the cut. It was quite long and mainly quite deep - Hastings remembered seeing injuries like this on the battlefield, mud and blood of the dead mixing with the blood of the wounded. He felt like he's going to throw up, but he tried his best to overcome the stimul and instead he closed his eyes, focusing in Poirot's gentle fingers as he wiped the blood stains from around the cut with his handkerchief.
"Does it hurt too much?" he asked compassionately.
"No, not at all-" Hastings started but immediately hissed in pain, because Poirot started to bandage the injury with the cloth, putting pressure on it.
"There, mon cher, we'll take care of it," he said and looked up at Hastings, his eyes determined and soft. "Japp will be here in a minute and we'll take you to a hospital, nes't ce pas?"
"Trust me, Poirot, it's not that bad" Hastings mustered a little smile, closing his eyes, "I've had worse, this is merely a scratch-"
"Hastings, you trust me," Poirot silenced him, the softness in his voice soothing the pain Hastings felt, "You will need a few stitches, some treatment, and you will not try to convince Poirot that it is not necessary."
"I feel like I'm losing every fight I get into," he chuckled, opening his eyes to look at the detective.
Poirot gave him a compassionate look, but he didn't smile. He always hid his emotions well, even in moments like this. It looked more like he regrets something, but before he could answer, Rich's voice echoed throughout the hall.
"Are you alright, Captain?"
"He'll be just fine, thank you, Major," Poirot answered for Hastings, focusing on the wound again. His white handkerchief was not so white anymore - the thin cloth was soaked with blood. Hastings' pain felt like a storm with lighting and thunder, one moment making him deaf and the other blind, but he still fought against the urge to admit that it might be serious. Furthemore, Poirot's presence and his simple touch was comforting in itself.
"Thank you, mon ami," Poirot whispered, not meeting Hastings' eyes, as if too shy to do so. "I would not be here if it wasn't-"
"Now, what do we have here?" Japp's voice cut Poirot's sentence in half. In a moment, the gym was not empty anymore - two policemen immediately seized Curtis who was still in a check-mate position with Rich's rapier, and Japp, seeing Poirot and Hastings, ran towards them, seeing that something is not quite right.
"Hastings, what happened?" he asked, looking at the captain - Hastings would answer, but he knew Poirot will gladly do it for him. Furthemore, the pain started to be so blinding that he had trouble focusing on his friend's features.
"He fought with the colonel and got injured, Chief Inspector," Poirot said in a rushed manner, for the first time revealing how nervous he is. "We have to take him to a hospital to treat the injury."
"Goodness... Alright, I'll help you with him, Poirot," he said, taking Hastings by his healthy arm and helping him stand up - he was sure he'd be able to walk quite well, but he let the two men do the job for him. He didn't want to get too far away from Poirot, his small figure a comfort he never imagined could have such an impact.
Why is he always right? Hastings thought as he finally admitted that his injury is not as easy as he tried to convince himself.
Poirot didn't leave his side - not in the police car that took them to the nearest hospital, not in the room they were led to once they entered the building - the only moment the detective had to leave his friend was when the doctor took Hastings into his office and told Poirot and Japp to stay in the waiting room. It took a while to treat his injury, but once the doctor gave him enough painkillers to handle the sewing of the stitches, Hastings didn't comply. Fortunately, the doctor reassured him he won't need to stay in the hospital for the rest of the night and day - all he has to do is rest and try not to undo the stitches. He secured his forearm with a bandage and made him hold it in one position - free movement would be dangerous. Hastings didn't know how long the procedure took, but seeing Poirot's relieved expression once he walked out of the doctor's office with a smile, he suspected it was quite long.
The police car took them home to Whitehaven Mansions, and during the quiet ride, Hastings had time to recall the whole incident. How he followed Poirot into the club, meeting Curtis and fighting him, saving Poirot and in the end being saved by Major Rich - and all along, the fear in Poirot's features that was now shifted by something else - and it looked a lot like a painful regret.
No, Hastings was not angry with him - but he would love to know how exactly they had gotten into a situation like this. It was obvious that it was Curtis who called Poirot - did the detective know he would want to meet him? And Major Rich, how did he get into the club? Did Poirot use him as a backup? The backup Hastings played, but Poirot didn't know about? Truth be told, if Poirot decided to actually tell Hastings at least a few important facts about their cases, maybe he'd not end up with his forearm nearly cut in half.
Once the car stopped in front of Whitehaven Mansions, Japp kindly offered to escort Hastings to the appartment - but Poirot told him off with saying that he has a criminal to take care of. With a compassionate nod and smile, Japp left for the police station.
