Friday, 22 March 2019


We've been watching lots of Poirot lately and every episode has only convinced me further that the guy has it bad for Hastings. Really bad. I mean, just look at these moments:

Poirot pushes his luck a little but most of the time he falls short of being too blatant. What if it scares Hastings off completely? What if he's only seeing what he wants to see in Hastings' reactions?

Hastings is actually besotted, of course. Just look at that moustache fixation going on.

Poirot has definitely dealt with a blackmailer or two because of displays like this. The solution to Curtain was the dumbest thing ever, so my fix-it headcanon is that Poirot did it all to protect Hastings' reputation in the eyes of his (completely ungrateful) children. (And his final thoughts were definitely a mixture of regret/wishful wondering what would have happened if he hadn't fetched Bella Duveen in Murder on the Links...)

They are such an old married couple, with everything from the bickering to Hastings sneakily (if ineptly) hiding his golf / motoring / sporting intentions on every trip they take together.

The domesticity! This is such an adorable scene - Poirot keeps handing back the plate for Hastings to wash again and again without a word or Hastings noticing until it meets his exacting standards. The ABC Murders is so so shippy in general. Poirot's delight when he meets Hastings off the train! His insistence Hastings stay with him! His complete change of attitude to Cedric the stuffed caiman when Hastings tells him it's a gift he brought back especially for Poirot! :D

"Hastings, you forgot your crocodile. I prefer that his strange smell content itself with your room."
"He was a present for you."
"For me, Hastings? - What a lovely thing!"
"If you don't like -"
"No, Hastings! It gives an air I do not know of what, do not you find?"
"The embalmer said that the smell would disappear after a month or so."
"No, I like the smell! *deep sniff* It brings the jungle to London."

Poirot might wear Countess Rossakoff's lapel pin, but Hastings totally provides the flowers...

Hand touching! I kind of like the idea it's why Poirot becomes such a softie whenever it comes to couples in love as he gets older; he's thinking about what could have been with Hastings. (Or maybe what was, I could be convinced either way.)

Uniforms. <3

I love mortuus_lingua's Angel on AO3 an unreasonable amount for a glimpse at policeman!Poirot: 

Several were not tall, or clearly Gallic in coloring, and then he landed on a figure with long crossed legs sitting on a bench, mostly obscured by the daily paper. A mere moment of observation rewarded him with a lowering of the paper in order to turn the page and Poirot felt his heart crash against his ribs and his breath leave him.

“Quel ange,” he murmured, swallowing.

Mademoiselle Maes had not exaggerated. If this was Arthur Hastings, he was young, and tall with long limbs and high cheekbones, with searing blue eyes and an earnest, friendly face carved in the long lines that Poirot recognized as distinctly as English of the Saxon descent. All he was missing was blond hair.

The man under observation paused and looked up from his reading, gazing straight at him and Poirot realized how his stare must be interpreted. The blue eyes took him in, dropping down the length of his uniform and back up again before lowering the paper entirely, folding it, and standing up.

“Mon dieu,” Poirot muttered to himself, but squared his shoulders and strode forward towards the tall Englishman. “Monsieur Hastings?” 

He took in the tailored gentleman’s suit, not particularly on the edge of fashion, but clean and pressed, the fabric a subtle brown tweed that flattered the man’s fair complexion and cerulean eyes. 

“Yes,” the angel said in crisp, educated English. “You are Inspector Poirot?” 

100% how that first meeting went. Obviously.

More uniforms.

Also, did you know that Hugh Fraser (Hastings) co-wrote the Rainbow theme tune? (The pic below is from c. winter 1972, Fraser's the one with the flute.) He truly is a God among men.

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