A/N: I'm doing something I've never done before: writing a fic just because no-one else has done it (or, in the case of Poirot/Hastings, because there are so few fics to read). I know my narration style is far from Christie's (I've read most of the books in Finnish), so I hope you don't mind a modern touch, though I'm keeping the guys as IC as I possibly can. Hope you enjoy it, also the bad-tempered side of Poirot, which is very underrepresented among Poirot/Hastings-fics. For the love of those two, have fun reading!

A/N2: "My Poirot" is like described in the books: green-eyed and not balding, but otherwise much like our beloved David Suchet.

Chapter 1: Two men, an inn and a proposal

"What do you mean, sir?"

Hercule Poirot was absolutely not at all pleased. He decided to stay calm for another moment. She was, after all, obviously quite simple.

"No, no, good madame, I am afraid you do not understand the nature of this problem –"

Good madame behind the counter looked more and more frustrated, very well understanding the nature of this problem, but for the sake of good service took a deep breath and started all over again. She spoke relatively slowly, this man was, after all, obviously quite French.

"I'm terribly sorry that your room isn't what you expected, sir, but this is a humble inn and never claimed to be anything else, I'm sure", she said and faked her most customer friendly smile, "and we are booked full." When the little man said nothing, she looked hopefully at the taller – obviously quite British, this one – and slightly amused-looking man.

"Poirot, I'm sure there's nothing they can do", Arthur Hastings said, now hiding his amusement surprisingly well. He bent down a bit to make Poirot look him eye to eye and went on a bit softer. "We decided to stay here, if there's a mistake it's ours."

"And it is nobody's mistake that this charming little village only has one hotel – thank you madame", Poirot said and turned away from the counter, letting his compassionate smile fade away. "Outrageous.." he mumbled as he started walking towards the staircase, face frowned to the point of giving an impression of a dried plum.

"Well, at least we don't have a view like the one time in Paris", Hastings said encouragingly.

"Hmh, a vis-à-vis , but this is worse", Poirot scowled. "In Paris, I could cover everything I did not want to see with the curtains – what, should we ask whether they have enough étoffe to cover the whole room?"

This couldn't spoil Hastings' mood. They had travelled to Scotland for some fresh air and personally Hastings was used to a lower standard than Poirot when it came to accommodation. Hastings had suggested this particular village because he had once visited a friend here, and a quiet and small place like this suited his purposes for this little holiday.

He was in love with his friend. No, not the Scottish one he had visited – actually Harry Dobson had died a few years back, just for the record – no, he was in love with Hercule Poirot and for a reason unknown to himself he had decided to somehow let Poirot know it. This idea hadn't come to Hastings quickly; hell, this loving thing had taken him a year to digest and two more years to accept at least to some extent. Now, after a total of five years (five because it's a good, decent, British count, he thought) it was time.

This is going to be way harder than I expected, he realised when he saw Poirot's protesting look when he opened their door.

***

It was not the fact that the room was a honeymoon 'suite' that bothered Poirot the most – he was used to sleeping in all kinds of suites and the honeymoon suite was usually the best one. It was the fact that the room was about twice the size of his cabinet in the train, was decorated with the infallible fashion sense of an enthusiastic but a bit senile mother-in-law and had an unidentified earthly smell to it.

On the bright side, there were two separate beds divided with a bedside table (the passionate Gaul in him felt sorry for all the actual newlyweds that had to share that room, in this land of pudibond), a decent washroom and a small balcony. It was already beginning to grow dim outside, but at midday it had been sunny and warm. The place did have some comfortable country charm, but Poirot could have sworn that the beds didn't have any comfortability – –

"That's not a word", Hastings said when Poirot told him what he thought of the room and gave a friendly laugh. Poirot now seemed almost amused, maybe even starting to cheer up, so Hastings struck while the iron was hot. "And the food here is actually very good, I used to have dinner here with Harry."

"Your Scottish friend, Mr Dobson?"

"Yes. The food was indeed wonderful."

Poirot considered this for a second, took a breath and nodded somewhat relinquishly. "That is good. Now let us go to see that wonderful chef, shall we?" Poirot said and smiled a little, and that smile made Hastings want to pray on his knees that the damned chef hadn't died. Or resigned in which case Hastings would be more than glad to have him dead.

***

The evening went well considering the sluggish start and when the kitchen closed they proceeded to the small terrace. There were five tables surrounded with padded garden seats.

"The view is enjoyable, mon ami", Poirot said and slightly raised his glass of cognac, "I can finally understand why you wanted to come here, not that I did not trust my Hastings." Good food (although quite rustic), wine and cognac had lifted his spirits enormously.

"Thank you", Hastings said smilingly and fingered the handle of his pint. "So, how are the grey cells? Is there any chance they are getting a vacation, too?"

"Never, Hastings", Poirot said puckishly, "Hercule Poirot is always alert."

"Good, because I have a mystery for you to solve", Hastings said in a jestingly serious voice.

Jestingly, of course, because he didn't want to reveal the truly serious nature of the little mystery. During the dinner, he had been thinking of a way of letting Poirot know of his affection, and figured that this was the best way. After all, Poirot would have to process the information before realising the whole truth, hence it would be less of a shock. He was quite impressed for coming up with this.

"You know that I dislike mysteries during vacation", Poirot said but looked already interested. "And therefore you are already certain that I will take interest in it?"

"Nonsense, you love mysteries during any time of year", Hastings said lightly, "but also apart from that, yes, I'm sure you will be interested."

"Alright, Hastings", Poirot said putting the cognac glass aside and concentrated on his friend. "Or should I say 'shoot me!'."

"I shall", Hastings laughed and drank from his beer. "I happen to know a secret concerning one of the guests in this inn. You are to find it out with only one method."

"Restrictions, excellent. And that method you are referring to is—?"

"Asking me", Hastings said with a little smirk.

Poirot looked delighted and tilted his head slightly, as he did often when he was surprised.

"You can ask me five questions per day, and each time I can only answer 'yes' or 'no'", Hastings elaborated, thought for a moment and went on: "And – so, you understand that I cannot answer 'maybe' or leave a question unanswered?"

"Yes yes, my friend. This sounds indeed very intriguing", Poirot said and nodded, "although I must say that Poirot has a feeling that this will be very easy – just wait, my Hastings… But this did come as a good action for the grey cells, indeed."

***