Poirot took Hastings by the arm and together, they made their way to the building. Hastings didn't need support, but Poirot was too stubborn to let go of him. He was always making too much fuss about injuries, but Hastings didn't mind. Actually, if there was anything he didn't mind, it was the feeling of Poirot's body next to his.
Once they reached the flat, Poirot helped him with undressing - with one of his hands useless, it was hard for him to manage, and the little man was too eager to make it easier for him. Giving him a grateful smile, Hastings thanked him.
"Now, mon ami, you should go to bed," Poirot stated, gesturing to his room. "I'll make you some tea and you'll try to get some sleep."
"Poirot, you sound like a wife I do not have yet," Hastings chuckled, letting Poirot lead him to his room.
"Then you are a good husband, because every man knows that to not listen to his wife would be a dangerous thing to do, mon cher," Poirot smiled, a bit of mischief and his often hidden sarcasm overshadowing the regretful expression he wore the whole car drive. He seemed to be grateful to see his friend joking - most often, it is a sign of feeling better.
"Sit down and Poirot will brew the tea for you," the detective said, letting go of Hastings' arm and making his way to the kitchen. The captain had to smile - Poirot really was making a fuss around things like this. Did it bother him? Actually, no. He was perfectly comfortable like this, and the prospect of a good hot tea was tempting indeed.
All the while Poirot was preparing the drink, Hastings wondered about the night - because, actually, it was nearly light outside. They spent a long time in the gym and even longer time at the doctor's. He had to ask Poirot about the incident - about his night dissapearance, that whole secret meeting thing, the sudden turning up of Major Rich... There were too many questions to ignore. And Poirot must know that. Again, if he wasn't so mysterious the whole time, things would be a lot easier.
A few steps and the ringing of a plate informed Hastings that Poirot is done - in a moment, he appeared in his doorway, carrying a tray with a cup of tea.
"Here, mon cher."
"Thanks."
"Now, is there anything I can do for you?"
"Actually, yes. But I'm sure you know what I want to ask, Poirot, right?" Hastings arched his eyebrows, sipping the tea.
"You might have a bit more faith in me than necessary, Hastings." Poirot gave him a little smile, sitting next to him on the bed.
"Alright then - what was that whole secret meeting with Curtis supposed to mean?"
"Ah, Hastings, ever so frank in his questions. Well, mon ami, Poirot would usually want you to recount the tale yourself, but since you are injured, I will tell you. Tonight, I was woken up by a phone call from a stranger - a stranger I immediately knew to be Colonel Curtis. He asked me to meet him in the club's gymnasium, telling me he knows who killed Edward Clayton. I suppose the ringing of the telephone woke you up, nes't ce pas?"
"Yes. I wanted to ask what's happening, but I realized that I might get to know more if I stay undetected."
"Hastings using his little grey cells? C'est brilliant! You were right, my friend - Poirot would tell you to go back to bed. I made a phone call on my own - I contacted Major Rich and told him about Curtis' plan, which I was sure I knew quite well. Then I suppose you followed me outside and hid somewhere in the club...?"
"Right, behind the pillars."
"Eh bien. You heard the tale of the crime, I presume?"
"Only the beginning. Once Curtis showed the rapier, I was too busy finding the second entrance into the gym," Hastings said, watching Poirot's expression harden when he mentioned the weapon.
"Oui, the rapier... I knew he will want to get rid of me, that is why I asked Major Rich to come."
"I didn't see him anywhere," interjected Hastings. "He wasn't in the building. I thought we were alone."
"I think we were. You see, Major Rich called the police, which I have not told him to do," Poirot frowned. "He might have lost some precious time with that. I was sure he will appear in the right moment to challenge Curtis."
"But he didn't. What would you do then? Forgive me, Poirot, but did you really think this plan of yours was safe?"
"Honestly? Hastings, I did," Poirot said, meeting his friend's eyes with the same regret as before - and now it made sense. "I, Hercule Poirot, thought it safe to meet with a ruthless killer in the middle of the night, with a feeble hope that my backup will appear in the right time."
"Then why didn't you wake me up? I was right next to you, Poirot, the whole time!"
"Je sais, mon ami, but I did not realize you would be able to help me. I knew Major Rich can handle a weapon and I suspected Colonel Curtis will have one."
"I will do as if I didn't hear you say that I'm a useless fencer," Hastings said with a smile.
"No, mon cher, Poirot has not said so. He simply said he did not realize you would be able to help."
"At least you didn't think that I'd not want to help."
"I should have realized that to have a loyal friend like you, Hastings, means that I have to look after you more than after others."
"And I should have realized that to have a mysterious detective as a friend means that everything he does is like a secret that he won't tell his colleagues," Hastings mimicked Poirot's own statement, putting down his cup of tea.
