Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Miss Lemon, please to ensure that I am not disturbed.”

Hastings didn’t even look up from his sprawl on the couch as Poirot crossed the plush carpet to his office door. Bon . Let him be so engrossed in his newspaper that he paid no heed to what Poirot did.

“Are you certain you don’t want a refresh on your tisane before–” But Miss Lemon was too late. Poirot clicked the door shut and hurried to the cabinet next to his desk.

“Non, merci,” he called through the door. “I am satisfied with my current cup.” The cup in question lay on his desk, half drunk.

The grayish base potion he had left brewing in the cabinet for the last fortnight was bubbling away under its own power, sheer magic causing a constant fizz inside the glass beaker. The modern chemistry equipment was a wonder. It had lent much to the age-old practice of potion brewing. Though Poirot was no expert, potions were often useful in his line of work.

Donning a pair of white cotton gloves, he laid the beaker and an additional tube out on the desk. The contents of the tube were iridescent purple, sludgelike. “Et voilà,” Poirot murmured, uncorking it with a shaking hand. Oui, he had used potions many times to help solve a case. Simple salves that unlocked doors, calming draughts for distraught loved ones. But never anything like this. 

Potion de déchaînement was only discussed in obscure potion-making journals, and only then written about in the hypothetical. The base potion was safe enough - Poirot had brewed it many times to gently loosen a suspect’s tongue. But the addition of the violently purple extrait de vérité made it something else, something volatile. The combination was banned in dozens of nations, Poirot’s birth and adopted countries among them. But that was only one reason he should be so careful - and so secretive.

Poirot hesitated, the unstoppered tube hovering above the beaker. Potion de déchaînement produced a most powerful result in the drinker: after imbibing, they would confess to the next person they saw their most true and deep feelings about that person, no matter how deeply buried. But upon confessing, the risk of the drinker immediately forgetting the existence of that person was one in three. Cherished children, decades-long friends, sworn enemies - to one in three drinkers of potion de déchaînement, they became but strangers.

Oui, the risk was great. But the risk of the truth never being told between them was greater.

Poirot breathed in through his nose slowly, calming himself. He had hoped it would not come to this, but there was nothing for it, as the English so loved to say. If the truth it had not come out by now, then Poirot, he would have to give it a push. Before he could hesitate again, he tipped the purple sludge into the fizzing beaker.

"Bon,” he whispered again, watching the fizzing slow as the extrait de vérité did its work. There was not much time now - the potion’s effectiveness was less than three minutes.

Poirot tipped the beaker’s contents into his own tisane glass and stripped off his gloves.

"Hastings,” he called. “Please to come inside my office. I must speak with you of a matter most personal.”

Chapter Text

Wide, warm-blue eyes peered through the gap in the doorway. Poirot pressed his handkerchief to his mouth. It would not do to have potion remnants in one’s moustaches during a declaration of–

“Amour.” Poirot blurted. Relief flushed his cheeks. He adored those eyes, the eyes of his cher Hastings. And what is more, he remembered them.

“Yes?” Hastings hitched a crooked smile, completely unfazed.

“Please to shut the door behind you.” Hastings was a man most dense at times. Poirot absolutely loved it.

“You’ve never been given much to pet names when it comes to me.” He leaned against the desk, stretching his legs. Poirot was devoted to those legs. “I say, whatever was in that beaker was the most extraordinary shade of violet. What are you brewing up this time?”

“Nothing of concern.” Poirot covered the potions equipment with his handkerchief, then drew himself up to the straightest posture he could muster. “I ask you into my office today on a matter of great import. I – ” A buzzing filled his ears. The potion was making itself known, the words bubbling up inside him like the fizz of the beaker itself. Its effects were at their peak, and would soon wear off. He had to speak.

Poirot opened his mouth but made no sound, a metallic taste in the back of his throat. The buzzing intensified. An impulse to kneel gripped his legs, and against the protests of his knee – and his pride – he obliged. Hélas, the widespread banning of this potion was most wise.

“Are you quite all right, mon ami?” Hastings asked. Poirot was not. Face to face with the long tweed expanse of Hastings’ trousered legs. Which he loved most ardently.

“I – I am – ” he swallowed. He could wait no longer. “Your legs, mon amour.”

“What about them?” Hasting’s blue eyes were alarmed. “Poirot, please. If something is wrong, you have to tell me.”

“I love them!” he blurted, and laid his forehead on Hastings’ knee. 

“Well, I know that, don’t I?” he said, laying his hand on the back of Poirot’s head. The buzzing stilled, instantly, and Poirot could now observe the minute details of the scene: the nubbled texture of the tweed against his cheek, the familiar wooly bergamot scent of him. The pain in his leg from kneeling. 

“You do?” 

“You never said as much before, of course. But when two people are in an agreement such as ours, it’s sort of implied, isn’t it? I mean, we do love each other.”

“Hastings, I think you are not understanding me. I adore your legs, your eyes, I despise your automobile but I cannot live without the little dab of grease you so often get on your cheek after servicing it. Je suis profondément amoureux de toi.”

Hastings did nothing but smile gently. “Je t’aime aussi, old chap. Now let’s get you up. You look terribly uncomfortable.”

“You have felt the same? Th-this whole time?” Poirot spluttered as Hastings helped him to his feet. Poirot did not splutter. Yet this impossible Englishman caused him to splutter. It was most intolerable. “And not once did you think to kiss Poirot, to share his bed?”

Hastings quickly dropped his hand. “I say!”

Poirot tsked. “You English are so silly sometimes. Poirot, he confesses his love to you, and you blush and focus on the proprieties.”

“Well, you’re just as silly, mon ami,” Hastings griped, straightening his clothes. “Why did you wait this long to say anything?”

Poirot twitched his moustaches. Now that he had confirmed that the great risk of the potion, it was averted, Hastings did not need to know about what had brought them to this moment. “The circumstances, they were not ideal,” he replied simply.

“Well, if you must know, I thought that we were taking it slow.” Hastings folded his arms. This was not the direction that Poirot had intended this confession to take, Hastings defensive, not meeting his eye.

