tramitem_log | ᴹʀ. ₐ.ᶻ. Fₑˡₗ's Aᴍᴀ𝓏ɪɴ𝓰 Aₚʀᶦʟ ᴇᴠᵉₙᴛ Cₐₜ𝒸ₕ₋ₐₗₗ ₗₒ𝓰

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ᴹʀ. ₐ.ᶻ. Fₑˡₗ's Aᴍᴀ𝓏ɪɴ𝓰 Aₚʀᶦʟ ᴇᴠᵉₙᴛ Cₐₜ𝒸ₕ₋ₐₗₗ ₗₒ𝓰

(Well. Not really amazing. I tried.)

Who: Aziraphale/Mr. Fell and OPEN
What: Oot & Aboot. Random encounters of the Aziraphalean kind.
When: April 1st-5th, the Truth or Lie event. Aziraphale is forced to tell the TRUTH.
Where: Various Locations, mostly Manhattan-adjacent since that's where he lives.
Rating/Warnings: Uhhh. ?? Warnings for witchcraft and witchery?

Mr. Fell goes to the NYC Public Library

Armed with his reading glasses, his book-bag, folders for organizing, a legal pad, and change enough for many, many xerox copies, he stationed himself nearest he could to the philosophy and religion sections... And set to work.

In short order, he had amassed a stack of books on various topics surrounding the art, history, mythology, and practices surrounding alchemy and witchcraft in Europe and North America. Several photocopies, post-its, and highlighings later, he had tangented into reading about Matthew Hopkins, about a James Stewart film, and about the definition of a warlock according to current iterations of a fascinating tabletop roleplaying game.

Research was going terrifically. By which I mean it was utterly frustrating.

Memories had led him to believe this was magical in nature, but nothing in any of the books were exactly what he had been doing. He had recreated some of the content^[1] onto notes which were cluttering the table. A significant portion of the text wasn't in English, nor Latin, but the word Sundering appeared multiple times. The sigils varied, but there were two repeated independent of anything else in his notes: a simple glyph and a more winding shape doubling back onto itself.

He wasn't sure what Sundering ultimately was, but that appeared to be what he had been trying rather desperately, passionately to do. And he had been trying not to get caught doing it. Which was worrying, because... to sunder, by definition, seemed rather alarming.

(Later he would treat himself to a cupcake at the attached bakery and try not to think too hard about the fact that he was going to try it anyway.)

For now, though, he had his nose turned down to his bag in an urgent search and hadn't even bothered to look up to greet the newest occupant of the table: "Terribly sorry, but I seem to find myself without a pen. May I borrow one of yours?"

Mr. Fell takes a walk (after a truth-telling)

In a moment of undesirable candor, he had admitted that he was NOT sleeping well, had been accosted by men in suits, and was pretty sure he was some kind of wizard in another life.

Bridget laughed. "You've cracked. The paint fumes have finally gone to your head." He would have said more, insisted he wasn't kidding (and why? Why did he feel so suddenly free with this information? To Bridget of all people), but she had waved him off, blowing a stream of smoke from her upturned lower lip before fanning it away. "Get some fresh air, smoke a joint, get laid. Go see a show. Do whatever it is the kids do these days. You'll be fine."

She pushed a cigarette on him despite his protest of: "I haven't in ages," and then snuffed out her own with the toe of her boot.

"Then you're due. Look, I better get back in there, do the rounds, thank them all for attending, et cetera. Like I said, you'll be fine. It's a ...late midlife crisis or something."

Which left Aziraphale alone on the curbside at dusk among the dwindling crowd of gallery attendees, fidgeting with the cigarette and wholly without a lighter or match.

A walk would do him some good.

Mr. Fell goes to the pub

It was late evening and friends had cancelled, so he was alone under the reddish amber glow of the low-ceiling pub, enjoying the atmosphere. It was one of those places that looked like it had history, and did. The building and original establishment pre-dated Aziraphale's own grandfather and had once been a working-man's pub until sometime after Prohibition.

He liked it. The place felt like a pub should: kind of dark, with the smell of old tobacco and aged alcohol and wood. There was a hint of sawdust on the floor. It had billiards. It had ambiance. If it had stopped there, one might have called it charming and quaint...a bit old-fashioned, not unlike Aziraphale himself.