"Forgive me, mon cher," Poirot said quietly, even feelingly. He gently touched Hastings' injured arm. "This is my fault."
"Don't say that, Poirot," Hastings stopped him, "you couldn't help me. It's the truth, after all. I am a useless fencer."
"Hastings, my dear Hastings, maybe you should start to believe in yourself more," Poirot said, his green eyes piercing Hastings'. "If it was not for you and your skills, Poirot would be dead. Major Rich would not come in time to save him and Colonel Curtis would escape the law. But you, mon ami, prevented all this by realizing that Poirot is sometimes too stubborn and too mysterious to tell his brave friend a few facts."
"Are you really saying you made a mistake?" Hastings asked teasingly.
"Oui, mon cher, I do. After all, no one is perfect, not even Hercule Poirot."
"Once my hand is healed, I will write this down," Hastings mocked him, "Hercule Poirot saying he is not perfect. Maybe I lost too much blood and I'm actually only dreaming."
"If you are dreaming, Hastings, you should lay down. Maybe you will forget this whole affair once you'll wake up."
"Who said I'd want to forget it?" he smiled. "It was certainly an interesting night."
"Hastings, I sometimes wonder how exactly you manage to not take certain things seriously," Poirot sighed and softly patted his friend's hand.
"I do take this seriously, Poirot. I just don't dwell on it too much. Maybe you've got something to learn from me."
"Believe me, my dear, Hercule Poirot has a lot to learn from you."
"Do you, really?"
"Oui."
"Like what?"
"Hastings, did you see me run to help you during your fight? No. Poirot did nothing. But when he was in danger, the only thing you could think of doing was helping him. Even when you knew you have a little chance of defeating Colonel Curtis."
"Well..." Hastings thought, "look how it ended, though. I might've helped you physically, but you would've done something smart and witty, and maybe you wouldn't get injured like me."
"Hastings, always degrading himself. Mon ami, admit it. You saved my life and you deserve to receive my thankfulness."
Hastings didn't answer. Poirot was right. He always is. And right now, he was letting down his ego and telling Hastings that what he did was the right thing to do. A brave thing to do. And that he himself did nothing. He looked down at Poirot's hand and placed his own on it, giving it a squeeze. He was grateful and thankful. That Poirot was still here, right next to him, helping him right now.
"There is no way I would not try my best to save you, old chap," he smiled and patted his hand. Poirot's features softened at the touch, and the tenderness in his eyes was shining with gratitude, even happiness.
"Mon cher, there is no one else but you that Poirot would like to be saved by."
Hastings smiled. He was right about the intimacy of living next to each other, even for a few days. It feels like you get under each other's skin, and somehow, without realizing, you lose your usual mask and facade. In this moment, in the very early morning, after both of them nearly being killed, there was no reason to lie. And no reason to hide.
"Well, next time, you should tell me earlier. And try not to disappear in the middle of the night."
"Do not worry, my friend, I promise Poirot will inform you about everything from this moment on."
"I say! Then maybe I'll finally understand something."
Seeing Poirot's doubtful expression, he had to laugh a little. The detective chuckled and soothed Hastings' hair with his hand, probably seeing some invisible speck of dust or simply being irritated by the assymetry. His hand lingered next to his friend's face for just a moment, as if reluctant to withdraw. Hastings' breathing quickened - so did his heartbeat. And yet, there was seemingly no reason to.
"Well..." Poirot said slowly, retrieving his hand and standing up, "I will leave you to rest now. Do not forget about your tea, mon cher, and try to get some sleep. Poirot will make you a nice breakfast once you wake up."
"Thank you, old chap," Hastings said, quiet happiness and comfort seeping through his voice.
"No, mon ami. I thank you."
With these words, Poirot gently took his face in his hands and planted a soft kiss on his forehead.
"Now, go to sleep," he said and smiled just a little bit, seeing Hastings' befuddled expression. Switching off the light, Hastings was left alone in the darkness.
No, it certainly didn't make him feel. Such a little, small, unimportant polite kiss. But in the back of his mind, the memory, the pleasant feeling of Poirot's soft lips on his skin was threatening to bloom into something more.
No, he won't let it. He saved him in the gym because that's what friends do. It certainly wasn't because of the fact that as the thought of Poirot's death appeared in his mind, he felt like his own life ceased to exist. And clinging to Poirot the whole journey to and from the hospital was merely because he needed a little support. Certainly not because there was an undying comfort in brushing against each other. And now, he was confused just because he lost a lot of blood today. And he was smiling just because he can finally lay down. No, it was not because of Poirot. Certainly not.