March 24th, 1891 - Emrys Selwyn's Residence, Bristol

If Ben hadn't given him a warning as to who Macmillan's second was, Art would have assumed Emrys was one of the men from the boxing venue, who he was desperately hoping had not yet realized that he did not have the money to send them. As it was, he'd arrived to the letter when he got back from the casino before dinner that evening, and after reading it, had told Desdemona that he had to meet Fitz in London later that evening, after she retired for the evening. And - he wasn't sure what she thought of that but he could not very well tell her he was seconding in a duel and had to negotiate the terms.

He wasn't sure he felt prepared for this conversation. He wasn't sure he felt prepared to second at all, but everything in his personal life had been unraveling this week - or, really, for the past six months - and Arthur was supposed to be a person who was a good second in a duel, so surely he could manage to pull it together for an hour to negotiate with Emrys Selwyn.

He took the floo at around 9:15, after Dez had headed to the bedroom but presumably before she had actually gone to sleep, and long after Gwenog had gone to bed.

"Hello," Art said, brushing the ash off his coat before he stepped out of Selwyn's fireplace. "Sorry for the delay."

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Emrys was quite annoyed at having had to clear his calendar two nights in a row for this little fit of dramatics. Obviously, he needed to put a stop to this tonight, but if for some reason he should fail he also couldn't go cavorting around on the evening of the twenty-fifth if he had to be in fucking Ireland at dawn on Friday. Why couldn't they have had duels at midnight instead? Dawn was ridiculous. No one in their right mind was awake at dawn — but then, no one in their right mind was still having duels, either.

He'd taken up a seat in the parlor and settled in to wait that evening, very begrudgingly pacing himself with his drinks so that he wouldn't already be intoxicated by the time this Pettigrew fellow arrived. Emrys knew very little about him except that he played Quidditch, and therefore wasn't exactly Emrys' type. Or so he'd imagined, anyway; when he stepped through the floo he was leaner than Emrys had anticipated, and more attractive.

"Not at all," he said, without rising to greet the man. He gestured vaguely to a well-stocked sideboard with an array of expensive liquors. "Make yourself a drink, Mr. Pettigrew."

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   Minty Scrimgeour [Sofia]

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"Oh, excellent," Art said, before even turning to the sideboard. The liquors were expensive, and Art was definitely pleased and maybe even a little impressed, because he liked expensive liquors and never got them unless Fitz was buying, and he had not been planning on drinking tonight but it was definitely going to make the discussion easier if he wasn't sober.

He poured himself two fingers of Selwyn's whiskey into a glass before dropping into one of the armchairs next to Selwyn. "It's been a while since I've had a discussion like this," Art admitted easily; it had possibly been forever, because he'd never been a second for a serious duel, and Ben seemed extremely fucking serious about this.

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   Emrys Selwyn

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"I'm sure you have a wealth of experience with the subject compared to me," Emrys replied dryly. Really, duels. He was once again irritated that he even had to be having this conversation at all. He ought to have refused to be Macmillan's second in the first place, but to the best of his knowledge refusing to serve as someone's second when asked wasn't really a thing that was done. Emrys had never been involved in a duel before, though, and he certainly had no intention of breaking that streak because Macmillan had said something crude about Crouch's sister.

Emrys considered the other man briefly before continuing. "Have you ever met Elmer Macmillan, Mr. Pettigrew?"

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   Arthur Pettigrew

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Arthur laughed into his whiskey glass and took a sip before replying. "Not that I can remember, but I'm pretty sure we're related somehow," he said, because he was - Elmer Macmillan was related to Ellory Pendergast (Lestrange, whatever) and Art was related to Ellory, so. They were presumably family. That did not mean much to him.

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set by MJ <3

No, he'd thought not. No one would have agreed to this who knew Elmer Macmillan. Emrys' opinion of Reuben Crouch's mental faculties was not particularly high for having started this mess (the duel, anyway; perhaps Macmillan had started it with the comment about his sister).