Instead it was cozy, cultural, with posters and flyers from now and ages past; it blurred a line between antique and avante garde. A little seedy, a bit questionable, but not boorish. Intimate but a bit loud. Nothing glitzy or fashionable or cold. Nothing too pretentious or corporate or sleek.

And the bartender wasn't half bad to look at either.

Mr. Fell ____ (Ok, so I didn't want this to get tooooo long and scare people off)

- Goes to lunch! He loves to eat.
- Buys wine! He needs to replenish after that "Mr. Fell Gone Wild" network post last month (T_T)
- Visits the cafe! And searches for a new place to find masterful scones because Anthony made the last place awkward.
- Rides the subway!/Catches a cab! Maybe even rides his bicycle!
- Make your own or suggest a personal starter!

[1] The circles resembled, for lack of easier comparison, something out of a Japanese anime that Aziraphale does not know about, but was widely popular among certain social groups in the mid-to-late 2000s, so we will assume the audience has familiarity with them and won't go into further detail. (Unrelated, but interesting, a purely meta find.)

* (Aziraphale had himself a handful of friends, colleagues, and acquaintances who classified themselves as forms of modern pagans, but aside from what he could get away with asking under the guise of "purely academic inquiry" and small-talk, he was hesitant to divulge to any of his social groups anything about the Bureau or this whole bloody mess he'd found himself wrapped up in. If nothing else, he thought it rather rude to equate whatever ridiculous fiction he had been doing in the memories with the actual practices they performed. Also, respect and prudence aside, he was simply embarrassed. So asking them was rather out of the question, not that any of them would have any idea what a Diatu was.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Anthony's head bobbed as he glanced back out at the traffic he had just left.

"There's not much joy in it."

His own candor surprised him but once freed it simply couldn't be stopped. It was just how it had been with Grace. One moment they had been having a nice spot of tea and building a cat tree and the next he had been telling her everything he had up until that point been trying to keep hidden.

"I've been driving around for hours, trying to make sense of things... and searching for all the crepe shops. You know there really aren't that many, not good ones. It's ridiculous."

With a light frown he glanced back at Mr Fell, finding very little welcome in his eyes but oddly enough not recognizing that as much of a barrier at all.

"You've been on my mind since we last talked."

Aziraphale softened. Poor Anthony. It was awfully hard to go this whole Different business alone, and last Aziraphale heard, the man had been avoiding any interaction with them or the Bureau. But one could only keep your head in the sand so long before it bit you in the ass. Or at least wore on you. He knew that the hard way.

"Hours? That's going a long way for a snack." He couldn't recall the last time he'd had crepes. Did they have them at the winter village? No, those were waffles. Goodness, now he could go in for something a bit decadent. Sassy remarks about using Yelp or that Anthony would do better to go to France if he was so picky fizzled out. "Quite a connoisseur, hm? I haven't had a crepe in ages. Sounds rather good right now, actually. Not sure I'd know a good one from a mediocre one at this point, though."

He gave Anthony another slower consideration, coy smile playing over his lips.

"Have I? I admit you left quite the impression yourself."

"Some one is... or I thought they were."

Maybe he had been left with the wrong impression or maybe things like that didn't transfer. Mr. Fell wouldn't know a good crepe from a bad one? So... searching for a French restaurant for the good ones wouldn't be worth anything? It left him a touch puzzled, so that he looked back to his bike's switches and dials as if checking the gas gauge when really he was just wondering where to go from here.

He understood he had left an impression, a rather bad one he suspected what with that whole accusing Mr. Fell of being a hitman and all. It was a moment. Everyone had moments!

"You wouldn't want to go have some?"

Anthony looked up, trying to catch those eyes just to judge how well received that question might have been.

"Cafe Triskell. It's supposed to have the best genuine French cuisine in Astoria."

"Ah." He looked down, ostensibly to just drop the cigarette and squash it. Was he correct in assuming Anthony meant him? Surely. Aziraphale had figured he wouldn't see Anthony again (if at all) unless he had a memory with Aziraphale included. Apparently that had happened now, and under better terms than his memory. Crepes. It sounded almost friendly. He didn't really think crepes was a normal business-lunch sort of food. (Frankly he thought of it as breakfast. Had they had breakfast together?) "Sorry to disappoint." And he genuinely was.

