January 25th, 1891 — Crouch Home, Swallowbury

The letter Ben had gotten in response didn't have much to go on, but it was vaguely reassuring all the same. It had convinced him that they could take a break from visiting the types of places likely to sell abortion potions, at least for the moment — if Melody had one of those potions, she wasn't going to use it yet. He still had no idea where she was, or even where to start looking for her, but now that the worst was off the table for the moment they had time to regroup. He could send her an owl and ask where she was, when she was coming home, if she wanted to talk. If this was a fake pregnancy, she ought to respond to that sort of thing, because it would be exactly what she wanted. Even if it wasn't a fake pregnancy, Ben thought there was a good chance she would respond — if she had not taken a potion yet, then she was not so far gone that she would not be willing to talk about this. And after he sent a letter, they could look around the house to see if there was some clue as to where she'd gone.

Art was still with him, because after everything Ben had revealed that afternoon it was not as though Art was just going to leave; not when they still didn't know where Melody was. They flooed to the Swallowbury home (since his conversation last night with Aldous where the London flat had first been brought up, Ben had ceased thinking about it as his home) and encountered a rather unexpected sight. Melody, sitting right there in the parlor.

Luckily Ben had already stepped out of the way of the floo by the time he saw her, because when he did he just stopped in his tracks. He said nothing, did nothing — only stared.

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   Dionisia Fisk

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This was bad, but at least they'd heard from Melody, and that meant that things would get better before they got worse. Probably. Of course, they still had no idea where she actually was - and Art was starting to become quietly concerned the longer this went on. He stood by his earlier statement - there were only so many places she could actually go - but the longer she was missing, the longer Ben was in limbo, and Art was rather worried about Ben spinning out before they could figure out whether Melody's pregnancy was real.

So. They could figure this out. Art was in it now - he was not leaving Ben until they had things a little more stable, and things like this were more Art's wheelhouse than they were Aldous'. He stepped out of the floo behind Ben to find Ben stopped, and Melody Crouch sitting there - apparently fine, and just hanging out.

"Hello?" Arthur said, in the tone one used when discovering a rather unpleasant dead bird on their stoop.

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   Reuben Crouch

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There were a great many decisions Melody regretted from the last year, and nearly every one somehow directly involved Ben. Naturally, her decision to marry him under the influence of an illegal potion existed within the top three (followed only by her decision to confront him about Arthur's supposed involvement). However, the decision to marry him wasn't her most regrettable mistake. How could it be when she destroyed the child she realized in retrospect she very much desired to parent?

The aborted baby was all Melody could think of following the sinking revelation. She thought she was doing the best thing at the time; ridding herself of a scandalous pregnancy was the only way to quiet the rumors that were to sure to follow them from there on out. That she hadn't consulted Ben until after securing the potion was, of course, regrettable as well. But, he hadn't wanted a child then, either. Melody could still vividly recall the solemnly spoken 'I want out'. A baby was the direct opposite of that. A baby would have only made it impossible for them to do anything about their marriage had they wished to.

And, of course, they were once more in the same position. Only, this time they were so far removed from the passion that followed them on Valentine's Day that Melody felt only an increasingly oppressive sense of hopelessness.

Regardless of what Ben's thoughts on that matter were, Melody refused to take the potion a second time. Coping with the guilt of that decision once was a heavier burden than she could've ever envisioned, she wouldn't take it on again. If it meant he left her, then she would find a way to survive. She had a full education and some money stashed away; she could at least manage until she found some sort of work as a seamstress or lady's maid. Perhaps Diana would even consider taking her on.

His letter came as a shock. The only other soul to know of her news was her mother, and the thought of the pair conversing was laughable. Marianne Finch would sooner slam the door on her son-in-law's face than allow him to further sully the Finch girls. However, it made no sense otherwise. What else would Ben be cautioning her against other than taking a similar potion? Who else could he have learned the news from? Melody wrote back a single one worded letter, a reassurance that she wouldn't act as she had then. It wasn't as though that potion had been particularly easy to find in Paris, anyway. Melody could hardly visit Knockturn Alley without a few curious eyes snapping in her direction.

Not that she wanted to, either.

She sat on the sofa in the parlor after a particularly vicious vomiting episode. Already, Melody felt as though her already thin frame was turning gaunt from the excessive illness that had begun in the last day. Although it was likely an exaggerated opinion, she doubted it would stay that way for long. One could hardly go days on end being as sick as she was without some kind of repercussions.

