Work Text:
Poirot said, with a carefulness that made him sound almost diffident, "This dog to whom you have taken a shine. Bob. The one you might call a witness in the case which I solved."
Hastings rather thought he might be allowed a bit of the credit, but didn't expect to receive that verbally. He nodded his head, hoping to encourage Poirot to continue to the point. Hastings would do his best to find a counter to Poirot's objections.
"Bob is not a bird dog?" Poirot asked.
Hastings was quick to reassure, asserting that terriers such as this one were ratters, not to be expected to be involved in any hunting for birds—or to have any particular interest in feathers.
He suspected, as Poirot removed his coat, allowing himself what he did only in the privacy of their home, or at worst in the locked, enclosed privacy of a ship's cabin or a train's berth.
Watching Poirot free his wings was always a pleasure. He often stretched his arms as well, when he let his long-constrained wings extend wide from his back.
The faint rustling sound of those feathers accompanied Poirot's words, as he conceded that the dog could join their household.
*
Although Hastings had been allowed, in strict privacy, to see Poirot's wings for years, being permitted to touch was something new.
Of more note yet was providing help. Although he did not ask why at this time, Hastings had the impression that Poirot's observation while Hastings cared for the rough coat of the terrier was a factor in the trust.
Hasting's permissions had come about gradually, a kind of apprenticeship. First he was allowed to brush out the artificial hair and sideburns which Poirot very occasionally used for disguises. Then to practice aspects of wing-care on shed feathers, kept from Poirot's uncomfortable molts.
Lastly, the wonderful new intimacy, Hastings was given the privilege of touching and carefully tending to Poirot's wings.