Chapter Text
To suggest that your employees were merely shocked upon hearing the news of your impending trip to Venice would be an absolute understatement, for their reactions were nothing short of a whirlwind of disbelief. They bombarded you with questions, pestering you to find the reason for your sudden desire to travel. You barely slipped away from them, somehow still managing to leave them in the dark with your vague answers. Honestly? You scarcely believe the turn of events that resulted in this whole thing. A trip to Venice with THE world-renowned Hercule Poirot? It must be a dream… or a nightmare… you are still undecided.
Your hand comes to your lips absentmindedly. He kissed you. The famous detective took your first kiss, and while you envisioned it differently, you can’t say that you are upset by how it turned out. But the question remains: does he regret what he did? You throw a fleeting glance at the people walking on the platform and don’t see the mustached man, or the author, for that matter. He couldn’t possibly regret it, could he? He invited you on this trip, so it must mean that he liked it, right? Dread fills you. What if he is using this excursion to let you down gently?
Your dark thoughts dissipate the moment you catch a glimpse of him. In a dark grey suit, with his egg-shaped head tilted a little to one side, and his mustache magnificently twirled, he is a sight for sore eyes. Come to think of it, everything about Hercule Poirot is immaculate and orderly, not only his mustache. His clothes are neatly brushed and his patent leather shoes gleam with perfection under the autumn sun. You have to admit that the tidiness of his attire is almost incredible and one of the things that endeared him to you. You are sure that a speck of dust would cause him more pain than a bullet wound.
Your moment of introspection is cut short when green, bright, and intelligent eyes settle on you. A brilliant smile stretches his lips and your heart unceremoniously skips a beat. You flush slightly under his intense gaze and, for the moment, you forget about the possibility of being dragged to Venice only to be cradled in the cold embrace of disappointment.
You stand up when he is close and feel incredibly awkward. What do you do? Do you hug him? No, no, that’s for friends. Do you go for a kiss? Your face burns the moment the idea pops into your mind. Heavens no! That, that would be… oh…
When he starts leaning in, your smile freezes. You feel his warm breath lightly caressing your skin before he plants soft kisses on both of your cheeks, lingering a breath away from your lips and igniting a spark that sends fuzzy shivers down your spine. He pulls back, tenderness shining in his cat-like eyes.
“Bonjour, Y/n” he exclaims, voice brimming with charm and radiating a warmth that defies the crisp chill of the autumn air.
“Good morning, Mons-”
He swiftly cuts you off with a soft tsk and an elegant wag of a solitary, long finger with the unmistakable air of a parent lightly admonishing a little one “Non, non, non. It’s Hercule.”
A pink sheen of embarrassment tints your cheeks “Oh! Yes! Good morning, H-Hercule” you breathe out, hoping that he missed your slight stutter.
It’s clear that he did because his lips quirk upward and his emerald gaze studies your current blush with a keen eye. He finds your blushing absolutely adorable and has thought so ever since your first meeting, when you were a flushed mess, giddy to be in the presence of someone famous. However, that giddiness has slowly faded with every visit of his to your shop, only to be replaced by a warmth that enveloped him, igniting an emotion deep within his soul. He can hardly fathom how he ever existed for so long without it.
“Poirot!”
He closes his eyes and takes such a deep breath that it’s a miracle his lungs don’t explode. ‘Americans! Always loud.’ The man thinks ruefully, mourning the peaceful moment he was sharing with you. He turns to see the svelte woman practically steamrolling toward him “Good morning, Madame Oliver.”
She reaches the both of you and scoffs “Good? What’s so good about it?! It’s too early! And the hotel I stayed at had only tea! Not even a drop of coffee!”
You contemplate her, unsure of how to respond to her apparent tale of woe, yet Hercule seems to know what to say to soothe the brunette woman effortlessly.
“I am certain that you will find a nice cup of coffee to lift your spirits on our journey”, he utters calmly, obviously unaffected by Ariadne’s words. He then pulls out his large turnip-faced pocket watch to check the time, clearly considering the topic closed “Our train will be leaving soon”, he announces, weaving lightly to a porter who is already carrying what you assume to be Poirot’s luggage.
“I want my coffee now! I can’t function without it” she whines like a petulant child while allowing the porter to take her bag.
“Then your engaging conversations will be missed until that happens, Madame Oliver.”
You watch the porter go to the train with your luggage for a moment longer before focusing back on the pair and studying them intently. You took note of the subtle sarcasm in Hercule’s voice. You witnessed it several times in his frequent exchanges with Hastings. It’s always artful and not enough for people to notice it, or if they do sense it, it’s never rude to a fault or upsetting, for that matter. However, you don’t understand why he is so dismissive of her. She is far from plain – quite the contrary indeed, she is fetching. Her brown, wavy hair is neatly styled, peeking out from beneath the brim of her striking green hat, framing her face softly. The tailored coat she wears is a deep plaid, with shades of green and brown that complement the autumnal tones of her whole attire. Like Poirot’s, her eyes shine with intelligence, suggesting a sharp mind behind her playful, sometimes even brusque, demeanor. There’s an understated sophistication to her, one you find yourself admiring. She’s a woman who appears both approachable and unflappable. The way she carries herself, with her head held high and her smile almost mischievous, suggests someone used to being in control. She gives off an aura of quiet confidence, like someone capable of easily taking charge of a conversation or situation at any given moment. And yet… you focus on Hercule and see nothing in his eyes except an amicable regard.
