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Prologue: November 1917
Captain Arthur Hastings stood in the mud, soaked to the bone, and bellowed orders through the sound of the downpour. If they wanted to advance, this was the moment – thick, grey clouds were hastening dusk on, and the rain was pelting down. It had rained for days without once stopping. The terrain was slippery and riddled with puddles. Mud was everywhere. Thunder was grumbling and flashes of lightning illuminated the distant horizon randomly. If they moved out now, they’d take the enemy by surprise, and if the Germans tried to use gas, the rain would hopefully render it harmless – they didn’t have enough gas masks left for all the men.
But gas masks or not, now was the moment to strike! It was paramount they recapture Passchendaele, no matter the lives it might cost. This would turn the war around, Captain Hastings was convinced of it. So he yelled at the men to get ready, and they ran, because they did what their captain told them, unhesitatingly.
It wasn’t Hastings’ fault that the enemy had been thinking along the very same lines. It wasn’t his fault that he led his men into an onslaught, because nobody could have known. All of a sudden, German soldiers popped out of the bushes. There was a moment of silent confusion, and then everything went to pieces. Nobody saw clearly. Nobody heard anything except thunder and gunfire. People barked orders into the void on all sides, adding to the cacophony. Their formation dissolved almost instantly. Hastings lost control of the situation. Within moments he was standing in the dark in the rain, surrounded only by the sound of shooting and the screams of dying men.
As far as manoeuvres went, this one was a mistake of epic proportions for both sides.
It was a massacre, and there wasn’t even a winner; everybody lost.
And that was just Monday.
ooOOoo
December, 1918
Inspector James Japp felt too tall for his new office chair. It had been a pain in the behind getting issued a new one after the old one had broken its leg a couple of weeks ago. There were forms to fill out, and an allotted waiting time, and some heated discussions on the phone with various employees from the office supply centre, and now the thing felt too low for him.
He briefly pondered going through the entire process again in the hopes of getting a slightly higher chair to suit his height, but eventually decided against it. So he accepted his fate as he accepted the fact that the tea in his cup had gone tepid, and shrugged it off.
The phone rang, and the dispatcher announced, “It’s a Mister Moissor Poyroh, sir.”
“I’ll take it,” Japp replied, and then after the tell-tale click of the call going through, “Poirot, how are you?”
“Terrible, Inspector. I feel like death is sitting on my chest, waiting to pounce and snuff out my light forever.”
Poor Poirot was bedridden with a cold, Japp knew. He was probably not going to die just yet, but as with everything else he did, Hercule Poirot added his own theatricals to it, and so Japp simply murmured assent.
“I am calling you with one last wish,” Poirot began dramatically. His voice sounded stuffy from a blocked nose but otherwise not really like the voice of a dying man.
“Go on,” Japp nudged him.
“I am sadly prostrate, mon ami, but I have an engagement of the utmost importance this evening. My old, dear friend is coming back from the war, and I have offered to put him up in my flat until he has found proper lodgings of his own.”
“Right. What do you want me to do then?”
Poirot sighed as if Japp’s question had been a singularly idiotic one.
“Please to pick him up at Victoria Station at eight seventeen precisely. That is when his train arrives. And then drive him here. I would rather he didn’t take a taxi cab by himself but rather that he is greeted by a friendly face. I’m sure you understand.”
“Yes, I can do that.” He wasn’t particularly keen on it, but he’d do it for Poirot. The man had helped him out on quite a few cases, and he owed him a great deal, he felt. “How will I recognise him?” Surely, there would be a lot of soldiers returning now that the war was finally over.
“You know him for you have met in Styles last year. It is my friend Captain Arthur Hastings. You remember him perhaps?”
He remembered Arthur Hastings alright, though he had been a lieutenant back then, on sick leave from the Western Front. A strikingly beautiful man with handsome manners and hands Japp had daydreamed about for a long time after that case. So he was to pick him up tonight and welcome him back to England. Suddenly, he didn’t mind one bit.
“I’ll be there to pick him up, Poirot, don’t you worry. You’re probably too sick to cook,” he went on completely selfishly, “I can take Captain Hastings to dinner before we go to yours.”
“Oh, would you? That would be most appreciated, mon ami. Only a little slice of the cake for me, sils vouz plait.”
“A slice of cake?” He wasn’t quite sure what Poirot meant by that (he was very particular with his food) but the reply was a very unhelpful, “Yes, this is what I said. From ‘Maison Bertaux’ on Green Street, if it is not too much trouble.”
“Right,” Japp just said with a little inward sigh. “See you tonight, then.”
“Merci beaucoup.”
Japp hung up and, lost in thoughts about a certain handsome captain, took a sip of his tea only to almost spit it out again. It was still cold. And his chair was still too low. But things were looking up in general – he’d get to see the most beautiful man he had ever met again. He’d drink to that; even with cold tea.
oOo
The platform was crowded despite the late hour. For a few minutes, Japp wandered up and down along the track rather aimlessly, not sure where Hastings might get off. After all, the captain didn’t know who was picking him up, and there was a risk they might pass each other by what with all the people around.
In the end, he decided to stand close to where the train would pull in and watch the windows. He’d only met Hastings this one time, but he was certain he’d recognise him immediately – he had thought about the man rather a lot, admittedly. The trick was to then follow the train and make sure to stand by the door Hastings would climb out of. Which was indeed rather a complex situation, because most of the other people seemed to have had the same idea, so that they were all standing in a throng at the beginning of the platform, and when the train eventually pulled in, everybody was hastening along next to it as soon as they had caught a glimpse of whoever they were meeting.
And Japp saw the captain then, standing at the window looking out, probably trying to see where Poirot was.
Making his way through the mass of bodies, Japp managed to keep track with the train and stand by the door that was closest to Hastings’ compartment as the train came to a halt. A few passengers got off, a lot of them in their uniforms, a lot of them being greeted joyfully by family and friends. A large, bearded man caused quite a fuss with two insanely big trunks, shoving people aside as he tried to push his way to the door as if the train might depart again without him getting off first. Japp saw the man stumble against Hastings, who was next in line to get off, making the tall captain lose his footing and fall out of the door, down the steps, and straight into Japp’s arms.
“Oh,” Hastings breathed looking up. Their eyes met, and every thought left Japp’s brain except for one word, which he accidentally said out loud: “Lovely.”
ooOOoo
The news had reached him via the radio, because for some reason the battered, old thing Private Gaskell had brought with him still worked. Private Gaskell was long dead, but his radio had saved a lot of minds in the last months, softly playing songs they cherished and remembered, chasing away bad dreams. And then this new bulletin: Armistice. The war was over; just like that. They could all go home.
Hastings had been so busy making arrangements for his men that there was no time to think about himself. His mind was empty anyway. It had been filled with battle plans, and campaign ideas, and inventories of their weapons and first aid materials. And now, all of a sudden, none of that was needed anymore. It felt like somehow the supporting wall of a house had been yanked out, and while the house was still standing, it was wobbly and uncertain now, and might collapse any given moment.
So Hastings ignored it and concentrated on things he could do instead, because doing things was what he was good at; thinking not so much. He made sure all the men in his unit had their travel warrants and knew where to go – which busses to climb into to get them to the next port, which ferries to take back to England, which trains to catch to their home towns.
He made sure all the identity tags of the soldiers they had buried were accounted for and would get back to the men’s families. He didn’t mind that it took days to reach the next port, and then weeks until he was allowed to board a ferry. It was a colossal process shipping thousands of men back to England, and while he was slowly breaking on the inside, he appreciated that things couldn’t be sped up.