“We live together, mon amour.”

“I know that! But, you know, civilized evenings listening to the wireless, mornings in companionable silence reading the newspaper…it was all very domestic. I enjoyed that, Poirot. I thought you did too.” 

“And all this time, you are thinking you are in an arrangement romantique with Poirot, yet you are still calling him Poirot?”

“Talk about focusing on proprieties. I thought you didn’t like pet names!”

“That may be, Hastings, but I do have a given name. You are most welcome to use it at any time.”

He cast his eyes down, tracing the crease of fine grey wool along Poirot’s sleeve with a tentative finger. “...Hercule.”

Poirot stilled the movement of his hand, pressed it between his own. “Arthur.” A beat of silence as the silver head drew down close. Their noses bumped. Hastings made no move. 

Dear, dense man. “I should like you to kiss me now,” he prompted. 

Arthur tasted like bergamot too, with bitter tea lingering underneath. He was so like the Earl Grey tea he favored, earthy and English but with that unexpected thread of zest woven on top. And the experience of kissing him was the same. Invigorating, surprising. Comforting. Poirot leaned his cheek on Arthur’s lapel, closed his eyes. He had not forgotten Arthur, could never, not after this.

Arthur circled his fingertips on Poirot’s nape. The movement dissipated the buzzing of the potion. It was now just they two, no intermediary or potion to guide their speech. “I say. So you’re telling me that we could have been…you know…the entire time?”

“I am certain I do not know, mon amour,” Poirot replied tartly, lifting his head. “A gentleman, he still asks the permission before doing such things.”

“It seems that neither of us are much good at frank conversations.” Said with the usual Hastings sheepishness, but he met Poirot’s eye. Like a partner would.

“I think we shall have to, mon amour, if we are to go on like this.” No more deceptions. The potion de déchaînement was the last of those. Poirot’s fingers itched to shoo Arthur out of the office, clear up the potion-making equipment as quickly as possible. The potion – its metallic taste, the terror of forgetting just before he drank – hung in the room like a specter. The evidence, it had to be purged so they could begin again.

But before he did that, one more kiss.

Chapter Text

Many times had Poirot allowed himself to consider what it might be like to embrace the much taller man. Long arms encircling him, his head tucked neatly under Arthur’s pointed chin. Whether from self-denial or simply wishing to find out for himself, he had never allowed himself to consider the implications of that height when leaned against his own desk, Arthur bearing down on him from above, keeping his kisses sweet but ever more urgent, with a press of the tongue that Poirot found frankly surprising.

The buzzing in his head returned. No potion intoxicated him but the kiss of his cher Arthur. Their position became much more horizontal then, Arthur propped on his hands atop him, and the buzzing grew until –

Crunch.

“Damn,” Arthur hissed. “The potions equipment.” He clutched his left hand, the flesh of his palm running red. The beaker lay smashed on the desk, dripping violet dregs.

“Mon dieu.” Poirot hurried to wrap Arthur’s hand in the handkerchief he’d placed on top of the equipment. “This is all Poirot’s fault, if he had cleared away the equipment right away you would not be bleeding, mon amour.”

“Why, Hercule, there’s no need to apologize like that. I’ve had worse, it just caught me by surprise, is all.” He pressed the handkerchief to his palm. “And it’s unlike you to fall all over yourself like that. Kind of makes me uneasy, if I’m being honest.”

“It is what one does for the one they love, my Arthur,” Poirot huffed, searching for something to help sweep away the broken glass.

“Well, it’s very sweet.” Ever practical, Arthur began to clear away the larger pieces of glass with his uninjured hand, dropping them into the lacquered wastebasket from under the desk. “And you even went so far as to sacrifice one of your fine handkerchiefs to tend to my wound. The old Poirot never would have done that.”

“Old Poirot, new Poirot. It is not as if I have fallen under some enchantment,” Poirot insisted, pulling the wastebasket from his hands.

“If you say so,” Arthur hummed, cleaning his good hand. He wiped a smear of purple onto the handkerchief.

Poirot began to sweep the remaining shards off the desk with a folder. “If I did not do such things before, it is only because our circumstances were different. Poirot, he has gathered the fortitude to bare his heart, and you, Hastings, have reciprocated, and now we can go on just as before.”

“Not just as before,” Arthur countered, examining the smudge of potion on his makeshift bandage. Poirot’s stomach dropped as he gingerly sniffed at the stain. “I say. Hercule, did you drink whatever this was?”

“Perhaps.” The desk was cleared of broken glass, but a purple stain still remained on the blotter. “Quel dommage, I will have to buy an entirely new desk set. This blotter, it cannot be replaced.” Poirot could not quite recall why this was the case. He simply hoped that it was enough to distract Arthur from the potion de déchaînement.

No luck. “I’ve never known you to imbibe one of your own brews. Only, your moustache smelled just like it.” Arthur blushed. Poirot, in his distress, had to admit it was charming. “What is this stuff, anyway? Some kind of draught for courage?”

“Not precisely,” he hedged. “But tell Poirot: how is your hand?”

“Stings.” Arthur winced, looking under the bandage. “It’ll probably need stitches. We’ll have to get Miss Lemon to call the doctor.”

“Miss – ?” Poirot did not recognize the name.

“Lemon,” he repeated.

“Why are you listing fruits when you have the open wound? What is that meant to achieve, mon amour?”

”Hercule.” Poirot still thrilled to hear his name used so, and to feel the warm breath of his cher Arthur as he brought their faces very close together. “The name of your secretary — who is sitting right outside this door — is Miss Felicity Lemon, and has been for quite some time.” He enunciated each word slowly.

This was absurd. ”Why are you speaking to Poirot this way? As if he had some deficit with the little grey cells.” He huffed. “Simply because I do not know this Felicity.”

Arthur blinked, his face still close. His warm blue eyes held real concern. “It’s not so different to the way you usually speak to me or Japp.”

Poirot hated to see such distress on Arthur’s visage. Taking advantage of the moment, he pecked a kiss on the tip of the taller man’s nose. ”Then this Japp must be a very silly person indeed.”