Aziraphale put his hands in his pockets and shifted back onto his heels, looking up at Anthony. His tone was light, eyes lit in a playful bit of sparkle from a nearby streetlight. "It might be nice. No accusations of being a hitman this time, I hope?"

"Never been there. And will you be driving us?" He gave a pointed, questioning look at the motorcycle. "I don't have a car."

He wondered if the sorry to disappoint would continue into a polite refusal of the lunch offer. It would have been justified, he supposed. Who would want to sit down to eat with some one who had loudly accused them of being a hitman... anyway maybe it was a mob thing instead. Not that that thought made it any better.

Anthony reached around behind him and unlatched a second helmet from the seat. These days he always carried one with him, it was the law if you had a passenger. This was held out towards Mr. Fell on silent offer.

"This will be my treat. A way to apologize for the first time."

He accepted the helmet with a bit of unease. Oh, he loved fast cars, nice bikes, all that. Had since relatively young. He liked to look at them, the sense of freedom and style, liked to watch the men who drove them, watch their hands shift gears and feel the rev of the engine.

Now if only they could do that at a slightly more sedate speed. Not that he was scared. Just cautious.

Still, he liked a little adventure and he hoped that however old Anthony was, he'd come to arrive at that age through a decided lack of reckless driving. The fact that he had a helmet to offer was a point in his favor. So Aziraphale clasped the helmet on, put on a determined smile, and stepped off the curb to get on the back of the motorcycle.

"Now, I trust you won't go getting us killed. ...And I'll have you know," he said, fussing his way onto the back seat and trying to figure out where to put his hands.
All a bit embarrassing. "I am not always so easily won over by food and good looks. ...Or I try not to be. I think the motorcycle may have been the ultimate deciding factor."

"Relax. I haven't gotten anyone killed yet."

The bike bounced a touch on its shocks as Mr. Fell settled into place behind him but his newness to the art of riding was readily apparent when his hands hesitated in taking a firm enough hold. It was a very common issue with new riders. They never did know where to put their hands.

"Right, I'm going to need you to hold on to my waist tighter than that. I'm not a china doll, you can't hurt anything."

Anthony waited until Mr. Fell had a firmer hold and checked to make sure his feet were securely on the foot-pegs before gliding the machine back out into traffic. It was a slow start. Naturally one didn't jet out into traffic with a new rider, not unless they wanted to send their passenger tumbling across lanes of cars. Once they were out on the freeway however Anthony opened her up. Here there was no need to worry about traffic lights or cars slowing suddenly to turn around a corner so they could pick up speed, just enough to flummox the police but not enough to really get into trouble. He loved the feel of the wind whipping past them, the speed which coursed through the tires as they tore over the assault. Sadly it barely took them any time at all to make it to their exit ramp and the bike's pace naturally slowed as they entered start and stop residential traffic.

Anthony pulled up to the curb in front of a small cafe. It's woodwork had been painted a bright red and there was a small grouping of tables and chairs out front for those wishing to eat out of doors with more inside for those you preferred eating with a roof over their heads. The key turned in his hand and the bike rumbled to a stop.

"Still with me, Mr. Fell?"

"...Yet."

Anthony couldn't see the tinge of blush staining Aziraphale's cheeks as he complied, wrapping his arms around Anthony's thin middle and holding on for dear life. "Perhaps not made of china, but--" An absolute beanpole.

Merging into traffic on the busy city streets was nerve wracking. Aziraphale did not like that part at all. There were too many variables--cars, bicycles, pedestrians--but once they had moved to the freeway, the motor shifted gears, the evening air cut through his button up and coat, and it felt like flying. Or rather, it felt like flying ought to feel, if not for the need of planes. I might die on this thing slowly morphed into I should have done this sooner.

He rather missed the rumble when it stopped and it took him a moment to collect himself before answering. "Yes, yes, still present and accounted for." He gave Anthony's side an embarrassed, friendly pat and released him, swinging his leg back over the bike to dismount. His face felt like it was on fire. Maybe he was motion sick. One overheated when that happened, right?