It was then that Ben arrived via the floo, causing Melody's expression to mirror his own. She was ready to stand (Gus' reassuring head resting on her feet be damned) when Arthur followed through. Merlin. Why did Arthur Fucking Pettigrew always have to be involved?! Her shocked expression fell at his flat greeting, shifting into something more guarded. "Hello," Melody replied stiffly. Under no circumstances would she discuss anything about her pregnancy or marriage with the drunken arsehole.

  

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The white noise was back in Ben's ears. He didn't know where she'd been or what she'd been doing, but at the moment he didn't really care. There was only one thought he could hang on to for any length of time, only one thing he wanted to know.

"Is it true?" he said, voice rough. He wondered how long she'd known about it, without telling him — wondered, with a sudden unexpected pang of guilt, if that was what she'd really wanted to talk about when he'd been too distracted thinking about Elliott to pay her any attention.

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   Melody Crouch

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Melody Crouch could be as stiff as she wanted, Art wasn't leaving; he didn't trust her to behave around Ben, and he wasn't sure that he believed Ben wouldn't do anything stupid. For now, though, he was silent, just in front of the floo.

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Aside from her greeting, Melody adamantly refused to say anything to Arthur. Nor was she going to discuss highly sensitive topics with him present. She would sooner lock herself in her bedroom until he left.

She stared pointedly at Ben. Once they were alone she would talk.

  

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Ben understood her look, but was also entirely uninterested in telling Art to leave. Not after the afternoon they'd just had.

"Art and I just visited every potion-seller in Knockturn Alley," he informed her stiffly. He knew this would get to her — knew she hated Art, knew that the idea of him knowing something so personal would make her skin crawl. Ben may not be proud of this particular tactic later, when he had a chance to think about it, but for now all he wanted was to force an answer. "Is it true?"

  

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The tiny, foolish piece of her that was still devotedly in love with Ben broke at his words. Not only did Arthur now know of all her misdoings, but he was also privy to her most devastating secret. Melody looked down at Gus, unwilling to allow Arthur to see the look of betrayal and grief that flashed through her eyes. She would never forgive Ben for this.

Once she was sure her expression could remain stoic, she turned back to Ben. "Yes." The admission was quiet but firm, even if it wasn't yet confirmed by a healer.

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It wasn't as if Art was particularly comfortable here, but he was certainly more comfortable staying than leaving - especially because he still wasn't convinced he believed her. To his credit, he didn't make a disbelieving noise or anything - was still just silent and steady - but he looked at Ben meaningfully. After a month, it was unlikely to be certain - and besides that, they had talked about this. Even if she was pregnant, they'd figure it out.

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Ben didn't miss the expression that showed briefly on her face before she looked down at the dog. His arrow had found its mark: she was devastated. A part of him, even now, wanted to apologize, but he tamped the feeling down until she'd answered his question.

The white noise stopped when she confirmed it. He was left feeling... he wasn't even sure. Tired, mostly, he supposed. He didn't miss Art's look, or the meaning behind it, but having drawn the admission out of her, Ben believed it. He couldn't have said why — Art was right, he had every reason to be suspicious of the news, particularly given the timing of it — but he believed her.

He stood for a moment, not sure what to say next. Part of him wanted to go and force himself in next to her on the couch and put his hand on her stomach, just to have some physical sensation to accompany this newly resolute belief that his baby was in there, somewhere — but after what he'd just done it was hardly fair to expect that she'd let him. And it was unfair to have a moment like that, that level of intimacy, if he was only going to leave her once he was sure.

(Was he still planning on leaving her?)

His shoulders slumped; the anger and panic that had been carrying him through the afternoon since he'd heard the words leave Mrs. Finch's mouth had gone. "Were you going to tell me?" he asked, feeling small. "You let me leave. Yesterday."

  

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It went against her every instinct to not immediately respond to his question. Whenever they fought like this (had they ever fought like this?) Melody always wished to comfort him when the tone shifted. Unfortunately, Arthur's presence in the room tainted any emotion she felt with pure frustration. Although her expression softed — if only just barely noticeably — Melody once more remained silent.

  

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There was a part of Arthur that felt like he shouldn't be here; they were married, and maybe they wouldn't be eventually, but for now they were married. Still, though - he was stuck in place by the afternoon they had had, and the way Ben had paced around his home as if the world was ending. Melody Crouch could sit on the couch with her glaring and her dramatics and her maybe-real pregnancy; he didn't like her and he didn't trust her, and she was ruining Ben's life as well as her own. 