The blue eyes widened. “Miss Lemon!” he called. “I really think you ought to call the doctor!”

Chapter Text

Poirot tutted, examining the damage to his desk blotter. It had been specially-made for him by London’s finest stationnaire. An old client of his, Felicity Lemon told him, who had since retired to some seaside town. Truly irreplaceable. Dommage.

“All done.” Arthur stood in the office doorway, waving his stitched-up hand. He looked a bit pale. Blankets, Poirot decided, and something hot to drink. Their relationship would go on just as before, certainement , but that did not mean that Poirot should ignore when his Arthur needed the fussing over.

The doctor Mademoiselle Lemon had called, who looked barely older than seventeen, followed close behind. “And as for you –” he nodded at Poirot – “Transient global amnesia. I’ll send my bill later in the week.” Placing his hat on his brilliantined head, he left before Poirot could even question him.

“Oh, I’m sure he will,” the secretary snapped once the doctor shut the door behind him. “That doctor doesn’t know a thing. We need a real expert.”

Poirot did not disagree. His interview with the doctor had been most inane.

( “What is the date?”

“Twelfth November, 1930.”

“And who is the prime minister?”

“ Monsieur Ramsay MacDonald, of course.” )

“I say,” Hastings protested, seating himself back on the couch. “He did all right with my hand here.”

“We are not dealing with a simple flesh wound,” Mademoiselle Lemon huffed, turning to a large filing catalog behind her desk. “ Vendors comma potion …cross referenced with Potions comma general knowledge …”

Poirot watched her slim fingers fly through the cards. “Mademoiselle Lemon, this filing system is most impressive. But why are you searching for information on potions?”

She grimaced, plucking out a small rectangle edged in indigo ink. “ Miss Lemon, Monsieur Poirot. And I am not a fool. You shut yourself in your office, rattle around all your beakers and tubes, and now all of a sudden you have no idea who I am and Captain Hastings is bleeding like gangbusters.”

“ Miss Lemon,” he echoed. He would have to burn that into his little grey cells. Poirot, he did not want to be on the wrong side of such a capable woman. “And have you found the person you are seeking?”

Miss Lemon waved the indigo-edged card. “Mrs. Wingfold – your potion supplies vendor – she’s the closest I can think of.” The secretary picked up the telephone, shooing him away.

Poirot busied himself unfolding a blanket from the arm of the couch, though Arthur was resistant to its use. Of course he was familiar with the Wingfold name. No potionmaker of any skill would dream of sourcing their supplies anywhere else in London. He had no memory of ever visiting her shop, but he knew that much. He shuddered. Never had his little grey cells failed him like this. 

The woman herself arrived within fifteen minutes, bringing a sweep of elderflower perfume into his living room. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Monsieur. I am so familiar with your name, and your preferences, when it comes to potion-making, but have never made the acquaintance of the man.” Mrs. Wingfold held out an indigo-gloved hand. Her hair was pure silver and swept into a bouffant that last was fashionable thirty years ago, but with her cloak of plum brocade, the effect was of a distinguished elder witch who cared nothing of trends.

Poirot liked her immediately. “ Enchantee . Please, sit.”

She did so, swishing her cloak to the side to accommodate the design of the modern armchair. “Now, Monsieur. I must ask you some questions. Do you know who this is?” Mrs. Wingfold asked, holding up Arthur’s discarded newspaper. She carefully covered up the accompanying text to the front page photo with a gloved hand. The man who stared back had the moustaches most unkempt.

“ Mais oui . I have already discussed Monsieur MacDonald with the doctor. But I fail to see what the prime minister has to do with any of this.” He shifted in his chair. Arthur and Miss Lemon were clustered on either side of Mrs. Wingfold in an arrangement that felt dangerously similar to an interrogation.

Mrs. Wingfold smiled, folding the newspaper in her lap. “And what is your mother’s name, Monsieur?”

He opened his mouth, but it was as if he reached for an everyday item on its expected shelf and came up with nothing. Miss Lemon and Hastings shot each other a look, and the latter covered his mouth with a bandaged hand.

“I’m trying to determine the parameters of your forgetfulness,” Mrs. Wingfold continued, ignoring the gathered audience. “You seem to recall public figures with no trouble, but those who are closest to you, you’ve completely forgotten.”

“Save for Captain Hastings,” Miss Lemon corrected her.

“Save for Captain Hastings,” Mrs. Wingfold echoed. “It’s curious – there are many potions which alter the memory. They can help students who wish to do well on an exam, those who have been through a great trauma…but they are a blunt instrument. None have such targeted effects as I see here.” Mrs. Wingfold fixed him with large green eyes. “None that are legal to brew, anyway.”

Dommage . Poirot could not tell of the potion de dechaînement. Not in front of Miss Lemon, anyway. She and Captain Hastings were still casting each other concerned looks now, her hand on his elbow. The two had a friendship. He could see it, even if he could not remember it. It would not do to disrupt that.

“Why don’t we let you and Mrs. Wingfold discuss this tête a tête , eh?” Hastings broke in, standing up from the couch. “Miss Lemon, let me make you a cup of tea. I suspect this has all been quite a shock.”

The secretary followed him out of the living room, leaving them alone. Poirot exhaled gratefully. In entering the kitchen at all, Hastings would make a mess most inevitable. That would keep them busy for a while.

“Now.” Mrs. Wingfold leaned forward in her seat. “Just what does Captain Hastings have to do with all of this?”

Chapter Text

“Now.” Mrs. Wingfold leaned forward in her seat. “Just what does Captain Hastings have to do with all of this?”

Her green eyes saw much. Poirot cleared his throat. “Captain Hastings, he is – ah –”

“And what is so scandalous that he doesn’t want even your secretary to hear?” She smiled.

“Are you enjoying yourself, madame ?” he huffed, twitching his moustaches. Mrs. Wingfold simply smiled wider and settled back in her seat. Very well then. “This morning, I completed the brewing of a potion de dechaînement.”