And, to his utter mortification, as he was straightening out his clothes from the ride, he was compelled to add: "That was invigorating--exciting. I think I might have enjoyed that. Fairly certain I saw my life flash before my eyes, but--" The storefront proved a nice distraction. "OH, how lovely! It looks positively quaint."

Tittering. Mr. Fell was tittering. Not with a barely suppressed laugh but verbally, just saying anything that seemed to come to mind. Anthony watched the display with wry amusement as he kicked down the stand and worked at freeing himself from his helmet. He had never seen anyone carry on quite like that before and oddly enough it seemed to stir some sort of barely remembered feeling. He couldn't put a name on the emotion but it was endearing watching the stuffy little fellow figuratively letting his hair down. He looked so happy, almost glowing... Anthony might even have called it cute so long as no one was around to hear it.

Anthony's helmet was strapped down to the seat and as soon as Mr. Fell's was removed it joined it's partner on the bike. Mr. Fell was right. The small establishment did look quaint. It was one of those hidden gems, a small business tucked away in a very narrow space which some one had managed to turn into something special through their ingenuity and skill.

"Outdoor seating work for you?"

He smiled as he took up one of the outdoor chairs and reached for one of the menus conveniently placed in the center of the table for walk ins. He had suggested crepes and there were two sorts to chose from, the more savory lunch variety or there was the sweet dessert version. It proved more difficult to chose between them than he had anticipated but he did feel he ought to order before, potentially, making things awkward between he and Mr. Fell again.

"I think... I'll go with the Scottish Smoked Salmon Crepe and a Cappuccino. It's been a while since I've been home and that feels nostalgic."

He absolutely was tittering like a loon, good god, if only his mouth would stop running off on its own like that; it was positively ridiculous and Anthony was liable to think Aziraphale was losing his mind, going on and on as he were. He tried to quell some of the overwhelming emotion, but his attempt to lose the smile was just not working. It was the adrenaline, had to be; what in the world was he turning into, tripping over himself and silly like a schoolboy over a little ride around the city? He hadn't felt this kind of freedom and rush in a while, and not since this whole ordeal with the Bureau had started, at the very least.

Giddy and still grinning, he turned back from the storefront to find Anthony had removed his helmet. The smile faltered just a tad.

"Right, yes, you'll be wanting this, I suppose." The helmet left his fluffy hair irregularly puffy and flattened both when he handed it back. Aziraphale tried in vain to smooth it out. "Nearly forgot I was even wearing it."

Feeling like an idiot, he followed Anthony to an outdoor table. "Sounds lovely."

Aziraphale took the seat opposite with a little wiggle into his seat and browsed the menu. Everything looked scrumptious. He hummed to himself as he debated over all the options.

"I'll have the crepes with pears and goat cheese, and a cup of Earl Grey," he requested, before addressing Anthony's comment. "You're Scottish?" In retrospect, he supposed he could detect a hint of the accent in some of Anthony's words. Just a little. "What brought you here, if you don't mind me asking?"

The waiter who had been Johnny on the Spot once they had both taken their seats wrote down the two orders and disappeared back inside.

"My father was Scottish, Mother is English. We had a little place up in Hexham. Have you heard of it? Might not have... Londoners like you don't usually travel that far north."

The menu was folded and set back onto the middle of the table as he pondered over why he had left. It wasn't a subject he spoke very much about not even with his family, but now the words fairly tumbled from him.

"I think I just wanted to get away. I had spent so long trying to do what was expected, getting into the right schools, trying not to disappoint anyone... And knowing I was going to fail at that as soon as the family found out the things I was doing in my free time... I just needed space. America seemed to be the place to go for that. There are all those road trip movies. It looked like fun."

He frowned and drew himself away from the table as he looked at Mr. Fell like the man had cast some sort of hex on him.

"I've never told anyone that before. Not even Lilith when she finally caught up with me in New York."

"Can't say that I have. Crashed briefly in Edinburgh with a friend, but as far as England itself goes, mostly just passing through anything terribly northern." Was it so obvious he was a Londoner? Should he be embarrassed?