So he lay in a bunk in a rundown little inn by the harbour. And because there was nothing worth getting up for, he didn’t. Sometimes the innkeeper’s son came and brought him bread and water, sometimes some cold meat. But nobody had anything, so bread and water had to do.
After what felt like months but was probably not more than twenty days, the innkeeper came into his room to tell him it was his turn now, and they had told her to tell him to catch the ferry at half past ten in the evening. One slot was still free.
“Tell them to take one of the other soldiers,” he said, because getting on that ferry meant getting out of bed and he couldn’t; he just couldn’t. “They all have families to get back to.” And he didn’t. But he didn’t say that last part out loud.
But the innkeeper insisted, “They left. It is only you, monsieur. Please, you cannot stay here.”
Of course, he couldn’t. He was a burden to the poor innkeeper and her little children. She was young and fairly pretty, and he was sure he was in love with her, but he was also sure she needed to be rid of him.
He took the ferry at half past ten. And then, he was back in England again, and it was the same old England except it wasn’t, because he wasn’t the same man who had left to go to war.
He took a train to Southampton the next morning, which felt surreal. And then another one to Basingstoke in the afternoon, which felt slightly more like coming home. He didn’t know where to go, and he didn’t have any money, but he did have a standing invitation from his old friend Poirot, who had once written to him from London saying Hastings was always welcome there. It was all he had.
So he called directory inquiries, and then he called the number they had given him, and he was almost sobbing after he hung up on Poirot, but he didn’t know why.
“I will be happy to expect you, mon ami,” Poirot had promised. Somehow Hastings simply couldn’t cope with that.
There was a train to Victoria Station that he got on, and then he panicked, and then he fell asleep for a while, and when he awoke he panicked again, fearing he had slept for hours and had missed his station. But he hadn’t.
He got up and saw the other passengers in his compartment were doing the same. The train was crowded, mostly other soldiers. All still in uniform, all sharing the same vacant, slightly frightened gleam in their eyes, as if they all waited for the moment they woke up and found out it was all a dream, and they were back in a trench somewhere, at the bottom of a pit covered in corpses, rotting alive – or maybe that was just Hastings.
Out on the platform he saw the returning men’s welcome parties – crying and waving, ecstatic because their sons, husbands, fathers, lovers had made it home. Hastings envied them all, because he didn’t have anyone. What he wouldn’t give to fall into someone’s arms upon arrival; someone who held him and told him it was going to be alright; someone who cared that he had made it home.
But, he chastised himself, he was being ungrateful – Poirot had offered him a home for now, and he was not going to be alone for the next few days at least. The address was on a slip of paper in his pocket – it would take a while to walk there, but he hadn’t money for a taxi, and honestly after the train rides and the weeks he had spent in bed in that Le Havre inn, he felt he could do with the exercise.
Someone pushed him towards the door, because he’d daydreamed and almost missed that it was his turn to alight. But when he took a step forward, someone fell against him from behind, and he stumbled right as he was about to step down. Hastings fell – and was caught by a pair of strong arms.
When he looked up he saw a messy brown moustache that was smiling at him.
“Oh,” he managed to say. He had no control over his body all of a sudden, so he just hung there, in a handsome stranger’s arms, limp as a soggy biscuit. He was so tired, he wished he could fall asleep then and there.
“Lovely,” the man said. He had a wonderful voice, full of mirth and warmth. “Welcome home, Captain Hastings.” Then he helped Hastings into an upright position and moved them away from the train. Hastings wasn’t ready to let go yet, though. The man’s arms exuded the same kind of strange pull the inn’s bed had. He simply didn’t want to get up again. His body and mind felt so tired.
So he pretended to still be a bit wobbly on his legs (which he was, so no great acting skills were required) and pressed his body a little more against the other man’s. Who, by the way, looked vaguely familiar. And he had known his name for some reason.
“Have we met before?” he asked to clarify.
The man grinned. “In Styles, yes. When you were on sick leave last year. James Japp.”
Memories were a tricky thing sometimes, but images began coming back to Hastings. One at a time at first, and then an onslaught of them, not all of them helpful.
“Inspector Japp!” he eventually managed. “We worked that case together. With Poirot.”
“That’s right. In fact, Poirot has sent me to pick you up.”
Inspector Japp didn’t let go of him, and he smiled, and he smelled faintly of cake, and Hastings was sure he was in love.
Being in love he could handle.
Being a civilian back in post-war England he could not.
At least not yet.
So he smiled back at Japp and tried to block out anything else. What a corker!
ooOOoo
Good god but Arthur Hastings had the most addictive smile Japp had ever seen. And he still wasn’t really letting go. They were standing a little away from the tracks now and not in the way of anyone. The train had departed, the throng of people had dissipated, and they were almost arm in arm.
Hastings was trembling, though he looked like he wasn’t aware of this. It must have been quite an ordeal to make it back to London. How many weeks he had spent in godawful conditions somewhere in a harbour or some train station Japp could only guess. The uniform looked slept in, there was a definite shadow around the man’s chin, and he smelled like a bath and some soap would be just the thing. There was a look in his eyes that sent shudders down Japp’s spine – Hastings’ warm, grey eyes seemed glazed over as if he wasn’t taking in his surroundings properly. He seemed to have trouble focusing and keeping eye contact.
He had been to the bakery Poirot had sent him to for cake on his way to the station, so at least there was nothing else on the agenda but get Arthur Hastings fed and home. A fine restaurant seemed not quite right, for neither of them, so he gently guided Hastings out of the station. There was a small fish and chips place right at the corner on Elizabeth Bridge.
He subtly supported Hastings physically as they were walking, and he noticed how the man leaned quite heavily on the table as they ate. Coherent conversation was impossible, but Japp didn’t mind. They chatted about chips, and the weather, and cake, and Poirot. Hastings leapt from topic to topic, sometimes not even finishing his sentences, and Japp tried his best to keep up. Sometimes Hastings slurred words as if he was drunk from exhaustion. If he didn’t look so starved, Japp wouldn’t delay getting him home and into his new bed – but the way the captain practically inhaled his dinner showed that he needed food as badly as sleep.
Japp paid, brushing off Hastings’ feeble apologies for not contributing money-wise, and then he called them a cab. He never wanted to arrive at Whitehaven Mansions, because as soon as they were seated in the back of the cab, Hastings sagged against him and was asleep within seconds.
When they arrived, entirely against Japp’s wishes, Hastings stirred, but he shushed him gently. It took an effort, but he managed to manhandle the man out of the car, cradle him in his arms, and carry him inside. He met with absolutely no resistance.
Hastings mumbled something that was inaudible but was probably a general enquiry as to what was happening.
“We’re at Poirot’s,” Japp muttered. “I’m taking you inside – go back to sleep.” And much to his surprise, Hastings did. His head lolled against Japp’s shoulder, and his free arm came up around Japp’s neck.
Japp didn’t half feel like some romantic hero from a film, rescuing the prince from sleep deprivation. He wasn’t usually like this, but there was something about Captain Arthur Hastings that made him feral with want. Every time Hastings had looked at him, he had felt desire coursing through his body. Even now it was difficult concentrating on getting into and then out of the lift again, when all he wanted was to gaze at the beautiful man in his arms – and then ravish him relentlessly until all memories of war had been extinguished from his mind.
He’d been smitten before, in Styles, but he feared that by now he was frightfully in love; against his better judgement.