“And why would you do a thing like that?” She was still smiling, but the green eyes were stony. Poirot did not answer. “Monsieur, potion de dechaînement is banned in nearly every country in Europe. This one included. A potionmaker does not brew it unless they have a deep need to tell one specific person their true thoughts of them. So I ask you: who is the target of this potion?”

“The one person whom I remember, madame.”

Mrs. Wingfold waved her hand, prompting him to go on. Poirot felt no need to elaborate.

“So it’s a matter of love between you two.” The green eyes warmed then, her smile genuine again.

“ Oui .” He breathed out shakily. This woman, this stranger, was the first person to know beside the two of them. He had said it, and the world, it had not ended.

Mrs. Wingfold folded her gloved hands in her lap, indigo on indigo. “I’m happy for you. Truly. And now for the real questioning.”

“There is no need for interrogation, madame . I completed the brewing of the potion, I poured it into my tisane glass, I drank. I forgot.”

“That second thing – the tisane.” The green eyes gained a glint that reminded Poirot of himself. He did not like it. “Were there any remnants in the glass? Is this a common drink for you? May I examine a sample?”

“Madame, please. My secretary – Miss Lemon – she can provide you with as large a sample as you may need. It is a drink most common to my daily routine.” He could see himself in memory, putting the kettle on on grey early mornings when the apartment was empty, still in slippers and robe. But a memory of companions in the kitchen for this ritual – anyone besides Arthur – was not forthcoming.

“Very good,” Mrs. Wingfold proclaimed an hour later. She straightened in her armchair and set aside the tweezers she had borrowed from Poirot to pluck apart the mixture’s component parts: licorice, ginseng, and chamomile flowers, mostly. The shriveled bits of root and flower lay scattered on a sheet of Poirot’s finest paper. 

“Enough about the tea, what about Hercule?” Arthur blurted, having hovered over her shoulder for most of the hour. Poirot suppressed a smile. The adventure to the kitchen had backfired, for now Arthur was overly caffeinated, and therefore more meddlesome and quizzical than ever. It was utterly charming.

“ C’est vrait . I have drunk multiple cups every day for twenty years and felt no ill effects.”

“Exactly. The mild medicinal qualities of these plants have built up within your physical system for two decades. And on this day in particular, you chose to combine them with one of the most volatile compounds known to modern-day potionmakers.”

“ Extrait de verité ,” breathed Miss Lemon, seated at her other side.

“ Exacte –wait. How do you know of this?” Poirot demanded.

“I make all your purchases from Wingfold’s, Monsieur Poirot. I know when your usual order has changed. And when you’ve requested an ingredient that’s special order only and ten times more expensive than the rest. You’re not the only one who’s able to look things up in those clunky old books of yours,” she retorted, nodding to the shelf stacked with potionmaking references.

Arthur shrugged, blue eyes wide. “She’s as thorough as they come, mon ami . Time was, you appreciated it.”

“Oh, I am certain I did,” Poirot murmured, twitching his moustaches. “When that thoroughness was not turned on me.”

“My conclusion being ,” Mrs. Wingfold broke in, disturbing their bickering, “that the tisane and the potion interacted in such a way as to bring about this …anomalous result. Rather than erasing your memory of Captain Hastings alone, the potion has allowed you to forget all other acquaintances except that of Captain Hastings.”

“Then what is to be done?” Miss Lemon asked, slim fingers worrying a curl at her temple. “My employer is renowned for his mind – that is, I mean – ” she flushed, eyes darting to Poirot. “I simply wonder what we can do,” the secretary finished meekly.

“There is no cure,” Mrs. Wingfold answered bluntly. “I am sorry,” she added, seeing Arthur’s healthy complexion whiten. “But I believe in being honest about such things. You have taken a great risk and reaped a severe consequence. As I said, potions affecting the memory are a blunt instrument. 

"You may try to regain what was lost – with approved brews only – but the memory you rebuild will never be the same as the one you lost.” She gathered her brocaded cloak around her and rose from the armchair.

Poirot only remembered to rise from his seat for Mrs. Wingfold once she was already out the door.

Chapter Text

“You really don’t remember the Duchess of Stanton?”

Poirot sighed. He did not know when Arthur would begin to comprehend that he remembered no one, absolutely no one, besides him. A full day of futile questioning since he imbibed the potion, and the truth still had not penetrated his skull. ( “Now, do you remember Mr. Donaldson Grey by any chance? The headmaster of that school where we solved the garroting? Or how about the head librarian who hired you to investigate that book theft?” ) Any hopes that Poirot had had of a cozy first evening together after his confession dissolved last night when he snapped at Arthur to cease his interrogation and go to bed.

They were walking in the park now, Miss Lemon insisting that they both get some fresh air. Nearly all the fallen leaves had been cleared from the lawn, but chrysanthemums were still planted about to lend their rich wine and brandy colors to the scene.

“That was one of your favorite cases of the last three years, I dare say,” his companion pressed, hands in his pockets against the air’s November bite. “You’ve never looked so pleased as when the Duchess’s stepson stepped out of the dark with that truncheon. You always love to be proven right.” 

“ Naturellement .” When a person was correct so very consistently, they liked to have it acknowledged de temps en temps .

He smiled that small Arthur smile, which complemented the pink spots on his cheeks so well. Arthur was pleased when Poirot was pleased, those pink spots said. Though he could not call up the context in his little grey cells, he could still enjoy the warm fizzing it set off in his midsection. “You were really in your element,” he continued. “I mean, there was an awful lot of blood about, but notwithstanding that…”

“Ah. The blood, je me souviens .” A copper-scented memory bubbled up, splatters of carmine ruining his new necktie. But no faces, voices, names – perpetrator or victim – surfaced alongside.

“Do you really?” The blue eyes rounded. “And what about the boarding school case, anything there?”

“The smell.” Poirot wrinkled his nose. “Boys’ dormitories.”

“Quite right,” Arthur chuckled ruefully, bumping their shoulders together, and Poirot took the moment to slip his leather-gloved hand into the crook of his companion’s elbow. The pink in Arthur’s cheeks deepened, but he said nothing. “Brings back bad old memories of my own. And makes me think.”