"Road-trips do sound like fun," he said earnestly and offhandedly, the way in another lifetime one might comment that they like pears. He was listening. Honestly he was. And he couldn't decide what to make of that look Anthony was giving him, like he blamed Aziraphale for something.

"I'm sorry. It's been that kind of week for me as well. Strangely candid. Lots of things I have no right telling anyone. But I appreciate your openness. And...I understand, for what it's worth, about expectations, not meeting them. I mean, I was never going to be the man my grandfather wanted me to be..." He trailed off with a self-deprecating laugh. "I'm sure you can imagine: old-fashioned admiral with a gay grandson...not going to go over well. I--"

Aziraphale took a deep breath and caught himself. "Oh, look at me, derailing the conversation, making things incredibly awkward. I'm sorry. You invited me out and here I am making a mess of this. At this rate, you're never going to want to talk to me again."

Accents were like fingerprints and it had been clear from that first conversation that Mr. Fell wasn't any local New Yorker. Anthony couldn't exactly say he was surprised over Mr. Fell's admission either. Those were some of his most noticable characteristics, that he was English and that he was gayer than a clutch-purse on Tony night... Or some equally vivid description.

The complete nonjudgmental acceptance gradually softened the thousand yard stare. After all if anyone knew what it was like to not quite fit into a place it was the gay grandson of an admiral. Anyway given what he knew now, the familiarity made sense didn't it?

"I thought you would never want to speak to me again after that first time. I... Didn't really handle all this well."

Not that he thought there was a perfect way to handle being told your past lives were returning to you in dreams and violent flashes... Who could have been prepared for that?

"I'm glad I ran into you. I thought about going back to one of those meetings to find you but..."

Whatever else he might have said trailed off as their drinks were delivered to the table. Anthony managed not to say another word about it until the server had ducked back inside.

"Have you heard that some of the other people experiencing whatever this is were actually friends in thier other life?"

"No, but neither did I. I got drunk on the network. I hardly think I was in a place to judge your handling of this situation." Not one of his finer moments, really.

Aziraphale thanked their server with a warm smile. The plate set in front of him smelled heavenly.

"Yes. A few--" He sliced a bite that included a little piece of pear and goat cheese, along with his crepe, the better to savor the whole thing as the chef intended. "--Very few I'm aware of, but it has happened." With a happy, surprised wiggle and a pleased sigh, he chewed and swallowed the first bite, then primly dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "I feel like I've been eating the wrong kind of crepes my entire life. Now, uh, you were saying? Are you suggesting we were friends?"

"That must have been something. I can't imagine you drunk."

Mr. Fell seemed like he would he would always be so very prim and proper, never get drunk, never stay out after midnight... He had hidden depths!
Anthony too took a bit of his chosen crepe and while he didn't savor the meal as much as Mr. Fell had it was good. All the nostalgia of home with none of the guilt trips. The French owner was a real connoisseur of fine cuisine.

"And... ye-yeah."

He stumbled over the words as he tried to think back on that most recent dream and how the moment had felt.

"I guess so. One doesn't usually go around asking strangers out for crepes."

He took another bite and pointed his empty fork at Mr. Fell.

"It's how I knew you would like them."

"Hmm." He wrinkled his nose at that fork pointing. How the tables had now turned. Before, in their prior meeting, Aziraphale had information on Anthony that the other did not, now Anthony knew things about Aziraphale that, however simple, he himself didn't know. That was sort of unfair, especially given his own recent memories didn't even include Anthony, so he had nothing to use in return. "Was it strictly a friendly outing?"

He took a sip of tea, let that thought linger a moment with all it could otherwise suggest.

"I mean, might it have been business? Did we discuss anything over crepes?"

"I should probably just tell you what the memory was. Maybe you can add something to it."

So he said as any implications about the lunch offer flew past him not unlike his counterpart who hadn't realized why the Ark would have needed two unicorn. It takes a little while for these concepts to sink in.

"I think we had some sort of disagreement. You were walking away down the road and I remember thinking I shouldn't just let you go. Everything would fall apart if you left. So I offered lunch and looked pathetic. I knew that would get you to turn around, especially once I said I owed you one, which I thought I did even though I couldn't remember how or when."