It took awhile for Poirot to get up and answer the door, but Japp didn’t mind. When the little detective opened the door eventually, clad in a bathrobe, eyes red-rimmed, nose a little swollen, his mouth fell open in a silent O upon taking in Japp and the sleeping Hastings.
“Just show me where his room is,” Japp said by way of a greeting.
“Yes, but of course. Second to the right, Inspector. Let me relieve you a little,” and with these words he took the bag with the cake Japp had slung around his wrist.
“Thank you.” He meant it sarcastically, but Poirot was immune to such subtleties.
It wasn’t at all a relief to lay Hastings onto the bed. In fact, Japp felt the overwhelming desire to curl up next to him. Instead, he took the duvet and tucked Hastings in. He was still wearing his uniform, but that couldn’t be helped, though Japp would have absolutely undressed and put him into fresh pyjamas, had there been any.
When he closed the bedroom door, leaving the man to sleep in peace, Poirot awaited him in the living room. He was already sitting at the table, the slice of cake on an expensive looking plate before him.
“This is most excellent, Inspector Japp,” he praised after taking the first bite. “I am in your debt for your help tonight, mon ami.”
He asked Japp to join him, so Japp hung up his coat and hat. Poirot must have been feeling a lot better since this afternoon, for he even waddled into the kitchen to make some hot cocoa; which Japp drank purely out of friendship.
“He is fast asleep, my dear friend?” He enquired when they were both sitting at the table.
Japp nodded. He tried to find out a little more about Hastings, but Poirot wasn’t being talkative, and his nose still sounded blocked.
“You should go back to bed,” he suggested once his cup was drained, “and get well soon. Now, if there’s anything you need or that Captain Hastings needs…” he didn’t finish but counted on Poirot catching his drift.
“Your friendship is much appreciated,” Poirot smiled, “and will be a great support for Captain Hastings. Coming back from a war, it is rough. There may be wounds of the flesh as well as of the mind. But we will take good care of him, I have no doubt.”
All the way home, Japp cherished the memory of carrying Hastings. He made quick work of undressing and stroked himself shamelessly to the images of the captain’s beautiful smile.
ooOOoo
Hastings slept, and woke, and slept, and lurched from nightmare to nightmare. Sometimes he thought Poirot was beside him, making him drink something that smelled like a garden and tasted like orange peel. Sometimes he startled awake only to find darkness that was reaching for him with claws made out of grenades.
Once, he woke up with a thermometer between his teeth that he accidentally bit in two. There was blood in his mouth, and the familiar taste yanked him back into a trench – but he didn’t know which was the dream and which was the memory and which was perhaps real.
Someone made him drink more orange peel.
Someone held his hand.
He dreamed of tall, handsome Inspector Japp who carried him in his arms in the dream and whispered to him words he didn’t understand but that made him feel safe.
He woke up crying. There was light in the room, brave daylight making him squint. He was in bed, but he wasn’t sweating anymore even though there still was a sheen of perspiration on his skin that must have soaked through the pyjamas he was wearing.
Next to the bed was a little night stand, and on it, propped up against an empty tea cup, was a note: Bonjour mon ami, You are at Whitehaven Mansions. Please to make yourself feel at home, even if I should be out when you awake. Your friend, H. Poirot
He was already weeping, and the words brought more tears to his eyes.
When he felt he had cried himself out, he got up. He wobbled, his legs were unsteady, but now that he was upright, things fell into place a little. Hastings vaguely remembered arriving at Victoria Station and being brought here. He scanned the room, which was incredibly cosy – he had never seen so many throw pillows and cushions in one room!
Folded neatly on a chair was his uniform, looking cleaned and pressed. When he sniffed it, there was a faint fragrance of lavender and soap. There was also another note: I took the liberty of sending for new clothes for you. They are in the wardrobe.
There was a grey woollen jacket and matching trousers, a set of undergarments, two vests, and two button-down shirts; even a tie and a matching tie pin. The sight made him choke on a sob, though he didn’t understand why. He was so moved by the kindness of his friend and the abnormality of this normality.
After a bath and a shave, after getting dressed in his new civilian clothes (he felt strange in them, as though they were a costume rather than his actual clothes), he was hungry – starving, actually. And parched!
The flat was empty, for which Hastings was shamefully grateful, because he didn’t feel he could hold his own in a conversation just yet. But Poirot had explicitly written that he should feel at home, and so he wandered into the kitchen where he drank two glasses of water that didn’t taste of mud or mould, remembered how to boil water using a kettle and stove rather than a pot and open fire, and identified the refrigerator. Inside was a covered plate and another note in the neat handwriting of Hercule Poirot’s: Bon appetite, mon ami.
Ham sandwiches!
Hastings carried the plate with the sandwiches and the cup of tea he had prepared to the dining table and sat down. Sadly, now that the food was in front of him looking enticing and delicious, he felt his stomach cramp up, and the thought of eating repulsed him all of a sudden.
He concentrated on the tea, which he enriched with milk and sugar. He was able to stomach it and was glad of that little victory.
When the tea was gone and the emptiness of the flat became oppressing, the front door opened and in swept Poirot.
Hastings hadn’t seen his friend since they had reunited in Styles, which seemed ten years ago. They laughed, and Poirot hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks (which felt pleasantly weird), and immediately it felt as though no time had elapsed at all. Effortlessly, they picked their friendship up where they had left it. Poirot fussed over him in a way that felt like home. He straightened Hastings’ lapels, brushed some lint off his shoulders, and admonished him to straighten his tie in the proper way.
Hastings thanked him profusely for getting clothes for him, but Poirot brushed it off with a wave of his hand.
“We will get your affairs in order when you are fully recovered, mon cher. The bank, the tailor, perhaps a flat for you. We shall see. For now, the doctor said the rest is paramount for you.”
“What doctor?”
“You do not remember? I called a doctor on Tuesday. The fever, it would not go down, and the Inspector Japp and Poirot, we were worried.”
“What fever? Tuesday? What day is it now?” He didn’t remember having a fever. He didn’t remember a doctor’s visit or, frankly, anything about the last hours. Or had it been a whole day?
“My dear Hastings, it is today Friday.”
“Good lord! How long have I been out?”
“A week.” And then he handed Hastings today’s Evening Edition with a pleasant smile. “In case you want to catch up, mon ami. Poirot will prepare the dinner now, so kindly leave my kitchen.”
oOo
James Japp popped by for dinner, which caught Hastings off guard. The last time he had seen him had been in a fever dream of a very explicit nature, and somehow the images of that dream came rushing back to him as soon as Poirot announced their visitor.
He thought he flushed visibly when he shook Japp’s hand.
“Feeling better, Arthur?” James asked jovially. Somehow it gave Hastings courage that he used his Christian name rather than his rank to address him. As though they were already friends and needn’t bother with the awkwardness of building a friendship.
“Oh, quite,” he replied therefore, perhaps a little too loftily. James Japp looked incredibly handsome. He was wearing a brown pin-striped suit and a tie that seemed to match on first glance but didn’t really on second – an endearing detail.
They made awkward small talk as they helped Poirot set the table (Poirot didn’t want any help, but Hastings couldn’t sit still and make awkward small talk, he did have a breaking point), and the food smelled utterly delicious.
Yet as Hastings looked at the delicious things on his plate – the duck, the orange sauce, the baby carrots, the rolls – he still couldn’t bring himself to eat even a morsel of it. So he drank and deflected, and he smiled blandly at Poirot knowing he was offending him by refusing to eat.
