Standing outside the performers' dressing room was not a conscious decision Arthur Kirkland made. When the Great Gilbert bounded onstage, Arthur suddenly felt the compulsion to leave. He found himself speeding past the doorman and into the lobby, his feet leading him to an unmarked door that then led him into a dark hallway— all before the Great Gilbert had even spoken a single word.

As a frequent patron of the Merlin Club, and a friend (of sorts) to its owner, Arthur knew all of its little tricks. The hallway was lined with many false doors, most of them opening to the club's brick wall. The dressing room was the very last room on the right and it was that room that Arthur was now standing outside as he debated whether or not to knock.

There were many reasons Arthur thought he shouldn't—perhaps Alfred would be tired after his performance and find having a guest an annoyance? Or maybe in real-life the magician was an incorrigible jerk? But in a burst of confidence, these excuses dissipate and Arthur feels his knuckles hit the wooden door.

"Looking for someone?"

Arthur turns and finds himself face-to-face with Alfred the Amazing. The magician seems younger in person and his voice sounds just slightly higher.

Before Arthur can respond, Alfred adds, "I knew you'd come." As he speaks, the door to the dressing room swings open without either of them touching the knob.

Alfred breezes past Arthur and plops down onto the sofa in the middle of the room. Arthur follows him inside, although the magician doesn't seem to notice. Instead Alfred begins to methodically remove food from the brown paper bag he's clutching.

"I hope you don't mind, I haven't eaten yet," Alfred explains, gesturing towards the food laid out on the couch.

Arthur counts at least three different sandwiches. Before he can stop himself, he blurts, "Is that all for you?"

Alfred laughs. "I eat a lot. But if you're hungry, you can have one, too." He stacks the sandwiches on his lap and gestures for Arthur to take a seat. The Briton nervously perches on the very edge of the cushion, his back ramrod straight.

"So, my thick-browed volunteer," Alfred says, tossing a sandwich to Arthur, "what's your real name?"

Arthur pauses from unwrapping his sandwich, which is overstuffed with cucumbers and cream cheese, and looks up. "My name is Arthur Kirkland."

"I'm Alfred Jones… but you can call me Alfred the Amazing, if you want to," Alfred replies with a grin before attacking his sandwich.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "I think I'll pass."

The pair sit in silence for a minute as Alfred continues to take giant bites of his sandwich. Arthur watches him silently, ignoring his own sandwich.

"Mr. Jones, I don't mean to interrupt you," Arthur begins as soon as Alfred polishes off his first sandwich. "But I just wanted to tell you that your show was… it was absolutely…" Arthur searches for the right word, but it eludes him. Fantastic? One-of-a-kind? Legendary?

"It was very well done," Arthur finishes and the room seems to deflate.

"Well done?"

"Y-yes… Extremely so."

Alfred claps a hand against Arthur's shoulder and laughs once more. "Thank you, Artie."

Arthur wants to balk at the creation of a new nickname from this near-stranger, but before he can complain Alfred springs to his feet and strides over to a counter in the corner of the room.

"Want a drink?" Alfred asks.

"A drink?"

"Don't worry, it's just juice. I'm not a bootlegger," Alfred says with a wink.

Arthur replies hurriedly, a blush creeping across his face, "I didn't think you were."

"Is pineapple okay?"

"Fine. That would be fine."

Alfred returns with two mismatched glasses—one champagne flute and one coffee mug—full of dark yellow juice. Arthur takes the flute into his hand, his sandwich still balanced on his knee.

"So, Artie, why aren't you watching the Great Gilbert?" Alfred asks, a small smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

Arthur scoffs after taking a sip of the slightly tart juice. "I've seen his show before. He's an amateur. Especially—"

"—Compared to me?"

"All right, don't let your head get any bigger."

Alfred laughs and stretches his legs out before him. "I had a trick like that once. I made a guy's head look as big as a lollipop."

"How'd you do it?" Arthur asks, swishing his juice around in the champagne flute.

"A magician never reveals his secrets. You know that."