Anthony paused to lean just a little bit closer over the table.

"Now here's the part that might not make much sense. You answered, clear as anything Paris, 1793."

He paused waiting for that to sink in. He had heard a year. A very old year that didn't fit in with the 'now' or even apparently the 'then' in his dream.

"It doesn't make sense does it? I mean after that you and I walked over to a car together. A car! We couldn't have been anywhere near 1793 by then. Oh, and what a car! She was gorgeous! A 1933 3 ½-Litre Bentley! A beautiful grey color, not a scratch on her. Do you have any idea what one of those costs?"

Were Mr. Fell's eyes glazing over just a little bit at the car talk? Maybe it was just his imagination but he tried to move on with the rest of the story.

"Anyway, point is I agreed with you. The Reign of Terror, I said, then I asked if that was one of ours or one of yours. No idea at all what that could mean. Oh, and there was a cop there giving me a ticket but once his notepad exploded we were able to drive away without any trouble."

Anthony sat back, took a sip of his own drink, and scrunched his nose.

"Which is also odd when you think about it because I'm fairly certain that Bentley had a boot on the wheel. Eh, maybe he just hadn't fashioned it yet. So..."

His fork was recollected as he attempted to return to his meal but found himself watching his companion's face rather intensely again instead.

"What do you make of that?"

Offered lunch and looked pathetic. Shouldn't just let you go. Obviously that could mean a great deal of things, but did Anthony have any idea just how his wording actually made their dynamic sound?

Aziraphale leaned in to meet him.

And sat back into his chair with his head buzzing in confusion. Anthony was going on something car something litres and scratches and Aziraphale wasn't even hearing him.

1793. Paris.

The Lourvre opened to the public around that time. France was in the throes of revolution, wasn't it? Logically there was no reason for two Englishmen...well, an Englishman and a Scot, technically maybe, to be anywhere near France at the time if they wanted to keep their heads... Let alone for two modern day people --

"You exploded an officer's ticket-book just to get out of a parking ticket?" Focusing on judging him for possible actions was totally a good use of time.

He opened his mouth to offer actual useful input, and closed it again with a frown that wrinkled his brow and pursed his lips. The Reign of Terror. One of mine or one of yours. Time-travel? His own dreams of witchcraft seemed less far-fetched by the second.

"So, were we in the 1930s in this one? Or 40s, somewhere appropriate for your, what did you say it was? A Bentley? Because I'm absolutely certain my memory was the modern era; you had," he waved abstractly at Anthony's person, "modern hair and skinny jeans."

"I never touched him!"

The protest came between bites of crepe.

"It just... exploded on it's own, like some one put a small firecracker in between the pages, but I was on the other side of the car, in the driver's seat even, when the thing went off."

Clearly he couldn't have had anything to do with the explosion. Anthony hadn't had any experience with magic at all beyond those tragic magic shows that would occasionally appear on TV. Though he did find the one where they actually exposed the tricks to be fairly interesting it had just further proved that magic wasn't real.

"What would the 1940s look like?"

He thought it over but eventually his head gave a little shake.

"Nah, you looked exactly like you do now. I mean, even down to the tie..."

He started to try to explain the 1940s, but it was a good thing Anthony continued onward because his explanation was basically "Boxier suits. No cellphones. Women wore funny hats. --What's wrong with my tie?"

It was a nice tie. He quite liked bow ties; had a lot of them. Aziraphale pouted just a little and straightened the tie proudly.

"No, listen, I'm sure out of context it sounds like absolute lunacy, but maybe there's a very normal explanation for this. We just have to find it. Put our thinking caps on, right?" He beamed and clapped his hands together as he seized upon an idea. "History professors! There we go. History professors. I taught a lesson on the Reign of Terror and you owe me lunch for it. See?" He was grasping at straws and he knew it. "...No, that's shit."

Probably best to come clean whether he wanted to or not.

"Anthony?" He shifted guiltily in his seat. Then it was his turn to lean in and lower his voice. "Do you suppose there might have been...magic involved in that exploding notebook? Because I'm fairly certain I was studying very real magic in more than a few of my memories lately."

