Chapter Twelve
It was a good few hours after I had stormed out on my friend after accidentally admitting my feelings and the sky was gradually darkening. I was disappointed in myself, for giving in to Poirot so easily and revealing what I had meant to keep secret but also for my reaction afterwards. I was many things, I told myself, but I liked to think that a coward was not one of them. It was this thought that made me pull myself together and I resolved to go back and explain things properly to Poirot. I owed him that much, at least. I made my way back to the flat through the slight drizzle that was now clouding the evening and tentatively let myself in.
"Poirot?" I called softly, as I headed towards the living room. I opened the door and was greeted by the sight of an anxious looking Poirot striding towards me, his arms outstretched.
"Hastings! Enfin!" he cried with relief, dragging me inside the room and pressing me down into a chair. "Thank goodness! Do you have any idea what time it is? I have been so worried about you!" This was not what I had expected to hear.
"You.. you have?" I asked, confused. Poirot looked at me, a familiar exasperated expression on his face and I felt hope stir inside me for the first time in hours. Was it possible that Poirot did not hate me for my admission?
"You storm out of the flat in a state of great agitation and do not return for hours, until it is after dark and beginning to rain. Yes, I have been worried, Hastings." Under all this, my friend had been making me a cup of tea which I now took gratefully. I tried to compose myself as he sat down on the edge of the table facing me and regarded me closely. Neither of us said anything until I had finished my tea, at which point Poirot took my cup from me and then turned back to face me.
"Now," he said, "Are you ready to discuss this?" I felt myself colour and looked down at my hands.
"Really, Poirot, I don't see what else needs to be said," I mumbled into my lap.
"Non? You do not?" my friend responded, and I was surprised to hear a faint note of amusement in his voice.
"Dash it, Poirot, this isn't funny!" I returned angrily, embarrassment making me lash out. Poirot held up his hands in a gesture of apology.
"Pardon, mon ami, I was not laughing at you," he said, and the sincerity in his voice made me back down.
"I know, Poirot, I'm sorry.. It's just a big mess, this whole thing!"
"Really?" he responded, and the amusement was back. "Then you do not wish to know my feelings on the subject?"
"I think I can guess them," I muttered sullenly.
"Oh, my Hastings, always jumping to conclusions." I felt a hand on my chin tilting my face up so I was looking my friend in the eye. "Conclusions that are entirely wrong."
For a moment we simply looked at each other. There was something in Poirot's eyes that I had only ever seen flashes of before and had never recognised, something intense and powerful. I felt my breath hitch and became extremely conscious of the fact that his hand was still resting on my face. I swallowed and looked away and Poirot dropped his hand. When I looked back, his eyes were again guarded but there was no doubt of what I had seen there.
"How long?" I asked quietly. Poirot smiled a small sad smile, and again it was a gesture that I knew but had never understood until now.
"A long time, my friend." We were both silent for a moment as I took in this new and unexpected revelation, and then Poirot spoke.
"Do you still wish to deal with it?"
"Deal with it?" I replied, not understanding.
"Before you left, you said that it just happened and you were trying to deal with it. Is this still what you wish to do?" Suddenly, I understood. Poirot was giving me a choice; even after admitting his feelings for me he was giving me a way out. He was putting my feelings before his, something I was coming to realise he had been doing for a very long time. I was determined it was something he should never have to do again. Reaching towards him, I took his hand in both of mine. It was small and warm, and I stroked across it with my thumb before turning my gaze up to his face. The something was back in his eyes, more intense even than before but clouded with uncertainty.
"I'd like us to find a way of doing something about it.. together?" I suggested. Poirot's eyes were still uncertain.
"What would you suggest?" he asked, not quite catching my meaning. There was one way of making my intentions absolutely clear, and I resolved to leave him without any doubt as I lifted my hand to his cheek and drew him close to me.
The kiss was soft and gentle to start, a light brush of lips over lips. As I felt the heat from his mouth on mine our inhibitions left us and the kiss grew more intense. I lifted slightly from my seat and slid closer towards my friend, the need to be pressed against him growing stronger as the kiss continued. After a moment, we drew apart. Poirot was flushed, slightly breathless and his eyes were dark with desire. I found him irresistible and leaned forward to kiss him again. This time was less tentative and more deliberate; our lips moved together deliciously and Poirot's hand moved to the small of my back, pulling me closer until our bodies were flush against each other. When we broke for air, I kept my eyes closed and stayed where I was, a smile on my face. I looked up at my friend and his expression mirrored mine. I chuckled.
"You're not a dream, are you Poirot?" Poirot also laughed.
"I do not think so, mon ami, although I have had similar dreams on many an occasion.." This made my stomach flip in a strange way and I shivered with anticipation. When I looked back at Poirot, however, his expression was serious.
"I must warn you, Hastings, that if we choose to pursue this relationship there will be no going back. I would not be able to return to merely being your friend after being something more. If you do not wish to have a relationship with me, it would be best if you say so now and we can pretend that this never happened." I was shocked.
"What do I have to do to make my intentions clear?" I asked in a stunned voice. "If you don't know how I feel after that, I don't know how I'm going to persuade you!" Poirot smiled his little smile again.
"That is how you feel now. How will you feel in a year, or two years?"
"Exactly the same," I stated firmly. "I must have been in love with you for years, too, only you know how slow I am at working things out!" Poirot considered this and nodded in agreement. "You weren't supposed to agree!" I cried in outrage. "I must love you, Poirot, to put up with you!" At this, he smiled and reached for me again.
"That is what I have always thought, mon ami, it just took you a long time to realise it."
