May 1st, 1891 — Prewett House, London

It was not the most friendly thing to do, telling one's closest pal to clear out of the house, but his marriage(!!) was still an awkward enough situation that introducing Camilla to Art at the same time as introducing her to the house was not something Fitz was particularly keen on. Art had, mercifully, obliged, or at least hidden exceedingly well, and it was not until after dinner that the pair met in the billiards room as previously arranged.

"You look like you've been through the ringer," Fitz remarked dryly from the doorway, making his way to the sideboard to pour each of them a very generous whiskey.

— Arthur Pettigrew —

  

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Art had plenty of places he could hide in London when he wanted to, and since Fitz was doing him the favor of not actually kicking him out — while he certainly could have found somewhere else to stay temporarily while he figured out this house bullshit, it was better not to have to just because Fitz had some debutante living with him now.

"And you look recently married," he said dryly from his perch on the billiards table. Art got off it to retrieve his whiskey glass. "Wouldn't say the ringer is too off, though." Fitz had found him on the comedown from this, not when he was trying to sober up from laudanum or till reeling from the fight with Desdemona — so he could be a little dry and blase about it, like this was the sort of thing he still did regularly.

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"What happened?" he asked his friend without further preamble, swiftly emptying his glass and refilling it. There would be time for Fitz's own story soon enough—right now he was more interested in what saw Art holing up beneath his roof. He had never thought Mrs. Pettigrew the fun sort, but he had to admit she had demonstrated a wealth of patience in the past. Why had she finally snapped?

  

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Art sighed. The trouble with Fitz having been out of the country when the Witch Weekly article came out was that Art had to actually tell him what happened, which he didn't feel prepared for at all. He took a sip of whiskey and watched the remaining liquid settle in his glass before he replied. "There was a Witch Weekly article about me," he said, watching Fitz carefully, "And about gambling. Desdemona — didn't take it well."

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At the mention of the words Witch Weekly, Fitz gave a sympathetic wince. He remained markedly stoic, however, at the mention of the content of the article.

He knew, of course, that Art Pettigrew had traditionally loved a gamble, knew that it was to his friend's detriment, but did not feel comfortable talking about feelings and their ilk, particularly as they pertained to something so personal. And so, instead of asking any deep, probing questions about Art's emotional well-being, Fitz said instead, "Fortunate, then, that the staff know you," punctuated with a grin.

"You can stay as long as you like, of course," he added. It did not immediately occur to him that Camilla might have opinions to the contrary, or that he should even care about her opinions on the topic.

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   Arthur Pettigrew

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Tension went out of Art's shoulders, visibly, at Fitz's grin. They wouldn't really have to talk about it. This was much easier, if he could crash here and not talk about it. He grinned back at Fitz. "Thanks," he said, "I'll get out of your hair eventually, I just need to —" he waved a hand, as if to encompass all the things he needed to do in order to acquire a house without actually getting into it. "I certainly don't want to cramp things with Mrs. Prewett."

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   Fitzroy Prewett

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And there it was; Fitz gave a good-natured grown at the mention of his new bride.

"Brothers," he offered his friend by way of explanation. "Well, cousins. Mrs. Zabini—the one I was already related to, that is—walked in on us and lacks your willingness to keep things from her spouse."

  

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Arthur grinned at this story. "I did tell you about debutantes," he pointed out, unable to resist teasing a little.

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"Just be glad I married her," Fitz deadpanned. "The alternative was death or a life on the lamb, both of which would have cost you my delightful presence."

  

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Arthur grimaced. "Ugh," he said, "That really would have put a damper on things." He could handle Fitz married; he couldn't handle Fitz dead or missing. "Are you going to tell her I'm here, or am I supposed to slink around?"

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When Art put it that way, telling his impromptu new wife that they had a house guest indefinitely was...precisely the sort of thing Fitz ought to have done sooner, actually. Oops.

Fitz tried to hide this particular blunder by taking another sip of his drink.

"You needn't slink around, Art," he chided. If he implied his wife knew, it was not the same thing as a lie, and she would know, later that day.

  

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"But I'm so good at it," Arthur protested in a deadpan, raising an eyebrow at Fitz. More seriously, but still light: "Really I just don't want to accidentally scare her."

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Fitzroy didn't think Camilla was the sort of woman to scare easily, but had to admit that avoiding doing so was probably ideal.

"So gallant," he teased. "Mrs. Pettigrew doesn't know what she's missing."

  

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Arthur made a face at Fitz. "I don't know what to tell you," he said sarcastically, "I'm very noble and polite."

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"So noble and polite your wife kicked you out?" Fitz needled with raised eyebrows.

  

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Arthur grinned. "Technically I kicked myself out," he said, tone far more blasé than the situation warranted.

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