Poirot got up at one point to fetch some more wine, and Hastings found himself sitting next to Japp most miserably. Poirot would come back and be disappointed that he still hadn’t touched the food while Japp was on his second helping. And he wanted to eat, he absolutely did want to stuff his face; he was hungry beyond words, and he hadn’t eaten a home cooked meal in months. He just couldn’t make his body perform the right motions to get the food into his mouth.
“You know what I like best?” Japp said softly next to him.
“Hm?” he replied, because he wasn’t sure where the conversation was going.
“This.” Japp held up a piece of roll, dunked it in the leftover sauce on his table, and popped it in his mouth like there was nothing to it. He grinned in satisfaction as he swallowed it.
“Not terribly proper, but my favourite part of any meal. May I?” He indicated Hastings’ untouched roll, still resting anticipatory on the little side plate. Hastings nodded feebly.
Japp ripped off a chunk of the bread, used it to gather some sauce from Hastings’ plate, and then held the soggy bread up for Hastings to try. It was right in front of his eyes, looking devilishly enticing. Yet, his hands didn’t move to pick it up. In his confused desperation, instead of taking the piece of bread out of Japp’s fingers with his own, Hastings moved his head forward and wrapped his lips around it, accidentally sucking on Japp’s fingers in the process.
It tasted divine. It was heavenly. Even as shame crashed into him like friendly fire, he couldn’t be bothered to think about it now, because all of a sudden he was ravenous and found himself incapable of not continuing to eat. With delay his body remembered how, and he was in full control again. The cutlery all but sprang into his hands and made quick work of the meat, sauce, and carrots before him. And the remainder of the bread roll evoked a lingering taste of Japp’s finger with every bite he took.
He noticed out of the corner of his eye Japp staring at him, and that was probably out of sheer outrage. Hastings decided to feel properly atrocious about his behaviour later, but now he was starving.
ooOOoo
Hastings was crying. He was eating like he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks (and who knew – perhaps he hadn’t) while tears were streaming down his face; though he didn’t seem conscious of them.
If Japp hadn’t already lost his heart a little prematurely to the dashing man, this would have sealed the deal.
Poirot was pretending not to notice anything out of the ordinary, and so Japp followed his example to avoid making Hastings feel self-conscious. In any case, he wouldn’t know how to even talk to the man now that he had sucked on his fingers. Most likely not out of a conscious effort, but he had sucked on Japp’s fingers when he had taken the piece of soggy bread with his mouth and Japp was still recovering from that.
“Hastings, mon cher, please to be so kind and fetch the pudding from the kitchen,” said Poirot gently when they had all but annihilated the excellent dinner. “It is in the refrigerator, middle shelf, three little green ramekins. You will need to put them in the oven, which is already on.”
“Right-ho,” Hastings replied, his tears having stopped, his plate having been cleaned. He got up, and once he was out of earshot, Poirot bend towards Japp slightly.
“My dear Inspector Japp, I have the request most imposing, please to listen,” he began.
“I’m listening.”
“I shall have to leave tomorrow for peut-être two or three days to Kent on a case. I feel much unease leaving Captain Hastings to his own devices so soon after he has returned and with his mind not fully comprehending this new situation.”
“Go on.”
Poirot sighed, making sure Japp knew how much he hated having to spell things out for other people. But other people did not live in the little detective’s head and could therefore not anticipate his every wish – at least Japp couldn’t.
“Inspector Japp, kindly move in here for the duration of my absence and look after our friend. Poirot fears he is not quite well, yet. But the case, you see, it is most urgent.”
Japp nodded, hoping the thrill he felt at this request wasn’t visible on his face.
“I can do that, no problem,” he said, keeping his voice even and his eyes fixed on the table centrepiece.
“Bon. I am much in your debt, mon cher ami.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Poirot checked something on his pocket watch, and called out, “Hastings, you will need to take the bowls out now!”
“Absolutely!” came the reply from the kitchen.
And then Hastings re-emerged, carrying a tray with three individual pudding bowls and matching spoons, in high spirits again. He beamed happily at them as he gushed, “Burnt cream – Poirot, you really shouldn’t have! It’s the devil to make, I should think.”
“It is called crème brûlée; please do not cheapen its culinary status with your poor English translations,” Poirot replied a little tartly. But he seemed pleased to no extent with this praise nonetheless, blushing in faux modesty. It was a little sweet and sticky for Japp’s taste buds, but he appreciated Poirot cooking for them and going through all this trouble. And sitting next to the most beautiful man who had ever fallen out of a train and into his arms was an added bonus to the evening.
When the time came to bid each other goodnight, Japp thanked Poirot profusely, made an awkward mess out of saying goodbye to Hastings, then left before the cheek kisses would get out of hand.
ooOOoo
Poirot closed the door on Inspector Japp, and Hastings felt like he couldn’t breathe for a moment. He didn’t know what to do with himself, and it didn’t just confuse him, it terrified him. He felt he should know; he felt people always knew what to do next. But he couldn’t get his brain in gear. So he simply stood there in the hallway, gazing at the now closed door through which Inspector Japp had left minutes ago.
Poirot said, “Hastings, be so kind, get the newspaper for us,” and pressed a penny into Hastings’ hand.
“Right-ho,” he replied with relief. He could do that. He only had his army greatcoat that smelled of gunpowder and sweat. As he slipped inside, it felt as though he slipped a part of him back on that the fever had already tried to flush out.
“Back in a tiff,” he called out to Poirot, masking his unease with loftiness.
It was raining he noticed when he stepped outside. Poirot hadn’t specified in which direction the newspaper stall was, so Hastings blindly turned left and just walked. The smell of his coat seemed stronger in the rain, or rather the smell of the rain seemed to emphasise the memories that crept out of the fabric and into his mind.
He had walked so many miles in this coat. He had slept in it countless nights. There was mud and gore rubbed so deep into the fabric of it that no cleaning process would ever get it all out.
He remembered some forest in the night in a downpour, huddled in that coat for warmth; he remembered tumbling down a ravine and hitting his head and thinking that this was the end because they’d find him and kill him for sure. Yet somehow they didn’t, and he lay in hiding all day before limping back to camp the next night.
There was a newspaper stall on the side of the road, because somehow Hastings wasn’t in a French forest but in an English street.
When he had paid, he had forgotten from which direction he had come. He was too mortified to ask, and the rain gave him such a blistering headache.
Hastings tried to look in control of himself as he turned in a random direction and just kept walking. He wasn’t familiar with this part of London, he had no idea where Poirot’s apartment building was, he hadn’t even memorised the address.
So he walked in the rain while the memories assaulted him; turning blindly here and there, following a pattern of grief that made no sense.
By the time he accidentally found Whitehaven Mansions again two hours had passed, and he thought he saw worry on Poirot’s face. He held out the soggy newspaper, but Poirot smiled affectionately at him and said in a gentle voice, “Sit and read your newspaper, mon cher ami. I will make some cocoa for us.”
And so he read the newspaper, and he drank the cocoa, and he didn’t feel so empty when he went to bed a little after midnight.
He had wild, erotic dreams that made him wake up sweaty and aroused and wondering what Inspector Japp’s cock tasted like.
ooOOoo
Japp put his last tile down with a smug grin. The entire dining table was covered in domino tiles forming the wild, zig-zagging layout of their game. Hastings still had two tiles on his hand, but he accepted the loss with a graceful smile and an endearingly enthusiastic, “Oh, well done, James.”