"I do," Arthur says, a smirk curling at his lip, "but with the way you like to gloat, I thought you'd be an exception."

"Ouch."

Arthur chuckles and finally allows himself to relax a little, his back actually touching one of the couch's cushions.

"So, where are you from, Artie?" Alfred asks after draining his mug. "And does everyone there sit like you do?"

Arthur scowls and slouches a bit more in response. "I'm from England," he replies. "But I've lived here in New York a very long time. I moved here for university."

"Really?" Alfred says, placing his glass in a precarious position on the sofa's armrest. "A college man?"

"That's right."

"So what are you doing hanging out in magic clubs all the time?"

Arthur frowns, his brows knitting together. "I don't come here that often."

"Enough to know the way to the dressing room."

"Well, the owner of the club showed me a long time ago," Arthur explains. "When I got to New York, he was the first friend I made."

"Roderich?"

"That's the one, yes."

"When I first met him, I never would've pegged him for a man that would own a place like this," Alfred says, a pensive look coloring his face.

"Looks can be deceiving."

Alfred laughs and adjusts his glasses. "And how."

"So where are you from, Alfred the Amazing?" Arthur asks in an attempt to steer the conversation away from his past. "And is everyone there so hospitable to strangers?"

"Me?" Alfred says, an eyebrow quirking. "Well, I've been traveling ever since I was young. In fact, I've been to every state in the union. Just call me Mister America!"

"Well, where were you last?"

Alfred's face breaks out in a huge grin. "The Big Easy! New Orleans. Tons of great magicians there—none like me, of course."

"Of course."

"Now that place has hospitality, if that's what you're looking for."

Arthur laughs. "New York has enough hospitality for me, thanks."

"You're probably the only one in this city who thinks that."

Arthur shrugs and drains his juice. "The city's been good enough to me, especially after the war."

"Ah."

The two men fall silent as images of faraway battlefields filter through their thoughts and Arthur begins to regret his little offhand remark.

"I'll take that from you," Alfred says quietly, loosening the champagne flute from Arthur's grasp. "I noticed that you didn't finish your sandwich."

"So I haven't," Arthur says, his gaze falling upon the sandwich.

"You didn't like it?"

"Well," Arthur says, another smirk forming, "it's clear your talent lies in magic, not cooking."

"Yeah? You think you could put together a better sandwich?"

"Of course," Arthur says with a shrug.

Alfred smiles, his eyes lighting up with an idea. "You're right. The sandwiches I made weren't very good. Of course, It didn't help that they'd been sitting on my counter for a few days…"

Arthur sticks his tongue out and begins gagging. "What?!"

"I know a place we can get some terrific food, though," Alfred continues, ignoring the disgusted look on Arthur's face.

Arthur frowns. "And that would be?"

Alfred raises a hand. "First, I need to know—are you afraid of cops, Artie?"

Arthur considers the question for a moment, his heart beating just a little bit faster, before finally answering, "Not if I haven't done anything wrong."

The magician merely smiles as he places his gloves back on and grabs his coat. Alfred walks over to the door and waits in its frame expectantly.

The voice in Arthur's head tries to reason with him very gently, telling him it's probably not a good idea to go off with a relative stranger who seems just a tad bit too excitable— especially if the police could be involved. But his feet once again propel him towards the door and another voice—one that sounds a bit like Alfred—tells him something quite different: that wherever the magician goes, Arthur should follow.

"Where are we going, anyways?" Arthur asks, his face flushing as he accidentally brushes Alfred's arm on the way out.

Alfred smiles, his eyes gleaming. "Terrible Ivan's."

Arthur gulps as they make their way through the dark hallway. "Well, that sounds promising."

A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the gap between chapters, I've been traveling a lot. Thanks to everyone who favorited/followed/reviewed! :) It means a lot.

I kinda forgot to mention in the summary that this'll take place during an alternate version of the 1920s. Don't worry, I'm not going to go overboard with slang! (Even though I bookmarked a website that lists a ton of awesome slang words ;3) I just thought it would be a neat backdrop for all of the magical... shenanigans.