{10 out of 20]: Poirot: Gen
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sweetandshortTitle: That cup
Fandom: Poirot
Rating: Gen
Length: 300
Prompt: singing Christmas carols
Summary: Poirot is aggrieved by Hastings' cup.
“…not for me the tea that you English consume by the barrelful. On a cold day such as this, I prefer the chocolate. Or perhaps a warming tisane. Yes, that would be best.”
Poirot snuck a glance at his companion, but his stealth was wasted because Hastings wasn’t paying Poirot the least bit of attention. He was, in fact, thoroughly engrossed in the afternoon’s newspaper.
Just as well, Poirot considered.
Hastings was too occupied to be offended by Poirot’s undisguised disdain for the cup which Hasting was holding. The cup had been a recent gift from a seasoned sailor with whom the good Hastings had made acquaintance in the Argentine. The sailor and Hastings had exchanged compliments of the season when the former was passing through London on Christmas Eve.
Poirot suspected there had been rum, swearing, and cards involved.
The cup had obviously been crafted in a part of the world where morals were looser and appreciation for the female form greater for it had been crafted in the shape of a comely torso. Thus, Hastings gave the impression of dipping into ample bosoms with every sip.
And being English as the day was long, he sipped not infrequently!
Poirot was no prude, but Mon Dieu, this was not Paris!
Poirot was considering various plans to make away with the cup when he heard voices.
Hastings heard them, too, for he remarked.
“Singing Christmas carols.”
“But Christmas is behind us, is it not?” said Poirot. “I wonder.” He got to his feet and went to the window.
It turned out to be a very singular case, indeed, which ended with Poirot being clever and Hastings being loyal and brave, but which began with a bullet shattering Poirot’s window and the blessed drop—and also shattering—of a certain cup.
Fandom: Poirot
Rating: Gen
Length: 300
Prompt: singing Christmas carols
Summary: Poirot is aggrieved by Hastings' cup.
“…not for me the tea that you English consume by the barrelful. On a cold day such as this, I prefer the chocolate. Or perhaps a warming tisane. Yes, that would be best.”
Poirot snuck a glance at his companion, but his stealth was wasted because Hastings wasn’t paying Poirot the least bit of attention. He was, in fact, thoroughly engrossed in the afternoon’s newspaper.
Just as well, Poirot considered.
Hastings was too occupied to be offended by Poirot’s undisguised disdain for the cup which Hasting was holding. The cup had been a recent gift from a seasoned sailor with whom the good Hastings had made acquaintance in the Argentine. The sailor and Hastings had exchanged compliments of the season when the former was passing through London on Christmas Eve.
Poirot suspected there had been rum, swearing, and cards involved.
The cup had obviously been crafted in a part of the world where morals were looser and appreciation for the female form greater for it had been crafted in the shape of a comely torso. Thus, Hastings gave the impression of dipping into ample bosoms with every sip.
And being English as the day was long, he sipped not infrequently!
Poirot was no prude, but Mon Dieu, this was not Paris!
Poirot was considering various plans to make away with the cup when he heard voices.
Hastings heard them, too, for he remarked.
“Singing Christmas carols.”
“But Christmas is behind us, is it not?” said Poirot. “I wonder.” He got to his feet and went to the window.
It turned out to be a very singular case, indeed, which ended with Poirot being clever and Hastings being loyal and brave, but which began with a bullet shattering Poirot’s window and the blessed drop—and also shattering—of a certain cup.
