Chapter Text
I looked round the tent happily. It was airy, clean, and comfortable. I knew it wouldn’t be up to Poirot’s standards, but I’d never met a tent that was. He was prepared for things to be rather rustic at the camp. He’d complained about it the whole trip over, in fact, between complaints about seasickness, sun, and sand. Poirot would have preferred the ancient Egyptian kings be buried next to a fashionable hotel for his particular convenience.
Laughing a little to myself, I turned to my companion. He was reclining on his cot, chosen after testing both and determining it the softer. He had his little clothes brush out again. He was brushing his trouser leg.
“Sand always triumphs in the end, I’m afraid,” I said.
He looked at me witheringly.
“So I should give up? I should tuck my trousers into my stockings, as you have, Hastings?”
He eyed my legs with distaste. It was true, I had pulled my socks over the bottoms of my trousers. It was an old trick I’d learned years ago. Kept the sand out beautifully.
“I know it’s not fashionable, old man, but this is no place to be precious about appearances. We’re in the thick of it now!”
“Oui, there is no doubt about that. The very air is thick. It is like breathing the soup.”
I laughed at his self pitying expression. I myself found the climate rather arid and pleasant. No doubt it was warm, but a light suit and a good hat took care of the worst of the sun and the heat. I was in a jolly good mood, regardless of my companion’s dourness.
“Soon be used to it, I expect.”
I went to his trunk. Poirot and I travel together often, and we have, over the years, developed a routine. I know how he likes his things unpacked and arranged. There wasn’t much room to spread out in the tent, though. We each had a cot, with a stand beside it for luggage. At the end of each cot were a small table and chair. It was on this small table that I unpacked Poirot’s toilette.
First, the shaving implements. I laid out his silver handled brush and razor, his soap dish, and his cake of scented soap. Beside these, I placed the scissor and comb specifically devoted to the upkeep of his famous moustaches, along with his jar of moustache wax. Next, his tooth powder and brush. He has a little scraper too, for cleaning off his tongue, which I set beside his tooth brush. Finally, I set out his jars of face cream and hair oil, body lotion, and a brush he uses to keep his skin smooth. All of these laid neatly out, I covered the lot with a linen cloth to keep the dust off. I set up his little stand mirror, and angled it about how I reckoned he’d like it.
All of this done, I turned to him to inquire what I might do next. He was watching me from his seat on the little cot. He fanned himself with his hat. The look in his eye was no longer dour.
“Hastings,” he said. “There is one thing about our accommodation that, I must admit, is very much to my liking.”
“Glad to hear it!” I said heartily. “Just one thing? What is it?”
“You are here, mon ami.”
I blushed terribly at these quiet words. He was looking at me like I had single-handedly transported us to a hotel. All I had done was unpack, as I’d done many times before.
I didn’t know what to say to him, so I just carried on unpacking. His trunk was heavy, but I wrestled it onto the luggage stand by his bed. It is a custom made piece of luggage. He had it fitted with a rod that, when extended, becomes a full size clothing rack. I busied myself shaking out his jackets, shirts, and trousers, and hanging them neatly the way he prefers. I was aware of him watching the whole process. I did not mind his appreciative look.
The final step in unpacking for Poirot is what I like to think of as ‘cosying up the place’. Poirot likes to travel with certain decorative items that make him feel comfortable. I placed the small portrait of his mother on his little table. His rosary, I hung from the side of his trunk. His little brass lantern hooked easily onto a tent pole. Finally, I unfolded the small red carpet he likes beside his bed. I turned to him.
“Would you mind lifting your feet for me?” I asked.
Wordlessly, he raised them. I knelt, sliding the fringed round rug under him. I smoothed it carefully, ensuring none of the fringe was tangled or tucked under. Poirot lowered his feet back down. I looked up at him from the floor.
“Merci, Hastings. As usual, you are so quick I do not even need to ask.”
Smiling down at me, he took gentle hold of my chin in his gloved hand. My heart soared. My stomach swooped.
“Perhaps there is something to the air of this land, after all. Your eyes are the blue most bright and beautiful.”
I won’t pretend I didn’t flutter my lashes up at him. Anyone in my position would have done the same. It was a position I was most grateful to find myself in when, without warning, he released my chin to grip me by the collar. I found myself jerked unceremoniously upward into a kiss.