“A dangerous pastime for you, mon amour ,” Poirot teased.

“I’m serious, Hercule.” Arthur’s stride quickened the way it always did when he was possessed with some idea. Poirot tucked his walking stick under his free arm and hurried to keep up. He loved those long legs, but they were at times a menace. “Smells, sounds, physical sensations. They stick in one’s brain so much longer after the other details have gone. Only think of the war.”

“I try not to,” Poirot reminded him drily.

“Of course, dearest.” Arthur patted his hand absently, and the fizzing, it renewed. “But the memories are still there. They get drawn out when you hear that old song, or put on that old jacket from the back of the closet.”

“But were there for Mrs. Wingfold’s diagnosis. My memories are gone. Poof! There is no getting them back.”

“But you can build new ones,” Arthur pulled them to a stop near the entrance to the street, gripping Poirot by both elbows. “There are potions to help you set a new memory in stone, Mrs. Wingfold said so herself. Why don’t we brew one of those, and I’ll tell you all about the people in your life? We can help it along with some mementoes. A bit of Miss Lemon’s hair tonic, your mum’s old photographs, a sandwich from that place that Japp always likes to go to… You won’t remember them like you used to, but their names and faces will be there in your mind again. And mon ami, who knows you better than I do?”

Poirot could kiss him, right here under the leafless mulberry trees. But it had been years since he was in a romance, and he had never been one for public displays. He settled for a brief peck that sent his companion’s pink spots blazing.

“I suspect old Poirot and new Poirot are more different than you’d like to admit,” Arthur murmured, the tip of his nose bright with cold.

“Peut-être. But they both feel the same way about you.” He grabbed Arthur’s hand. “Let us go to Wingfold’s right away.”

Chapter Text

“Monsieur Poirot, what on earth is the smell in the icebox?” Miss Lemon was hunting for milk for her tea. Miss Lemon required tea with milk to thrive, and when she suspected her supply was at all sullied, she became less than pleasant. It was a small price to pay for her prodigious talents.

“Never you mind, Miss Lemon,” Poirot said from the kitchen table, folding his newspaper. The smell of the potion was mushrooms and leather, the taste sickly sweet. He knew it well after only two sessions with the mixture he and Arthur had brewed together.

“That’s Hercule’s and my newest experiment.” Arthur informed her. He was laying out a strange assortment of objects on the table, loose change and newspaper clippings and a single dried flower he’d pulled from the pages of a book. 

“ Hercule ,” she muttered into the icebox, shaking her head.

Poirot had never seen Arthur so animated as over the last three days. No improvement on his automobile, no redhead in all of England had ever enchanted him as this potion did. He’d buzzed around the potion shop like a tall tweed bee, peering at the ingredients list Mrs. Wingfold had drawn up for them.

The proprietress, now dressed in emerald, had looked on with bemusement. “I assure you, monsieur , Wingfold’s is a full-service establishment. My assistant will gladly gather the ingredients for you, if –”

“ Non, merci .” He smiled across the counter. “It is best to give him something to do. Arthur loves to have a little job.”

“You’re very fond of him,” she murmured, watching as Arthur chose between two bundles of tree bark, his brow furrowed.

“ Naturellement .” Poirot shrugged. It was the easiest thing in the world to like Arthur Hastings.

“Do you love him?” Mrs. Wingfold asked suddenly.

“ Pardon ?” She reached across the counter to grip his forearm. Even in her own shop, Mrs. Wingfold wore gloves. Her fingers, surprisingly strong, had bitten into Poirot’s arm.

“Do you love him?” she repeated. “Captain Hastings.”

Who else? “More than anyone I know,” he murmured, a smile crinkling his eyes.

“Good. Good,” the proprietress answered, patting his arm. “What’s important is that you can say it. Out loud, without the help of a potion.” Remembering herself, she had straightened, smoothed her emerald gloves. “Mind you ration that potion carefully, now. We haven’t had a shipment of gedimin bark in months, and all the other potion shops will tell you the same. There’s a shortage all across London.” 

Poirot smiled. “Why madame , do not insult Poirot. He would never shop anywhere but Wingfold’s.”

She returned his smile. “You got lucky today. This may be the last dravamemari anyone in the city can brew for quite some time. Be mindful, monsieur .”

“We will take the finest care of it, I promise to you.”

“You remember that case at the Warfort Hotel a few years back?” Arthur had removed the offending potion from the icebox now, laying the pitcher on the kitchen table alongside his stack of photographs.

“Of course,” Miss Lemon replied, sniffing at the bottle of milk. Seemingly untouched by the scent of the potion, she poured a dollop into her tea. “Monsieur Poirot laid that clever trap to tempt the killer to strike again.”

“Not just that. Our first night at the hotel, we lost power. Now, the killer took this opportunity to attack poor Mrs. Loy right in her room, with her daughter watching on. We were all only allowed one candle per room at night, so she could barely see a thing. The next day, Hercule brewed this potion – drava minari – ”

“ Dravamemari ,” Poirot corrected.

“ – so when the killer fell for the trap a few nights later, Mrs. Loy’s daughter would be able to imprint in her mind exactly how he walked, smelled, and sounded without ever needing to see his face in the candlelight. Isn’t that brilliant?” He grinned.

Miss Lemon paused, milk bottle in hand. “Why not just draw the killer into the trap then take his photograph?”

Arthur frowned. 

Poirot hated to see a frown on Arthur’s face. “But we did not have the flashbulb, n’est pas ?” he cut in.

Arthur nodded, wagging his finger at the secretary. “Ah, but we didn’t have a flashbulb.”

Miss Lemon wrinkled her nose as Poirot portioned a fingerful of dravamemari into a glass. “It smells even worse outside the icebox.”

“Well, you don’t have to drink it,” Arthur shot back with uncharacteristic tartness.

Poirot smiled as his secretary exited the kitchen. “I think we shall not tell Miss Lemon, but I find it rather tasty.” He sipped the potion, letting the thick consistency spread across his tongue. Sweet smoke and not-quite-cardamom. All the memories he’d built in his first two sessions with the dravamemari were tinged with it, he knew. He could not be bothered by it. James, Ariadne, Felicity, these were no longer just words on a page to him after those first two sessions. They were names, sensations, relationships. Memories.