Japp had arrived at Whitehaven Mansions after popping by the Yard to check on things. When he had arrived at Poirot’s, the little detective had been on his way out, and Hastings had been in bed, though it had been long past lunch.
Japp had started to rustle something up, and the smell of the soup he was making had lured the captain from his den. After lunch they had started on a round of dominoes.
“We can play another game,” Japp suggested. They had played two so far.
“I was thinking of popping down to the bank,” Hastings replied almost shyly, “and run some errands.”
Japp nodded amiably. “I’m free, if you’d like me to join you,” he offered.
“Wonderful,” Hastings beamed. “We can have tea afterwards. My treat.”
Japp had never enjoyed shopping before, but somehow with Arthur Hastings by his side, everything seemed more cheerful. The sun was out, and while it was a cold December afternoon, the sky was clear and the air was crisp. Hastings was in a good mood, which was contagious. They went to Hastings’ bank, where apparently the man had put some of his belongings in storage. So they checked on them and then, equipped with the knowledge that everything was present and accounted for, Hastings made a withdrawal.
He bought a new coat – this seemed to be topmost on Hastings’ shopping list. A smart, grey affair with a matching hat. He put the things on immediately, and the shop assistant offered to send the rest of his shopping as well as the old greatcoat on to the flat. A change came over Hastings then, Japp felt. Discarding the greatcoat, he seemed to discard an impalpable heaviness that had clung to him. His steps seemed lighter all of a sudden, and his movements even more graceful. Japp liked this change. He felt it difficult to look away, for something about Hastings made him want to gaze at him incessantly, like a smitten schoolboy.
Shirts and shoes came next, along with everything in between including random objects that simply seemed to strike Hastings’ fancy as they passed shop windows.
“Right, I think that’s sorted,” Hastings said a little over two hours later. Japp should probably feel exhausted from all the shopping, but curiously he didn’t. He couldn’t get enough of watching Hastings do anything, even pondering which pair of five nearly identical driving gloves to buy. A number of times now he had caught himself staring and forced his eyes to look away.
“Well, I’m starving for one,” Japp volunteered, looking at the shop windows on the opposite street so as not to get lost in Hastings’ smile again. At this point, Hastings had to have noticed something, he thought with a touch of guilt.
But he couldn’t look away for more than a second or two, then his gaze was drawn back to the graceful man beside him who was just getting out his new pocket watch and declared it was time for tea anyway.
They found a cosy pub off Haymarket, and Japp ordered them two pints and some sandwiches, because all of a sudden Hastings seemed to deflate and zone out. He just slumped into the chair Japp pulled out for him, and for a good long while, neither of them spoke.
Japp wasn’t sure what was going on in Hastings’ mind, but his eyes seemed glazed over and a slight frown was on his suddenly pale face. Japp successfully suppressed the desire to pull the other man into his lap and smother him with kisses.
Then the food arrived, and after, Hastings’ cheeks seemed rosy again.
They talked of Japp’s current case, exchanging theories; and of the cars in the book Hastings had purchased in the book shop next to the pub. Hastings favoured a particular car, the photos of which Japp liked because they were shot in front of a hedge of rosa foetida in full bloom; the golden-yellow colour of the blooms showing off beautifully.
“You like flowers then,” Hastings stated, after having coaxed some more horticultural appreciation waxing out of Japp.
“One day, I’d like to have my own garden,” he admitted. “I don’t care where, so long as I get to tend it myself and can do as I like in it.”
Hastings smiled genuinely at him, rekindling that burning desire to pull the man towards him and kiss him senseless.
“That sounds wonderful,” he said. “I always wanted a garden.”
He deserved the most beautiful garden in the world, Japp thought. Out loud he said, “What would you put in it?”
Hastings hummed, thinking as he chewed on his cheese sandwich. “A cherry tree,” he said eventually. “A tall, majestic tree with wide branches, so that in the summer I can lie underneath it in the shade.”
“And eat cherries?” Japp prompted with a grin.
“Oh, absolutely.”
Japp imagined Hastings sucking on a cherry and felt himself blush from the somewhat erotic image that popped into his mind unannounced. His lips would be red from the fruit juice; begging to be licked clean.
They looked at each other and for a moment Japp thought he saw his own desire mirrored in Hastings’ eyes. For a moment it seemed to him that he could lean over and kiss the captain on a mouth stained with imaginary cherry juice, and be met with no resistance. But of course that was just his imagination running wild surely.
Was it?
ooOOoo
Hastings, the book on cars open in his lap, looked into Japp’s eyes and felt desire coursing through his body. The way James gazed at him felt like a caress, and he very much wanted this to extend to a physical caress. If one of them leaned over a little now, if they just sat a bit closer to each other, surely a kiss would be the perfect thing now.
A kiss in the summer under a cherry tree… but he’d take a kiss in the winter in a dimly lit pub. So long as he got to touch Japp.
How soft would the inspector’s lips feel under his own? How heavily would his tongue slip into Hastings’ mouth and stroke him? Not tasting of cherries perhaps but of ham sandwich and Guiness.
With a sudden start Hastings felt his body reacting to the imagined scenario. He hastily pressed the book into his lap to avoid a spectacle, chastising himself silently.
“Should we go back?” he asked, trying hard to sound careless. Once again he consulted his new pocket watch (a splendid thing) and declared it was getting late anyway.
He was glad they got to return together – he didn’t have to say goodbye to James. Poirot had explained that some work was being done in the inspector’s flat and that he was staying at Whitehaven Mansions for a couple of nights. The thought to sleep under the same roof as James Japp was alluring. To go to sleep together, wake up and breakfast together sounded more like a dreamscape than reality.
He distracted himself by paying for their food, enjoying the feel of treating Japp to tea. He’d happily keep treating the man for the rest of his life and make sure he never wanted for anything, and he wondered if that was a normal thought to have about a man he barely knew.
He kept his eyes all but glued to Japp as they walked down the street and found a cab back to Poirot’s. He was incredibly handsome and full of self-confidence. When their eyes met, he smiled at Hastings almost imperceptibly; just a cocky upward tilt of the moustache. As though he was perfectly at ease in this moment and in this company. And Hastings decided he didn’t care how barely he knew that man – he wanted him. He desired him. He felt safe in his presence, and for some strange reason he felt wanted in return, though that was most likely delusion on his part.
It took an effort not to slip his hand into Japp’s; not to slump against him in the taxi; not to lay his head on those broad shoulders and close his eyes for a minute during the car ride. Just a minute. He was ever so tired all of a sudden.
He stood closer than decorum allowed in the lift and lingered in the little entrance hall of the flat to stay close to Japp, to perchance steal an accidental touch. Japp helped him out of his coat unprompted, letting his hands caress Hastings’ arms as he slipped the garment off his shoulders. Hastings turned towards him, and there was a moment suddenly. The air seemed charged with electricity; too hot and too cold a the same time. Time stopped, and all Hastings could see were James’ parted lips that were so close. He wanted them on his mouth.
But he didn’t know how to go about it, and he was fairly certain that most of this was in his head anyway; and so if Japp were to lean forward and kiss him, he’d welcome him, he’d devour him, but he couldn’t lean forward and bridge that distance between them by himself. He couldn’t. He wanted it so much, but his body refused to perform any action.
If only Japp could read the desire in his eyes and kiss him.
And maybe he would have, but the doorbell went because Hastings’ purchases got delivered, and the moment was gone.