He was thinking, really, about the last time he and Desdemona had a real fight. Art walked out - he had never been able to handle people yelling at him, really - but he'd come back, and Ben was coming back, and under other circumstances maybe things could work out. But there was the letter Ben had sent him: their most recent fight aside, Ben wasn't okay. She looked so gaunt that Melody Crouch probably wasn't okay, either.

They were better off apart. He couldn't say it here, though.

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For a while Ben didn't do anything. He knew Melody wasn't going to tell him anything while Art was here, but he couldn't bring himself to tell his friend to go. He still felt vaguely untethered; as if he might accidentally crash and burn without some sort of grounding presence. Besides, what would he possibly say? Thanks for helping me track down my possibly-homocidal wife, please don't say anything about this to Aldous? That was perhaps the least ridiculous option. He could hardly say I got this or We're ok.

He glanced at Art with a heavy sigh, hoping he would understand without having to be told. Hoping he would trust Ben to get through this without fucking anything up any farther (hoping, really, that he actually could get through it without fucking it up farther).

  

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The glance was as good as being told; he should go, because Melody Crouch might just be able to keep up this glaring thing she had going otherwise. (Was she always like this? Art couldn't imagine.) He didn't, really, want to leave - there was a belief still lodged in his chest that the moment something terrible was going to happen, and he could not get the image of Ben in his living room out of his head.

He felt like he was going to let Ben make a wreck of his life, if he left. He felt guilty. But.

Art cleared his throat. "Alright," he said, audibly reluctant. He was looking at Ben, not Melody; after today, his willingness to speak to her was at an all-time low. It was hard to be in the same room as her, after today, and after their conversation in December; her presence made Arthur feel stressed in a way he had not anticipated.

"Write me later? Or come over?" Ben could come over any time, and he still wasn't sure that Desdemona would notice, right now. Art turned to look back at the fireplace behind him, but as he reached for the little pot of floo powder, an alternative occurred to him, like a firestarter sparking in his brain.

He let his hand fall, turned instead towards Ben and Melody's doors - still didn't acknowledge Melody, but nodded at Ben once more.

Ben would be okay. He'd be okay. And if he wasn't, Art had to believe that he'd tell him.

Art let the front door swing shut behind him.

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Her shoulders sagged in relief once the door shut behind Arthur. There was no need for pretense or falsities with Ben; he had been privy to all her worst moments for a near year now. Whatever estrangement there was to come from this conversation, Melody needn't pretend to be alright with any of the happenings. Neither did he, really.

A long silence filled the air before she finally found the courage to speak. "I didn't know before you left," she explained without meeting his eyes. Perhaps it was denial that kept her from the realization, but she hadn't accepted it as the truth until later that night. "The illness I have ... I thought it was due to stress, not pregnancy. But then my mother asked me if I might be and I remembered how sick I was in Paris and ... " she trailed off, unsure of how to explain her certainty that she was, in fact, expecting.

  

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"Yeah, sure," Ben agreed to Art's question. That was good, having someplace he needed to be and someone he needed to talk to, later. It was the same sort of grounding Art had done when he'd grabbed his wrists, just without any physical presence. Art was a good friend. Ben didn't know how he would've gotten through this afternoon without him; he'd been half-delirious with worry when he'd shown up at his house.

He started to go, stopped. Ben raised an eyebrow and Art nodded at him, giving him a look that implied he ought to know what came next, then headed for the front door. For a moment Ben was puzzled. Art didn't have any business in Irvingly, nor was he particularly close to anyone in Irvingly that Ben was aware of. If he wasn't going to use their floo, he'd have to go home through —

His stomach dropped as he realized. He had an impulse to go after him, to stop him — Art was a good friend and he would have done the same for him. He already had done the same for him, more times than he could count. And the nod — Art wanted someone to stop him, wanted that someone to be Ben.

By the time he'd figured it out, though, Melody had started talking, and there was no possible way he could walk out the front door when she was trying to open up about this — not if he expected her to be there when he came back. He wavered, torn. Art was a good friend; he deserved Ben's help. On the other hand, he wasn't sure what Melody deserved, after everything they'd been through. He'd been ready to walk away from her that morning, but that was before he'd found out she was carrying his child. And now that he knew she hadn't been out looking for potions that afternoon, he was much more inclined to listen to her side of the story.

He wavered. His eyes lingered on the front door. It was long enough that Melody couldn't fail to notice, but he didn't say anything; just let his conscious wage war within him.

Finally, he moved to a chair and sat. "Your mother told me," he admitted. "I went looking for you when your room was cleared out this morning."

Maybe Art would be fine. Probably not; but maybe Art could forgive him.

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