“As long as you don’t mind associating Inspector Japp with mushrooms for the rest of your life.” Arthur’s tone was joking, but his blue eyes were rounded in concern.

“I assure you, mon amour , that is most preferable to not having any memories of the man at all.”

Arthur covered Poirot’s hand with his own for a moment, turned it over so Poirot’s palm faced up. He savored the feeling of his Arthur’s long fingers for a moment before they were replaced with the dried flower he’d laid out. Arthur flipped open a small notebook and cleared his throat.

“Right then. Let’s begin.”

Chapter Text

Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai

A wafer of apple, pared from the fruit by Poirot’s own silver pocket knife. The slice so thin, lamplight shines through it. Crunch too weak a word for the sound that bursts in his head as he bites in. 

Wrapping paper from London’s finest men’s clothier shush ing under his fingertips.

A scrap of harlequin-patterned fabric, a photograph of a checker-tiled room echoing its diamonds on diamonds.

J'ai perdu mon ami sans l'avoir mérité,

Pour un bouquet de roses que je lui refusai…

Scent is a friend to the forgetful: sugar biscuits, teakwood oil, astringent rakı.

A neatly-snipped newspaper advertisement, a cheap paste jewel, a bit of gristle from a poorly-cooked porterhouse. Poirot frowns as he chews.

He begins to remember: Tante Camile, the Widow Meyerbeer, Mr. Gopal who lives on the sixth floor.

Je voudrais que la rose fût encore au rosier,

Et que mon doux ami fût encore à m'aimer.

Georges, the violinist who dreamed of travel; Professor Mendez of the impeccably lacquered nails; his dear friend Timur, whose letters always include an amusing sketch of his sheepdog. The warp and weft of memory begins to form, with Arthur feeding him each thread as it joins the others, patiently holding the other end until he is ready to draw it through his mind.

A new opportunity: the first flakes fall on London. Catching one on his tongue, compacting many under his feet as he and Arthur walk the park. Reminds him of chapped hands, the cold-flushed faces of the other refugees as they waited for transport out of Brussels. He didn’t know all of their names even then. Reminds him of his mother frying boûkète , the windows in their little kitchen steaming over from the heat. A strand of her black hair sticking to the back of her neck as she sang to herself.

Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai

Hercule has his mother’s eyes. The lashes are thick, black, bracketed with delicate creases. The creases have been there since long before he was an old man. He has looked older than his years for a long time now. His mother always hated that.

Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai

He retrieves that memory unprompted one day, pausing in the park to straighten Arthur’s scarf.

The snow continues to fall.

Chapter Text

The dravamemari , it has kept in the icebox for over a month. They have been portioning it out carefully. It has mellowed to a sweeter scent now, a bit like fresh baked bread. It complements London in Yuletide, Poirot thinks, a time of year that he will not mind having burned in his memory so brightly. The potion’s leather-sweetness, the almost-spice, pairs perfectly with chestnuts and candied fruit.

Snow has fallen on and off since that day in the park, Arthur’s crooked scarf, chante, rossignol, chante . Each time it gets warm enough for the snowbanks to recede, the bare soil to peek through on Poirot’s window boxes, the flakes start to fall again. They have been falling in earnest since 8 o'clock this morning, the 23rd of December, with no promise of stopping.

“That’s my day done,” Miss Lemon announces at noon, smacking her ledger shut with obvious satisfaction.

“I still can’t believe you made Felicity work on the day before Christmas Eve, Hercule,” Arthur scolds from behind his newspaper.

“No – no !” The secretary wags a finger in the direction of the couch. “This is the last time I will say it, Captain Hastings, but just because you and Monsieur Poirot have begun calling each other by first names, I will certainly not be doing the same! Unprofessional…” she mutters, trailing off as she gathers her scarf and handbag.

“She is leaving work early, is she not?” Poirot replies, ignoring Miss Lemon’s diatribe. "Poirot is not a tyrant." Arthur is sitting in the same spot on the couch that he was the day Poirot completed the brewing of the potion de déchaînement . It feels an epoch ago.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night anyway. Brandies by the fire, carols on the radio…and maybe if you boys have been good, there’ll be gifts.”

“We – and the salmis de canard – will await your arrival.” Poirot helps Miss Lemon with her coat, showing her out the door with a bow. He is not usually so supercilious with his secretary, but in the busy holiday season, a lady so efficient can sometimes use the spoiling.

Miss Lemon gone, he turns his attention to Christmas Eve dinner. All the ingredients are laid out in the icebox: the duck drying on its wire rack, wings askew; knobs of butter portioned into their respective packets of parchment paper for potatoes, tart crust, bûche de Noël .

"Hercule, have you tampered with my paper again?" Arthur complains from the couch. “There’s a great hole in it.”

"If you look at the Daily Herald’s subscription records, mon amour , I think you will find that it is my newspaper. And their new Continental cooking column is providing a service most vital in the gustatory desolation that is England. I have taken the liberty of clipping their recipe for terrine to prepare for tomorrow evening."

A rustle of newsprint, and Arthur joins him in the kitchen. "You know, I think it's rather...er...dashing when you cook." He stands behind Poirot, encircles both long arms around his shoulders so he cannot go about his business of selecting rosemary sprigs. "And you look ever so cute in that little apron." He pecks Poirot on the forehead.

"It is not wise to tease the one who is preparing your dinner," Poirot threatens, brandishing a sprig.

"I'm not," Arthur protests, giving him another peck on the cheek. He retrieves the apron from its hook on the kitchen door, looping it over Poirot's head. "And you look just as tempting in your lovely clothes, Hercule. I'd hate for them to get ruined."

You may always take them off, then, he does not say aloud, but draws Arthur's head down to his with a single finger under the chin, the way Arthur likes. He hopes that the soft kiss they share speaks what he cannot say with words.

"Arthur..." he murmurs, cupping the pointed chin in his hand.

"Mmm."