"Well, as someone intimately acquainted with him, let me tell you that he is utterly incapable of dueling," Emrys said flippantly. He was intimately acquainted with Macmillan on multiple levels, he supposed, but on none of them had he ever gotten the impression that he would be particularly good at anything violent. "So what do we," he began, gesturing at the pair of them seated in his parlor, "Need to do to ensure we're all able to sleep in on Friday morning?"

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Elmer Macmillan was incapable of dueling, that was good, that was great, because that meant that Ben probably wouldn't die, because if Ben died — Art was not sure what he would do if Ben died.

The question was, unfortunately, the sort of thing he should have discussed with Ben before this, and Art had not, because he had taken the duel as a foregone conclusion. So he shrugged at Selwyn. "I think that B - Mr. Crouch would appreciate confirmation that Elmer Macmillan will not be talking to or about his sister anymore, or ever again," he said, "Which of course brings us to the unfortunate lack of Macmillan giving any indication he is interested in such a thing."

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set by MJ <3

"Your inexperience with Mr. Macmillan is showing again," Emrys said dryly. "He has a proclivity for talking, no matter the subject. It's his chief hobby, I believe," he said with a shrug. Macmillan would probably not enjoy this characterization, but he wasn't here to hear it. Emrys wasn't trying to spare his feelings this evening, but his life.

He considered the alcohol in his glass for a moment. "I might be able to convince him to stop talking about her, at least," he said diffidently. "And you might tell Mr. Crouch he's agreed to both points."

Hopefully Mr. Pettigrew wasn't the sort to be shocked, but Emrys didn't have the patience to pretend he cared very much about the honor of some married woman. What Reuben Crouch didn't know wasn't going to hurt him.

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   Minty Scrimgeour [Sofia]

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"I can't lie to Ben," Art admitted, with a wry sort of smile — never mind that he had been lying to Ben. He took a sip of his whiskey and added, as if to address that point: "Or, I can try, but he'll never believe me." He was not so delusional as to believe that Ben actually believed that he was alright, for all that they were both pretending — and November's honor was too important for Ben to pretend in this case.

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   Reuben Crouch

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Emrys frowned. He hadn't expected that. He lied to people all the time, and there was never any harm to it. It was the sort of protest that he'd occasionally encountered when trying to seduce married women, so he was aware that sometimes people felt as though those they cared about were owed honesty, but only when those people were their husbands. He hadn't been aware anyone would have felt so strongly about the matter when the two were only friends. Unless they were lovers, too, but given Mr. Crouch's reputation and his recent appearances in Witch Weekly it didn't seem particularly likely.

"Pity," he said simply. "It might have saved us all some trouble."

He shifted his attention to the fireplace for a moment, then back to the other man. "Mr. Crouch evidently values his sister's honor a great deal, but perhaps... there might be a sum of money which might convince him to value it less?"

He didn't think he could convince Elmer Macmillan to stop pursuing a sexual interest, was the thing, so the avenue of redress was more or less closed off to them. Bribery seemed the next best thing.

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   Arthur Pettigrew

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Art visibly perked up at the mention of sum of money, and then sighed and settled, because this was Ben they were talking about, not Art's — same old shit. He sipped his drink again before replying because he didn't think he could turn it down without the recent burn of alcohol on his tongue. "Not likely," Art admitted, another wry smile in Selwyn's direction; he liked Selwyn better than he'd anticipated, under the circumstances, and hoped that they would not have to duel one another.

"I mean, I can try with a number, but — he's pretty alright, financially."

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   Emrys Selwyn

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Emrys had been watching Pettigrew, so he saw the reaction, though he didn't know exactly what to make of it. Between that and his saying he could try, though, this window wasn't exactly closed. It wasn't a promising avenue, but it was something, and Emrys was willing to pursue it. Twenty or thirty more minutes bartering in his parlor with a drink in hand was very much preferable to having to go to Ireland at dawn on Friday morning, and then maybe watch Macmillan die for no very good reason.

"And you?" he asked. "There might not be a number that would make you a better liar?" He let the question sit in the air for only a second before he continued in his most magnanimous tone, "Please don't take offense. I don't mean to imply anything about your honor and I certainly don't want to provoke you to challenging me. It's just that I place a very high value on my beauty sleep," he joked. "And I'm not particularly fond of bloodshed."