Your lips tingle as you follow them to the train. Does that mean that he has eyes only for you? A bubbling giddiness erupts in your chest at the thought that someone as remarkable as Poirot might consider you worthy to be seen on his arm. But in the next second, dread fills you. Are you worthy of this? You are inclined to say ‘no’. You aren’t special. A small business owner is nothing extraordinary. You can cook decently, but that isn’t enough to make the famous detective yours. Your heart falters at that, the idea of him being yours so deliciously appealing and painful to contemplate. When you enter the compartment, you catch yourself testing in your head how your first name would sound combined with his surname, and you stop the silly schoolgirl behavior immediately when you see his green eyes studying you.
“Please, have a seat”, the Belgian utters softly.
You take the window seat on the left and, before he can sit next to you, Ariadne throws her handbag unceremoniously onto the free space there and sits opposite it with a dramatic sigh. Poirot eyes the offending accessory that blocks him from sitting adjacent to you, and subtly grinds his teeth before taking the window seat on the right side.
As the train begins to pull away from the bustling heart of London, it rattles softly, creating a comforting melody that resonates beneath your feet. The rhythmic clack of the wheels against the tracks nearly lulls you to sleep.
“And the hotel, God! Let me tell you…” the writer starts speaking, beginning an incessant rant about it, making you dread the thought of how she would be if she had had her morning coffee.
You lean your head gently against the cool glass of the window, shutting out her blabber as you feign sleep. Yet, you actually focus on the passing scenery and on the man’s curt responses.
The city slowly ebbs away, replaced by an enchanting tapestry created by the English countryside. Outside, autumn is ready to unveil its splendor - trees dressed in brilliant hues of gold and fiery rust, fields adorned with haystacks, and hedgerows transformed into vibrant crimson, all basking in the gentle embrace of the soft, pale sunlight. A gust of wind occasionally makes the branches tremble, sending a flurry of leaves dancing across the tracks and fields as a reminder of the season. You nuzzle into your coat and, add to that the warmth of the compartment, you are in a perfect, comforting cocoon against the crisp, invigorating chill of October.
Slowly, the scent of salt begins to tickle your nose, the gentle rise of the chalk hills in the distance signaling that Dover is drawing near. Your attention drifts back to the other two occupants of the compartment, and it seems that Madame Oliver didn’t even notice or didn’t care that you were quiet the whole trip. Meanwhile, Poirot’s face blooms with a smile the moment he notices that you aren’t ignoring them anymore. He doesn’t detect any of the negative emotions he thought he might find in your gaze and he is relieved. His fear was unfounded, it seems: you aren’t disregarding him for what he did, you are merely overwhelmed by the author who seems unable to stop talking.
You take pity on him and decide to save him from the woman’s clutches: “Madame Oliver, in The Redshore Folly, the victim was killed by a swamp adder. I looked it up and couldn’t find this species of snake anywhere.”
Her gaze locks onto you, a spark of admiration flickering in her eyes. Yet, beneath that veneer of appreciation, lies a storm of ferocity that makes it feel like she could kill you with just a thought “It’s actually the samp-aderm, the deadliest skink in all India. My editor was an idiot and changed it!”
Her attention diverts to you as she explains, in great details, just how and why she chose that skink, and Poirot looks gratefully at you as he plans to discuss with you what happened at his apartment.
You peruse the menu in the dining car of the train and mumble to yourself, frustration lacing your whispers as you lament your struggle to grasp the French language.
“An… angu…” you struggle before suddenly feeling a presence next to you.
“Anguille au vert à la Flamande”, Hercule speaks gently before taking the seat in front of you.
You note, with a certain degree of relief, that he looks better. When you traveled by ferry from Dover to Calais, he was a little green around the gills.
“It’s eel cooked with herbs”, he quickly explains and chuckles softly when you grimace “Not to your liking?” he inquires as he picks up his menu after rearranging his plates and diner utensils.
“Not my cup of tea.”
“May I order for you?”
You nod and close the menu rapidly “Yes, the words have started to muddle anyway”, you say as you take a sip of your water, wondering if you should bring up the kiss “Where’s Madame Oliver?”
“She decided to skip lunch and sleep. Coq à la bière?” he breathes out, his green gaze focusing on you inquisitively.
You don’t know what he asked but, to be fair, you’d agree to anything if he only asked it in French – or Belgian – in that soft tone of his “What is that?”
His eyes move from side to side as he tries to translate the dish in English properly “Chicken with beer.”
The combination is foreign to you, but what is a trip if not an opportunity to try new things?
“Yes, please.”
He nods and summons the waiter to give the order. He then smiles gently at you, lightly tapping the tabletop “I wish to speak with you.”
Oh, no… is this when he lets you down gently? He could’ve at least waited for you to eat. No, come to think of it, it’s better now: an empty stomach is easier to handle when upset.
“I wish to apologize”, he starts, and that simple sentence stings you with the intensity of a thousand wasps “I wanted to invite you to dinner first and maybe- had you been amenable, at the end of the night…” he waves airily in your direction “… I might have been as forward as I was the other day.”
Your gaze fixes on his emerald eyes, your heart racing in disbelief as a thrill of joy bubbles up within you at his words. He doesn’t regret it! While it was a spur of the moment thing, he doesn’t regret the kiss.
You play with your napkin “Oh… um… so…” you stumble over your words, not knowing how to make the question you wish to ask proper and polite.
It seems he is tuned in on your emotions, or maybe he just learned your small quirks because he smiles softly and his large hand comes to still your restless ones.
“If you’ll allow me, I wish to court you.”
Your gaze lowers to your clasped hands as you try to come to terms with his words. THE great Hercule Poirot wants to court you?! Did you die and go to Heaven? The very thought fills you with a surge of happiness, yet it tugs at your heart with a flicker of anxiety. What if he decides later on that you aren’t good enough?
You shift your attention back to him and… God, his smile is so breathtaking and warm.
“Yes”, you breathe out before you know it, your heart making the decision for you.
He simply radiates joy and, in that moment, you realize you’ve made the best decision of your life.