"Will you fetch me some milk from the icebox, s'il vous plait ?"

Arthur smiles patiently, does his bidding.

"Say," comes the voice from inside the icebox, "shall we have a session with the potion before you get started on all that cooking rot?"

"'That cooking rot' is storied Continental cuisine, mon amour ." Poirot busies himself with the herbs once again.

"But not more important than reconstructing your own history, I'm sure." Arthur plunks the pitcher of dravamemari on the Formica table with a lopsided smile, pulling off its glass lid with a click.

Something is not right. Arthur is too quiet all of a sudden. Poirot abandons his rosemary.

Arthur sniffs at the pitcher. “Why is it so…thick?”

It has been about a week since their last session, the month of December being a busy one for obligations both professional and social. In that time, it seems, the dravamemari  has metamorphosed. The bready smell has curdled to something more sour, the texture like congealed porridge. Something is not right.

"Is it safe, do you think?" Arthur's brow wrinkles.

Dommage . "I believe we must find out. Recall what Madame Wingfold relayed to me at her shop: this is a liquid of great rarity at the moment. Poirot, he is done experimenting with untested potions, but it must be done."

Arthur nods, fetches a glass. Poirot fills it with a murmured merci , raises it to his lips.

"Wait!" Arthur holds out a hand. “Hercule, let me be the one to do it. I’ve tasted some pretty awful things in my travels – lived only on cold tinned beans for two weeks once! I’m sure I can stomach this.” He relieves Poirot of the glass. “Don’t you worry.”

This is the moment where Poirot would give a snort of amusement at Arthur's bravado, but he feels a tug of genuine concern. Arthur knocks back the drink, or tries to, as the thick mixture creeps slowly down the side of the glass toward his lips.

"Tastes fine." Arthur winces as he swallows, wipes his lips on the linen tea towel Poirot offers him.

"We must wait to see any effects." Poirot ushers him back to the couch for examination. "Thirty minutes will suffice, je pense ."

They sit quietly for twenty-three minutes, the only sound being a muffled burp that Arthur hides behind a long hand. Poirot realizes he is still wearing the apron, but cannot bring himself to care about his cooking at the moment. Arthur shows no ill effects, but he pulls the taller man's silver head to rest in his lap anyway. They jump at the ring of the telephone, jangling the order of Miss Lemon's desk.

"Oh, Monsieur, I didn't expect you to answer yourself," the secretary says at his hurried greeting.

"Arth- Captain Hastings is ...indisposed."

"Again, Monsieur Poirot, I am very happy for you both. But I implore you. Please do not give me any details."

He tuts. "Is there a thing I can help you with, Miss Lemon?"

"Have you looked outside recently?"

" Non , I have been occupied in the kitchen." Poirot flicks his eyes to Arthur, sees no change.

"I've only just gotten home, Monsieur. The snow is worse than ever. The phones are still operating, as you can see, but I don't know how long that will last. The chances of me making it to Whitehaven Mansions tomorrow night are low, I'm afraid."

"Ah, pauvre Miss Lemon," he murmurs. The charming scarf he had intended to give his secretary is hidden in the cabinet next to where Arthur lay now, wrapped prettily by the employees of Barkers.

"I'm terribly sorry."

"Not to worry. We will not drink all the brandy without you. Alors , I must go." After a hurried Merry Christmas from them both, Poirot replaces the handset in its cradle. Arthur is in the same prone position on the couch, very still. He schools his steps to be slow and calm. There is nothing wrong with the potion, there is nothing wrong with Arthur, he is simply having a rest, then all will go on as normal, except this Christmas Arthur is his Arthur, and Poirot is, in some way, responsible for him.

Kneeling beside the couch betrays the lie. Arthur lays on his side, tie loosened, forehead glossy with sweat. A hand to his cheek confirms that he is burning, sweating through his crisp white shirt, blue eyes staring across the room at nothing.

" Mon amour ?" Poirot whispers, pressing his handkerchief to his florid face.

The blue eyes flick, left-right-left, then finally focus on Poirot's.

"You're that detective," Arthur Hastings croaks. "I remember you."

Chapter Text

Across the park from Whitehaven Mansions, church bells are ringing. The sun has just set, and the Christmas Eve service is about to begin.

In the windowsill above the kitchen sink, snow has gathered. Poirot’s duck is bubbling away on the stove, candles flickering on the Formica table. True to Miss Lemon’s warning, the electricity failed early this morning. His beautiful duck, the fish for the terrine, all in imminent danger of spoiling. Salmis no longer an option, Poirot regretfully placed the bird in a stockpot a few hours ago with generous hunks of fennel and garlic. Arthur needs a good, healing broth.

His patient asleep, Poirot pulls the rubbish bin from the corner and reluctantly gets to work. His fine sense of smell has helped him solve many cases, and it is unfortunate to have to put it to such use. He sniffs. Quel dommage, the fish is already off. In the bin it goes. The pitcher of dravamemari is still on the tabletop, forgotten in the struggle to get Arthur’s lanky body in bed and keep his fever down. Another sniff. If it was suspicious before, it is beyond saving now. He hesitates, then dumps the potion into the rubbish. It plops in gracelessly next to the fish, whose bulging eyes stare up at him. Memories he could have recovered, memories he planned to make with Arthur, going the way of discarded eggshells and tisane dregs.

His patient is more important right now. Poirot quickly washes his hands, spoons a mug of broth to take to Arthur’s sickbed.

He is propped on pillows, alert but still flushed, the red cast of fever reaching down his bare chest. A relief to see him lucid, after a night of speaking nonsense and thrashing his long limbs. Poirot had used all his strength to keep him from leaving the bed, then reserves he did not know he had to hold him crushingly close as he fell to wracking shivers.

Setting his tray on the bedside table, Poirot hands the mug over carefully and perches on the side of the bed. It is a position most uncomfortable for his back, which is already seething from a night of sleeping on the couch.

“I threw out the fish,” he laments. The pain radiates down his leg to his old injury. Poirot hides his grimace behind his moustache. They were not yet ready to share a bed together, and certainly not with Arthur’s current malady.