He went into his room to unpack the new clothes. Diligently he hung the button-down shirts on coat hangers, rolled up the socks, and folded the knickers away. He got out the trousers, and the jacket, and the greatcoat that smelled of torture. And then he was in his tent, wondering how long he had been standing here, confused.
Everything looked not how it was supposed to look. Maybe he had a concussion. He remembered getting hit by a bullet the other day and tumbling into a stream. His face was scratched, the torn skin burning. He’d hit his head, surely he had a concussion because why else would he be so confused? He knew he was standing in his tent, but then why did nothing look right, and why was the war so quiet?
Suddenly there was a man in his line of vision. The most handsome man he had ever seen, and he was in love, because he always fell in love, all the time, with everyone. Lieutenant Arnsworth had said, “You’d fall in love with a bloody tree, if it was pukka enough!” and they had laughed, and they had fucked almost every night, and Arnsworth was dead now; his body in a ditch all twisted and in pieces from a German hand grenade.
“Talk to me,” the handsome stranger in his tent said. His voice was one that wanted to be obeyed, and Hastings wanted to obey, but the words didn’t come. How could he explain that his tent was wrong and not sound like a madman? So he sobbed instead. He covered his face with his hands in shame and wept like a child.
The stranger pulled him into a tight embrace that healed the war out of Hastings’ mind, and suddenly it was James Japp holding him, and he was in his room, and crying, and try as he might he couldn’t stop.
He felt Japp’s arms warm and soothing around him, and he was so ashamed, so terribly ashamed of himself.
“No need to be ashamed,” Japp said. “I’ve got you now.”
Hastings unravelled at the words. He clung to James desperately because if he let go, maybe he’d end up back in his tent; so he didn’t let go. He wanted to be held forever.
“I’ll hold you as long as you want me to, Arthur.” Maybe the words were only in his mind, like all the other things. But imagined or real, the effect they had on him was the same: he gave up control. He was dimly aware that James was manhandling him somewhere but he was too far away to care. James was in control, and Hastings felt he could let go now.
So he let go.
oOo
He must have dozed off at one point, because when Hastings came to, he was in his bed, wrapped in a blanket. His head was a little elevated and something heavy was resting on his back moving in lazy, soothing circles.
When he opened his eyes and lifted his head a little, he looked straight into James’ face.
“Hello, lovely,” the inspector said. Or maybe it was, “Hello. Lovely.” But Hastings favoured the first one.
His head was on Japp’s chest, and the heavy thing on his back was the man’s hand, still moving, still caressing him as if absent-mindedly. They were lying side by side, entangled almost; Japp on his back, and Hastings half draped over him. He didn’t want to let go, so he simply stayed put. James didn’t seem to mind, judging by the way his arms were still around him and his hand was still caressing circles on his back. The curtains were closed and the light was on. It was warm in the room.
“What time is it?” Hastings asked. His mouth felt dry, his voice sounded hoarse.
Japp shrugged gently. “Some time after midnight, I reckon. You slept for a bit.”
“Thank you for staying with me,” Hastings felt foolish saying this, but James smiled at him.
“You told me to stay, so I stayed.”
“I told you to stay, so you stayed?” Hastings asked, a chuckle escaping his throat.
James looked at him then, and Hastings held his gaze.
“At the risk of sounding too forward,” James said softly, “but when a beautiful man asks me to hold him, I’d be a right pillock to walk away.”
There was a tense silence after this confession. Hastings hardly believed his ears. He fell in love all the time, but it was rarely reciprocated.
“So if I asked you to hold me a little longer,” he tried boldly, “you would?”
“I would,” Japp promised, and held Hastings more tightly.
“And if,” Hastings almost didn’t dare finish this, but there was a time to be fearless and a time to be a coward, and this was definitely a time to be fearless, he thought, so he continued: “If I asked you to kiss me?”
“Please ask,” Japp’s voice sounded rough around the edges now, and he turned in their awkward embrace so they were even closer. Their faces were a caress apart. Hastings smelled the other man’s breath. He had never wanted another human being as much as he wanted James Japp in this moment.
“Kiss me, James,” he sighed.
ooOOoo
Japp gave a groan and crushed his mouth against Hastings’. He had wanted for the kiss to be gentle and careful, but he simply couldn’t do that. Not after pining for the man for this long and finally getting his way. Not after lying next to Arthur for what felt like hours, locked in a mutual but painfully platonic embrace.
So he flung himself at Arthur, smothering the other man with the full weight of his body, and kissed him with all the passion he had had to hold back until now.
Arthur was beautifully pliant. He all but melted into the kiss, opening up and returning it frantically. He held on to Japp as if for dear life and opened his legs as Japp rolled on top of him, so their erections touched through the fabric of their trousers.
Hastings moaned, rocked his hips up to grind against Japp, and gave little sighs of pleasure that went straight to Japp’s cock (and heart).
He kissed along Hastings’ jaw and down his neck, relishing the taste of the other man’s skin.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered into Arthur’s ear. He got a broken, “Oh, James!” in return.
“And so hard,” Japp teased when his hand slipped between their crotches and started palming Hastings’ indecent bulge.
“For you,” Arthur whispered. He turned his head to catch Japp’s mouth with his and for a few precious moments they both got lost in their kiss. Japp applied pressure to Arthur’s cock and was completely satisfied when Arthur moaned loudly and pushed into his hand.
“Do that again,” Japp told him, and Arthur, flushed with arousal or humiliation or both, did as he was told.
Arthur flung his arms around Japp’s neck and pulled him in for yet another feverish kiss, never stopping the grinding of his hips as he sought more friction. He was achingly hard, his cock must feel just as constricted as Japp’s.
James wanted them both naked, but he wasn’t sure how Arthur would react to this kind of exposure; so instead, he unbuttoned their trousers with one hand while he distracted Hastings with more kisses. It took some fumbling, but eventually both their cocks were free and rubbing against each other, and that sent Hastings into a near-orgasmic frenzy. He moaned, and sighed, and whispered James’ name. His eyes were half closed, his mouth hung open. He was all submission, and he was so utterly beautiful.
“That’s it,” Japp encouraged him, “That’s how I want to see you, my lovely.”
“I’m so close,” Arthur breathed, “Please, James. So close!”
Japp wrapped his hand around both their cocks and started pumping vigorously. He kissed Arthur again, because Arthur’s kisses were addictive, so raw and full of unchecked emotion.
“Fuck me,” Hastings whispered, voice pregnant with desperation. “Please, James, please fuck me. I need it.”
God, he wanted to. He wanted to fuck Arthur thoroughly and watch him squirm every time he moved tomorrow. But they were both too far gone for anything that involved preparation now.
“Not tonight,” he said despite himself. “I want you to come for me like this. Can you do that for me, lovely?”
Arthur threw his head back, hips bucking into Japp’s fist.
“Anything,” he whimpered. “For you… anything!”
“Then come for me,” Japp ordered roughly. And Arthur came. He gave an endearing sob, and then he shivered, and a moment later his seed flooded Japp’s hand. The sight of Arthur giving in completely pushed James over the edge, and his orgasm barrelled through him, making him spill over both of them.
Immediately, Japp pulled Arthur into a tight embrace and held him close. They were a complete mess, and their trousers were properly stained, but he couldn’t care less. He held on to Arthur until the other man’s heartbeat began to slow down.
Eventually, Arthur moved against him, turning in Japp’s embrace so he could snake his arms around him as well. He buried his face in the crook of Japp’s neck and breathed slowly.