It had been days since he kissed me. Between his sea sickness, and a general lack of privacy, we’d not been in much of a mood for romance. Now, I threw my arms around his neck eagerly. He gripped my jacket in his fists with uncharacteristic carelessness, dragging me as close as possible. I managed to scoot forward on my knees, pressing myself between his legs. Poirot’s kisses are always powerful. This one was a force of nature.
Suddenly as he’d begun, he pulled back. I gasped for air like a fish out of water, openmouthed. I stared at his dear face, happy to hang in his grip. His mouth was a thin line. He was drawing in great breaths through his nose. Poirot attempts to retain his self control at all times, even in moments of passion. It is most gratifying to be the cause of such a lapse. I considered what I could do to rouse him again.
“I say, old man,” I said breathily.
It was a calculated move. His weakness for certain turns of phrase and idiomatic expressions I employ is well known to me by now. While always a part of my vocabulary, I sometimes play up such sayings when around him. At any rate, It was not an inaccurate representation of my sentiments at the time. The beguiling breathiness of my tone came more from lack of air than any design of my own. He had kissed me most emphatically.
He growled at me, some syllable in French turned guttural in the back of his throat. One hand came up to seize the hair at the crown of my head. He tugged sharply, pulling my head back. I jolted like I’d been struck by lightning. Delicious pain flared along my scalp, running down my entire body. The white canvas roof of our tent swam with tears.
“What do you say, now, ma beauté?” he demanded, his voice low but inescapable.
“Please,” I warbled.
“Please what?”
“Anything,” I gasped.
I felt his finger run down my extended neck. Then he was loosening my tie, and undoing buttons, all one handed. His other hand maintained pressure on my hair. Every small movement I made was felt painfully in my scalp. I was gasping again, clutching at him as he held me completely in his power.
My waistcoat was open. I felt his hand inside my clothes, untucking my shirt. I trembled, my back straining at the angle he held me. Next thing I knew, his hand was inside my trousers. He gripped my cock in a tight fist. I gasped and swore. I jerked against the tight hold he had on my hair, my whole body overloaded with pain and pleasure.
“Magnifique, mon amour,” he whispered, and began to move his hand.
The campsite was not terribly quiet, so the cry I gave was probably not remarked upon by anyone. Anyone except Poirot, that is.
“Mon cher, you must be quiet. You must not make a sound.”
I tried to nod, forgetting his hand in my hair. I leapt at the pain, but did not make a sound. Poirot held me in an immovable grip. I shuddered, hanging onto the collar of his jacket for dear life. Tears were pouring from my eyes. Between the hard hand on my head, and the hot one on my cock, there was not a part of me that he did not possess utterly and ferociously.
Without warning, he froze completely. He released my hair, cradling my head in a still, flat hand instead. I writhed for a moment, wondering where the sweet pain had gone. Poirot pulled his hand from my trousers.
“Someone is outside, I think,” he whispered, so quiet I could barely hear.
Immediately, adrenaline of another kind entirely flooded my body. I sat up straight as an arrow. Without a word, Poirot switched our places, swinging me around onto the bed in one smooth, breathless movement. I reeled a little bit.
“I will go out and meet them, mon amour,” he said softly. “Do not be far behind.”
He stood, smoothing his hair and adjusting his clothes minutely. He took a deep breath, and in a moment had gone from passionate lover to proper gentleman.
“You will be alright, Arthur?”
I nodded. He dropped a light kiss on my forehead. Then, with a flourish, Poirot exited the tent. I found myself suddenly, abruptly, alone. Fear was a potent antidote to arousal. What had we been thinking? This was hardly a secure room with a good locking door. I buttoned my waistcoat, taking deep breaths, trying to keep my hands from shaking. We had to be careful. This was not England, where we had friends and connections in high places. We could not afford to be so careless.
I smoothed the front of my jacket, and made sure my lapels were straight. I stood, taking a last look around the tent. My nerves were still jangling. I forced myself to stop thinking of Poirot, of the way he’d held me. We were in Egypt. Mummies! Mystery! These were the ideas that should be filling my head! Focusing very hard on these safe topics, I followed Poirot out of the tent.