Arthur tries to laugh and fails. “I never liked terrine anyway.” Poirot gives him a severe look for his gustatory blasphemy. Arthur busies himself with his mug. “Where is the rest of the potion?”

“In the rubbish as well.”

His blue eyes flicker in alarm. “But we can’t make any more. Your memories!”

“It poisoned you, mon amour .”

He sits up, the bedclothes pooling around his waist. “There’s so much more I haven’t told you yet. Your schoolteacher who played the accordion, the bookseller down the street…do you know, you went to Japan once!”

“I know,” he soothes, plucking the mug from Arthur’s hands before broth can stain his fine sheets. “It is a country most beautiful.” He remembers: chains of small green islands, azaleas blooming.

“But do you remember our hostess, Mrs. Toyo? Her niece, weeding the garden? The neighbor who –”

“Do not trouble yourself, mon amour. You are very ill.” He tries and fails to press his patient back into bed.

Arthur is sweating again, struggling to catch his breath. “What if – what if something happens to me? And I’ll never get the chance to tell you everything you used to know. Everything I –”

“Shhh. I know,” Poirot soothes. “I know.” His perch on the side of the bed most untenable, he shifts, climbs into the bed as well.

Arthur buries his head in Poirot’s lap, his breath slowing. “We left things so incomplete, Hercule.”

Poirot smooths the silver hair, ruffled from his unquiet night. “I remember the gardens of Mrs. Toyo, even if I do not remember the lady herself.”

“You do?”

Poirot presses a kiss to his forehead. Arthur’s skin is sticky and sour from a night of fever. “ Bien sûr! The peonies – her peonies – were the most exceptional I have seen. I think of them on days such as this, when the English weather seems to creep right into our home.” He goes to correct his error – Poirot’s home – but stops himself. “ Mon amour , I remember the world just as well as I did before. You have done so much to populate it. Oui , the dravememari is gone. But what you have already given me is enough.”

Arthur lies back, exhausted, and stares at the ceiling for a while. “I need a bath, don’t I?”

Poirot sighs, kisses him again. “ Tristement .”

The much taller man slings his legs over the side of the bed, uses the headboard to lift himself to standing. Stays a moment, catching his breath. His knees knock together in exhaustion, knobbly in borrowed pajama pants. “I may need some help, Hercule.”

He is bare-chested. They have shared a bed at this point. Poirot regrets that the first time he sees Arthur Hastings unclothed is under such circumstances, but at this moment, he is needed. And to be needed by this generous, knock-kneed, terrine-hating Englishman is more than enough.

Poirot guides him back to sitting and undresses him carefully. With only pajama pants, this is easy to do. Underneath them, Arthur Hastings just as he ought to be, no more or less. Though his legs are even lovelier. Poirot notes this with satisfaction. He will have to examine these details more closely later, when Arthur is no longer an invalid.

“The tea over there was so different,” Arthur muses from the tub, where Poirot has drawn the hottest bath possible. “In Japan. Mrs. Toyo used this special teapot that she’d had for years and years. She said each time you use it, the flavor of the tea goes into the pot. So we were tasting every cup of tea Mrs. Toyo had ever made for herself, every time she’d ever served guests, even if we had never met them.” He is quiet as Poirot massages liquid shampoo into his silver hair. “I’ve never tasted anything like it, before or since.”

“I remember,” Poirot says. It was no tisane , but it was exquisite, in its way. Even if he could not remember the lady serving it.

“You told me she reminded you a bit of your mother.”

“Dip,” he orders. Arthur dunks his head to rinse off the shampoo, and Poirot blinks back a quick tear. The wintry view out a kitchen window, a loose strand of black hair.

Arthur wipes his face, observes him. “Are you certain you don’t want me to go back to Wingfold’s, ask about more of that Gideon bark?”

Even if Wingfold’s were open during Christmas, Arthur was scarcely able to walk to the bathroom without assistance. Poirot smiles. “Gedimin bark, mon amour. And non, merci . We do not need it.”

He soaks for a long while, holding Poirot’s hand to his chest as the water cools. His sleeves are rolled up, naturellement , and one long finger traces a wet circle into the dark hair of his forearm.

“Hercule, there’s one more memory you should hear.” The blue eyes are serious.

“Shhh, mon amour .” Poirot smooths the damp hair, stands up with some difficulty. “There is no need.”

“There is every need,” he argues, accepting the towel held out to him. Poirot busies himself in the linen closet, searching for fresh sheets. “It’s about your mother.”

“A bargain, then.” He turns from the linens, bedclothes in hand. “You dry and return to bed, and I will join you there in a moment and listen.”

Poirot gets a smile and a damp kiss in return, which is more than satisfactory. “Deal.”

Later, between fresh sheets and with his head on Arthur’s shoulder, Poirot asks to hear this memory of his.

“You said your mother was always cooking. And always singing to herself while she did.”

“Yes, I know.” The first snowflakes in the park, straightening Arthur’s scarf, they had discussed it then. Poirot remembers.

“Well, I hope my French is serviceable.”

“It is not,” Poirot replies, lifting his head to give Arthur an affectionate peck, but he is already singing.

“À la claire fontaine m'en allant promener j'ai trouvé l'eau si belle que je m'y suis baignée. Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai…”

There is nothing to do but kiss him, not just a peck. Arthur recovers, and the song continues.

“Sous les feuilles d'un chêne, je me suis fait sécher. Sur la plus haute branche, un rossignol chantait. Chante, rossignol, chante, toi qui as le cœur gai. Tu as le cœur à rire… moi je l'ai à pleurer.”

Poirot shuts his eyes, presses deeper into Arthur’s shoulder. Sleep is close.

“Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai.”

Chapter Text

In a week, Arthur has regained his strength, and Miss Lemon has come to Whitehaven Mansions on her day off to make up for lost brandy. She thinks the scarf from Barkers’ is divine, and Poirot bakes a belated bûche de Noël , and an orchestra is playing Auld Lang Syne on the radio.

Arthur turns to him for a midnight kiss.

It is 1931, and Poirot is not alone.