“That was…” he began, and Japp detected a faint trembling in his voice, an insecurity he didn’t like. So he interrupted him and finished the sentence for him, “That was wonderful, Arthur. And you were beautiful.”
“Good Lord,” Arthur exclaimed, sounding outraged and bashful.
“My name is actually James,” he teased, “and you should know, since you practiced saying it vigorously.” His light-hearted joke did the trick: Arthur’s tension seeped away as he chuckled.
“You are impossible!” Arthur said. He lifted his head to look at Japp, and Japp gave him a cocky grin before he dove in for another kiss. Sweet and gentle this time, the way he had intended their first kiss to be, before things had derailed somewhat.
“Let’s get cleaned up, lovely.” He kissed Arthur again, and then gently nudged him out of bed. Hastings preferred to sleep in pyjamas, as Japp had thought he would, and when asked preferred for James to stay with him, as Japp had hoped he would.
So they brushed their teeth, changed, and then snuggled up in bed. Japp draped he blanket over them, and then he kissed Arthur, for it was impossible to stop kissing the man, and quickly they fell asleep in the faint glow of the little bedside lamp.
ooOOoo
Hastings, after going through his morning routine, heard sounds coming from the kitchen and directed his steps toward them. The clanging of a pot, the sound of running water, the annoyed mumbling of a police inspector.
Japp was preparing breakfast, Hastings saw when he entered the kitchen, and was becoming frustrated with the electric toaster. The appliance was a huge apparatus, one Hastings had hitherto never seen before in private use, and neither, as it turned out, had Japp. Three badly burnt slices of bread that were in a pile next to it attested to that. But as Hastings stepped up to him, Japp took out another slice, golden brown and perfect, with a triumphant noise.
“Oh, well done,” Hastings praised.
“Only took me a five tries,” Japp replied drily.
“But now we’ve got toast,” Hastings smiled.
Japp nodded, calming down quickly. “Now we’ve got toast.”
Hastings found the kettle and busied himself making tea – the presence of the quietly humming man being a rather unhelpful distraction. Hastings didn’t want to rummage for Orange Pekoe in the neatly organised cupboards; he wanted to touch Japp and let himself be kissed into oblivion.
Already he wasn’t so sure anymore if last night had been real or if he was imagining things. Perhaps the other man had simply wanted a distraction. Perhaps Japp had wanted to be close to Hastings and now, because Hastings had messed it up somehow, Japp wanted to create distance again.
Would Hastings make it better or worse, if he walked up to Japp and started caressing him? He badly wanted to, but didn’t dare. So he rummaged for the tea tin instead, mumbling to himself, pretending his frustration was a result of not finding his way in the strangely arranged kitchen.
“Found the saucers,” Japp declared a moment later.
“And the cups are up here,” Hastings added.
The teapot was in the topmost cupboard, and the tin with the loose leaf tea well in the back behind several boxes of cocoa powder.
“Tell you what,” Japp said in a voice that sounded so cheerful it almost broke Hastings heart that he couldn’t share it, “I’ll get the tea ready and you’ll get the Morning Edition. How does that sound for division of labour?”
The little walk to the newsstand might do him good, Hastings pondered. Clear his brain, which felt rather foggy and sluggish.
“Jolly good,” he replied therefore.
Hastings put on his new coat, stepped out onto the street, and decided to buy not only the Morning Edition but also the Sports Edition. The crisp morning air, the unexpected sunlight hitting his eye, and the prospect of fresh toast and tea upon his return invigorated him.
Light-hearted and light-footed he made his way to the newsstand.
But when he got there, the customer who was before him in line said “Morning” in just the same way Lieutenant Baker used to say it when they’d huddle over their watered-down brew in the early morning mist, and without warning Arthur Hastings’ mind was back on the battle field surrounded by death and terror and guilt.
ooOOoo
When the tea was done steeping, Japp expected Hastings to return any second and was filled with happy excitement. The man had looked beaten down somewhat before, and Japp was looking forward to hugging him and kissing him when he walked back into the kitchen.
After five more minutes, he wondered which newsstand Hastings had walked off to.
After fifteen more minutes, he wondered if anything had happened.
When Hastings had been gone for half an hour, Japp grabbed his coat and walked out after him.
The closest newsstand was the one facing the commons, a stone’s throw from Whitehaven Mansions, so that’s where Japp directed his steps. It had begun to rain quite heavily now, and dark storm clouds obscured the view.
“Walked that way,” the newspaper boy said in response to Japp’s enquiry. “Tall, good-looking chap in a grey overcoat, yeah?”
“Yes, that’s him,” Japp said again. The boy pointed towards the common, and Japp thanked him. There was no shelter in the park and Hastings hadn’t taken his umbrella with him; he must be soaked by now. Where had he gone to? Why hadn’t he returned to the flat?
Quickly Japp walked along the park’s perimeter. The rain and the inadequate lighting didn’t make it any easier to find anyone, but eventually Japp spotted a lone figure underneath a large oak tree and directed his steps toward him. The first few metres he wasn’t sure whether it was Captain Hastings, but the closer he came the better he recognised him. Hastings was standing with his back to him and didn’t react to Japp shouting his name – the rain was coming down in buckets now, making quite some noise.
The poor captain was drenched but when Japp held his umbrella over both of them and the sudden onslaught of water stopped, Hastings didn’t seem to notice.
“Arthur,” Japp said softly. “Alright?”
There was no response.
“Where are you, lovely?” He meant in his head but he was sure Arthur would pick up on that if he picked up on anything – which he didn’t.
Hastings kept staring into the middle distance not acknowledging his surroundings. He wore the same facial expression he had been wearing when Japp had found him in his bedroom last night, clutching his army coat and babbling something about his tent not being right. Wherever he had gone to in his mind, it was far away.
“Arthur, look at me,” Japp tried again, but Hastings didn’t acknowledge him. His lips were moving but he spoke so softly that any words were drowned out by the sound of the rain hitting the ground. The water on his face was part rain and part tears.
“Right. I’m taking you home now.” Japp didn’t expect any kind of reaction and he didn’t get one; but Hastings let himself be led away and back to the flat at least.
Once inside, Japp dumped the umbrella unceremoniously to the floor, then took off both their overcoats. He didn’t even drag Hastings to the living room or his bed or anywhere else comfortable – he simply wrapped him in a tight embrace right there in the little entrance hall. By now, Hastings was shaking and sobbing almost uncontrollably. They stood like this for a good amount of time. Neither of them speaking.
At one point, the sobbing faded into the background enough for words to spill. Japp listened. It was a garbled, chaotic account of something that was part memory, part guilt-laden fantasy, and completely messed up. He had read about what had happened during the Battle of Ypres in the winter of 1917. He hadn’t known Hastings had been there. It must have been hell.
He held him even tighter then, a futile attempt to hug the terrible nightmare-experiences out of the captain.
Without warning, Hastings suddenly pressed his mouth against Japp’s. An angry, desperate kiss, but Japp took what he got. He pulled Hastings closer and opened up, letting Arthur take the lead now. He let Hastings shove him against the wall (something fell down; Japp didn’t give a damn), pliant in the other man’s sudden outburst.
Hastings’ hand slipped down to Japp’s crotch, nimble fingers made quick work of the trouser buttons and snaked their way inside to grip Japp’s rapidly hardening cock. It just took a few strokes and Japp was fully erect, Hastings tugging at him while never breaking their fierce kiss.
Japp gripped Hastings’ ass and pulled their bodies together so their erections were pressed against each other through the fabric of their clothes. He made Hastings moan.
