Chapter 4: More questions and even more answers

Waiting for dinner time, they had come to the terrace with glasses of vermouth. They had gotten the same table as last time and Hastings was having difficulty not to stare at Poirot. Poirot had gotten a letter from Miss Lemon (Inter alia: "To have your shoes repaired at the cobbler's, I would have to withdraw 6 pence from your bank account. Is it alright, since you just managed to balance it?") and was now writing a reply.

Hastings was just about to take Poirot's face between his hands and kiss him (in his imagination play, that is) when Poirot looked up at him so suddenly that Hastings felt like he had been caught red-handed and gasped.

"Oh I am so sorry, Hastings", Poirot said gently. "It is just that while writing this letter, I realised something and want to ask you a question."

It took Hastings a while (he had been repeating 'He cannot read minds, he cannot read minds…' in his head) to realise that Poirot meant the mystery hunt.

"Yes, by all means", he said, still slightly flushed and took a sip from his glass.

"So, numéro un for today: Is your love of romantic kind?" Poirot asked.

Hastings nodded and tried to avoid Poirot's eyes, because now, more than ever before, he felt that that man could see right through him.

"Yes", Poirot said, as to spare Hastings from saying it. "And I also have the second question, but not more before the dinner. Have you ever had a romantic relationship with the object of your affection?"

"No", Hastings said and felt strangely ashamed, like he had a bad conscience for not having made a move for 'more than four years'.

And, also because right now Poirot had an effusively sympathetic expression, and his thoughts – so obvious that they could've as well be written on his forehead – were: "Oh my, an unattainable love."

Hastings drank up his apéritif and got up. "Dinner time, Poirot."

***

"Can I ask you the third one?" Poirot asked Hastings at dinner. He preferred Hastings' rebellious side more than the submissive, mostly and quite understandably because when Hastings didn't look at him like the man was battered he didn't have to feel sorry for snooping his heart's deepest secret.

"Mmh… That was the deal, was it", Hastings said, eyes fixed on his meal, raising his eyebrows at it.

"Yes it was", Poirot admitted and cleaned his mouth with some wine. "Alors, trois. In addition to Captain Hastings, does this love matter concern only one person?"

"It does." Yes, Mr Poirot, it's not a desperate love triangle, thank you very much.

"Et quatre. Does she live in Britannia?"

"…Mm, yes", Hastings answered because he didn't know what else to say. 'She', meh.

This question thing was now killing him. He hadn't thought it would become like this – the slow and gentle way of telling had turned into a slow and painful torture, question by question Poirot got closer to something that Hastings didn't want to reveal and still, he had decided to tell him so it was inevitable. And it was all a game.

Probably Poirot had noticed his unease since he tilted his head a little and tried to look him in the eye, and Hastings had to look up. "You know very well, my dear Hastings, that if this is too uncomfortable to you, I can stop asking and never mention it again", he said in a matter-of-fact way and laid his hand on Hastings'.

Hastings rolled his eyes thoughtfully and sighed, looking at their hands and by the end of his sentence looked into his eyes. "No… I promised myself that I would tell you."

Poirot merely nodded and continued eating. And the greatest mind in Europe could not, to save his own life, see the fact which Hastings was practically rubbing onto his face.

Tell you.

You.

***

Poirot was, after all, not at all thick. And now he only needed to find out the object of his friend's love. Of course he could start to define the answer with questions like "Do you think that I know her?" and "Is she younger than you?" but something was bothering him – a feeling (in his opinion, way too familiar, but actually quite a rare one) was creeping into his consciousness: He had missed something. Something big, even huge, something that had been set right in front of him but he simply couldn't name it. He realised this after the dinner in his room, when he had came there for an envelope and left Hastings sitting on the terrace.

Also, he was obviously getting very close to the final answer because Hastings had started to react to his questions more personally. Which confirmed him that he was missing something crucial. He carefully folded his reply into the envelope, closed it and wrote the address. "There", he mumbled to himself but went on in his thoughts.

No, not quite there yet. Either there is a specific question which I need to ask and poor Hastings is frustrated because I have not, or I should have already guessed it. There is an answer and I know, as certainly as I am Hercule Poirot, that it is something very obvious. So obvious that I cannot see it, right there… What was it that I told Hastings this morning? About difficulties –

"Have you decided your last question for today, Poirot?"

Poirot startled and straightened up automatically. Hastings closed the door and smiled gloomily.

"No, Hastings, I was having a discussion with myself because I feel that I am very close – yet so far – from the answer", Poirot asked and for some reason felt uncomfortable.

"No?" Hastings confirmed and stepped in front of Poirot.

"Let me give you a clue", he said very decisively, seized Poirot's back of the head and kissed him.

Poirot hadn't spent much of his life kissing people and the mere feeling of being kissed on the lips caught him enough to make him freeze. Hastings' hand on his nape was as decisive as his voice only seconds earlier and he was lightly leaning towards Poirot, just enough to make his balance a bit unstable. Hastings' lips were soft although a bit rough on the lower lip.

He does have a habit of chewing his lower lip sometimes.

***