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Emrys Selwyn was trying to bribe him, and Art wanted very badly to accept it. Five galleons. Five galleons and he could keep the boxing venue away from him and stop gambling and it would be like none of this had ever happened, and he could go on with his life and back to not thinking about it and maybe he would be able to bridge the gap between himself and his wife, and, maybe, things would be fine. Five galleons was nothing to a man like Emrys Selwyn, who was apparently willing to just have expensive alcohol around, and Art was sure he could ask for more - ten galleons, even - and have it be nothing. Because what did November Malfoy's honor mean to him, really? He didn't care about her. He wasn't sure he even knew her. Ben would never forgive him. He was not convinced he could forgive himself. But he had done plenty he would never forgive himself for.

Art couldn't help but put his hands on his face as he considered, his body practically thrumming with the possibility of it. He breathed into them, fingers around his nose, and tried to think about it practically — it didn't have to be that much money, he was doing Ben a favor, and his marriage to Desdemona would be fine. November Malfoy's honor might not be fine. Ben might figure it out and Ben would never forgive him. Art still couldn't lie convincingly. He could spare his family the shame of his gambling addiction. He could be less tired; he was so tired. Ben was one of the only people who had forgiven Art for everything, and he would never forgive him this. Ben wouldn't risk his life. Elmer Macmillan would get to live. It wasn't that much money. He had never taken a bribe before. Ben would never forgive him.

"I don't have honor anymore," Art said lightly, because he didn't — he had done everything he could to get rid of it, intentionally or no, and now he was apparently trying to get rid of everything else that mattered to him. "But I can't." Fuck, he wanted to more than anything, just a few galleons, it could be the number that changed everything — but he could not be a bad husband and a bad father and a bad friend, when the latter was all he had left.

Of course if Ben died this would all be worth nothing, and — fuck. Art kept his hands where they were, bridging his nose, because anything else seemed impossible.

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Emrys watched him carefully. Pettigrew did not have the body language of a man who wanted to refuse, but his words had been a refusal. Emrys had already pushed on this more than was delicate, more than he would have if Pettigrew had come earlier in the evening and he'd had a bit more patience for all of this, so it would have to do.

Were they out of options, then? Emrys could not convince Macmillan both to abandon the chase for a woman he liked and to stop talking about her; for one, Macmillan wouldn't have liked that advice from anyone, and for another it would have been entirely hypocritical coming from Emrys, of all people. He couldn't bribe Reuben Crouch, and apparently couldn't bribe Arthur Pettigrew. The only other possibility was some sort of magical remedy — a spell that prevented Elmer Macmillan from making lewd comments, perhaps — but he was unlikely to agree to that, either. It would have been messy, too, because Emrys didn't have the magical expertise to suggest something and he was certain Pettigrew didn't either, so they would have had to go looking for some sort of vow-magic expert, at this time of night. Best not to suggest it, then.

Emrys heaved a sigh. "I suppose we'll have to discuss terms, then," he said, his tone making it quite evident how little enthusiasm he had for the task. "And for that I shall need another drink."

  

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The moment passed, the option passed, and Art was left feeling that perhaps he should have taken the bribe even if it would have ruined his last remaining vestiges of self-worth; he kept his hands pressed to his face, his breathing steady, as if that would settle the issue for him. He was too far in now to back out. He did not want Ben to die on Friday. He could not lie to him, either.

"Yeah," Art said, finally, dropping his hands away from his face; he knocked back the rest of his own drink because maybe the alcohol would rebuild his ability to do the rest of this, and stood up with the glass in hand.

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set by MJ <3

Emrys had a head start, so he made it to the sideboard first. He held his hand out for Pettigrew's glass, though he had to ask what he was drinking before filling it — he hadn't been paying much attention when he'd arrived, really, because he'd been too focused on the conversation coming up. Focused for no reason, apparently, because here they were despite his best efforts, discussing terms for a duel on Friday morning.

When he'd reached his chair again he sunk into it a little lower than previously. "Well," he said by way of transitioning them into the topic properly. "I'm assuming we're in agreement that no one ought to die this week."

  

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