“Fuck me, James,” he pleaded then bit into Japp’s neck. “Please. Now. James.”
Japp didn’t dream of refusing. He promised to fuck him any way he wanted to – and boy, did Hastings ever want him to. Japp turned them both around so Hastings was the one shoved against the wall now, and then in a not-so-graceful motion, he took both their trousers and underwear off. He had no patience for button-down shirts, so they left them on – not that Hastings cared either way. He was a mess of broken pleas and moans, and his dripping erection was the most gorgeous sight Japp had seen in forever. He simply had to kneel and swallow it and let Hastings fuck his mouth not so gently.
Japp used his own pre-cum and saliva to slip a finger inside Hastings’ hole while sucking in turns on his cock and balls. Hastings was so very load, groaning incoherently, crying out in pleasure, and then when Japp hoisted him up and took him almost brutally, Hastings urged him to go even faster, even harder.
As far as sex went, this was hardly ideal – the position was unfortunate, spit was a sadly inadequate lubricant, and Hastings was partly still wrapped up in his painful memories, but the captain kept begging for more and Japp couldn’t deny him anything. So he fucked Arthur Hastings mercilessly against that wall, sweating and cursing and eliciting the most erotic sounds from the other man, until he felt hot semen between them. A few more thrusts and Japp spilled inside Hastings, the mental image of that almost overwhelming because he felt he had claimed his territory and wanted to do so again and again.
Gently, he slipped out and let Arthur collapsed into his embrace.
Somehow they made it to the bedroom and into bed, where Japp proceeded to gently undress them properly. He laid Hastings down once they were naked and, in the morning light, began caressing the other man softly.
There were a multitude of scars, an especially nasty one down the inside of his right thigh. Several smaller ones, in various stages of healing, were scattered over his back and left side. They all spoke of the hell Arthur must have gone through in that dreadful war.
Japp made it a point to kiss every one of them.
ooOOoo
Hastings let James’ hands roam over his naked body. He kept his eyes closed and concentrated on Japp’s mouth on his skin. On his legs, his hip, his limp cock, and then his neck, his cheek, his mouth. He opened up and let Japp’s tongue slip inside where it stroked him languidly, almost lazily.
For a wonderful while they stayed like this – silent, gentle, loving. Enjoying each other’s touches.
“You alright, lovely?” Japp murmured eventually. He laid his head to rest on Hastings’ chest. Their legs were entangled, and Arthur’s arms had gone up and around James’ torso.
Hastings nodded. He loved the term of endearment that Japp had so readily made his own.
“Thank you,” he said after a while of more mutual, silent caresses.
James smiled at him and between kisses he replied, “Absolutely any time,” and then he added a little soberer, “Except right now. I’m starving actually. Never did have that toast I so expertly didn’t burn to a cinder.”
Hastings hummed agreement.
“Not even a cup of tea for my intrepid inspector yet,” he whispered.
“Oh, I like that,” James grumbled sweetly. He kissed Arthur again. “I like being yours.”
Hastings pulled him towards him for another kiss but before they could get lost in each other again, James made them get up and get dressed. Arthur could indeed do with a bite of toast, and he could murder for a cup of tea. It was all the more wonderful that not only did he get both toast and tea but he got to enjoy it sitting in Inspector James Japp’s lap; there were many kisses involved as well. Altogether, a lovely kind of breakfast that Arthur Hastings could get used to.
ooOOoo
Epilogue: April 1919
It was unbelievably cold in London for spring, but Japp legged it to Whitehaven Mansions from the tube, and the brisk walk did its share to keep the frosty coolness at bay. He had spent a ludicrous amount of money on some hothouse flowers, which he clutched in his hand, and there was a small packet of Belgian chocolates in his coat pocket. He intended to take Hastings to the theatre tonight, and he felt he needed to sweeten the evening alone at home for Poirot so the man didn’t feel left out.
He took the lift, rang the bell, and when Hastings opened the door he didn’t even wait to say hello, he just took the captain in his arms and kissed him like the affection-starved lad he was (he hadn’t, in fact, seen Hastings in over a day, which was an intolerably long time for a man in love).
Hastings giggled and kissed him back with much warmth and fondness.
“Hello, lovely,” he eventually managed.
“Hello, my intrepid chief inspector,” Hastings replied, a happy smile on his face. Japp held up a finger.
“Now, now! Not yet! We don’t wanna jinx it.”
“Is it not official yet, Inspector Japp?” came Poirot’s astonished voice from the living room.
Taking Hastings’ hand, Japp made his way into the living room, where Poirot was at his desk looking at one of his stamp collectors books with a magnifying glass.
“They’ll let me know officially on Monday, but they did let slip that the promotion is as good as mine.”
“Congratulations, mon ami! This is excellent news!”
He felt Arthur wrap his arms around him from behind. “Will it mean more hours?” he asked softly.
“A few more hours yes. But it will also mean,” he turned around to face Hastings, “we’ll be able to afford that house we viewed in Islington.”
So far, Hastings was still living in Poirot’s spare bedroom, but with the pay raise the promotion would bring, they’d be able to move into a house with a real garden. Together. Two respectable bachelors, one of them a police officer – what could be less suspicious?!
“The one with the cherry tree in the garden?” Hastings asked, his eyes lighting up. He was still struggling with occasional memory lapses, nightmares, and sometimes his mind wandered off and would go to dark places. Perhaps it would be a lifelong struggle, Japp mused, but they’d face it together.
“If there weren’t already a cherry tree in the garden, I’d plant one for you just so we could watch it grow together,” he said gently. “I love you, Arthur. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
“Absolutely topping,” was all Arthur could say before he flung himself into Japp’s arms. “I love you too!” Then he kissed Japp deeply.
After a moment, Poirot cleared his throat and the two of them brought some bashful distance between them.
“I have the good news as well, mes amis,” he said softly. When all eyes were on him, he continued, “Only this morning I hired a secretary to help me with my filing and typing. Since my dear Captain Hastings is now helping me so courageously with my cases, I can solve more in less time, but the paperwork it keeps piling up.”
He glanced at Hastings a little reproachfully and the captain shuffled his feet apologetically. “Yes. Well. I tried doing some filing, but it’s not for me, truth be told. One needs an advanced skill set for such work.”
“Yes, Hastings, the alphabet, par exemple.” Poirot agreed, his fond facial expression at odds with the almost harsh sounding words. “Anyway I hired somebody. A certain Miss Felicity Lemon. You shall meet her in the morning. She seems very efficient. But perhaps you had already heard the news and came to congratulate me with flowers, non?” he added innocently.
“Got something better for you, Poirot,” Japp grinned and handed him the little chocolate box much to Poirot’s delight.
“Who are the flowers for then, James?” Arthur asked, already gazing at the colourful nosegay greedily.
Japp scratched behind his ear and waved the expensive flowers around like they were just so much bric-a-brac. “Oh, I don’t know. Just picked them up on the off chance I’d run into the most beautiful man I’ve ever met today – as it seems I have. There you go, my lovely.”
But instead of taking the nosegay, Arthur went for another kiss that Japp was only too happy to deepen.
“Mon dieu but Poirot cannot wait for you to move into your new house. All these wonderful news they have tired me out. Please to go, both of you. To the theatre, to the movies, to a restaurant, anywhere; vite and do not return too early.”
Japp didn’t answer; he was too busy kissing the most beautiful man he had ever met.
oOo very happy ending oOo