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Privacy on a train was not always easily found, but luckily, Bouc had sufficient experience to manage it without too much trouble.

"Your prostitute friend," Poirot said, eyes narrowing, and Bouc was half-tempted to deliver a detailed account of what, exactly, one might do with a working girl determined to deliver you your money's worth (or what one might have got done to one, rather) but he knew that gleam in Poirot's eye entirely too well, so instead he said, "Oh, her? I would hardly call her a friend, really."

Poirot studied him. Bouc spent a moment wondering if she had left any marks. Less than a day ago, he would have liked that idea. She had been quite good with that strap on of hers, after all, and Bouc enjoyed being able to relive pleasant memories with the aid of little mementos.

"You are being a little cavalier, non? And not so much of the gentleman," Poirot said.

"Oh, I - " Bouc started, but Poirot had finally gotten him where he wanted him and the wait and the fuss and the 'a little to the right's were almost worth it. Almost.

"I am thinking, perhaps you did not deserve such a beautiful young lady working her wiles on you."

"Definitely not," Bouc said, because he was starting to sense the name of the game here. "I should be punished, really."

Poirot hummed, not yet committing to anything.

"Or at least, I should be shown the error of my ways," Bouc tried.

"The erreur of your ways, yes," Poirot said. "I like that. And how do you suggest we go about doing that, hm?"

From the direction of Poirot's gaze and both their general state of undress, Bouc dared say Poirot already knew the tendency of his thoughts.

Then again, Bouc's tendencies were rather similar under any circumstance. Life was there to be enjoyed, and other people were there to enjoy it with you or, on occasion, to get involved with ghastly and/or petty crimes.

"I could - " Bouc started, only to be shushed by Poirot.

"You will stay right there. Right as you are, yes? It is I who shall be doing things."

Bouc decided that this would be a very bad time to bring up the prostitute again, even if Poirot might very well be able to improve her performance simply by hearing about it in enough detail.

Poirot could be very competitive from time to time. Possessive, on occasion. Highly competent, without exception.

Bouc might have considered a more permanent entanglement between the two of them, if not for Poirot's aversion to romance - not that Bouc was so very keen on moonlit walks and poetry himself, but he did enjoy the idea of it, of having one person, be they near or far, who would light up any room the moment they set foot in it.

Simply having someone willing to bugger him silly any time they met would do well enough, though.

"So," Bouc said, because there didn't seem anything of much going on this very moment, and he did, in theory, have duties.

"Yes," Poirot said. "I believe ... " He moved, wriggling a little, and Bouc thought, oh because it turned out Poirot did seem to have some idea of the type of performance he was following up on.

Possibly, he had deduced it. Bouc couldn't fathom how, but Poirot was Poirot, after all: as good a reason as any to never stoop to actual crime as opposed to mere criminal laziness and self-indulgence.

"C'est bien?" Poirot asked. "It is all right?"

"Quite all right," Bouc said. He tried to sound calm, collected, like he did this all the time. (A man could dream.)

"Bien," Poirot said. "Then, all I require of you now is to lie back and, how do you say, think of England?"

Bouc thought of England occasionally, but rarely during moments like this. "I'll think of you instead. How's that?"

"Mon ami, you flatter me," Poirot said. Bouc thought he looked a little pleased, though.

Not pleased enough to make this quick and dirty rather than slow and thorough, probably, but perhaps there might be a bit of cuddling, after, if Bouc played his cards right.

Of course, that assumed he would still have any wits left at the end of it, which seemed unlikely.