Ooo misstep. Anthony exhaled and shook his head, trying his best to backpedal that it was a very old fashioned sort of look. Not even business men wore bow ties anymore.

"Nothing. They just aren't very common. It suits you though. Plaid... seems to be your color."

And it did. It had back then too, whenever that was. It had a worn in yet comfortable sort of look that entirely fit the gentleman's personality.
Mr. Fell did have the job of an art restorer and the look of a history professor so the suggestion might not have seemed as strange to him but the proposed logical reason for the date was given a long pause and a raised eyebrow.

"History Professor with a Bentley?"

What sort of teacher could afford to even look at a car as exquisite as that! He was glad when the idea didn't remain on the table for long but unfortunately it was replaced with something equally ridiculous.

"What like hat tricks, tahdah, here's a rabbit? Card tricks and getting cut in half? Pulling the scarf chain out of a sleeve until your underwear is hanging out for the audience to see?"

He rolled his eyes, still not mollified from the bow-tie insult. Yes, alright, maybe a professor wouldn't be able to afford this fancy car. Whatever. At least I tried, he thought, shooting Anthony a nasty glare.

"Oh, ha ha, yes, laugh it up, Mr. Reign of Terror," he snapped back irritably. "I should have known you'd make fun. It's why I didn't want to tell you this part." How they managed to be friends in another lifetime without Aziraphale strangling this annoying creature, he had no idea. "No. Not 'rabbits in hats' and 'coins out of your ear.' I mean real magic. Fantasy magic. The kind of stuff that involves drawing lots of circles and squiggly symbol things and speaking in tongues or something. I had a snake and there was a library with fire and I was supposed to be learning something called Sundering. Or maybe I wasn't supposed to be learning it." This felt especially damning and yet here he was, spilling it out without Anthony even having to pry. "I don't think I wanted people to know."

"Real magic doesn't exist."

This was as far as he understood a proven fact. He had never once seen any real act of magic, never heard of anyone who had save for those few back home who claimed to be druids. The world had all kinds in it and more power to them. Anthony knew nothing about the subject at all so naturally after he stared off into the distance imagining some sort of witch's hat and broom on Mr. Fell with his snake familiar he did have to ask.

"Whats a Sundering?"

"Neither do past lives, my dear, yet here we are."

He heaved a sigh and looked down at his poor neglected crepes. Not willing to let another bit of food go to waste just because he couldn't seem to have an agreeable outing with Anthony, Aziraphale poked at the pear, then speared himself another bite.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Presumably there's some 'splitting apart' or 'cutting in twain' going on, given the word itself, but specifics? I have no idea."

"Buddhists believe in reincarnation."

Was it Buddhists? He thought so as his mirth rather deflated, his own meal left semi-abandoned on the plate before him. He never had. You live one life and then that's it, Heaven or Hell... one certainly never came back as a fly, a cat... or a snake or anything.

"You're right. We don't know anything."

He would have left it there. Simply stared grimly into his platter of crepe, which was amazingly tasty, and just never said another word about it only today the spirit of oversharing was very strong.

"I never told you what my first memory was. Are you a religious man, Mr Fell? I am. Well, that's what happens when your family is Catholic."

Anthony reached up into the neckline of his own shirt and pulled out a small golden cross on a chain.

"Mother gave this to me when I was just a wee thing, couldn't have been more than six. She said its important to remember your faith so you know where you came from and can avoid the temptations a young boy could be faced with out there in the world. Then she said she loved me and God loved me too, I guess all parents would say that though..."

He frowned at the necklace, taking a break in his story before he found himself continuing it. This magical affect Mr. Fell had on him for truth-telling was an undeniably strong force.

"Now I'm not even sure I should go on wearing it. In my memory I was a serpent, no... THE serpent, you know the one from the garden of Eden who tempted Eve into taking the apple. I slithered out of the ground, whispered a few words into her ear and caused she and Adam to be tossed out of the garden forever."

As if Mr. Fell could throw him a lifeline, something he could hold onto to prevent his sinking under the waves he abandoned staring at the necklace to focus his pleading eyes on his companion.

"Now that can't be true, can it? Its... a story I've heard dozens of times. Maybe hundreds! It can't be real? I can't actually be Satan...??"

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