"I'll have the ratatouille, please."

Crowley spun on his heel. "Angel?" The sight of Aziraphale standing in front of a food truck—even a French gourmet one—on a film studio backlot in Los Angeles was a bolt from the blue.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale's face melted into the genial smile he found nigh irresistible. "Won't you join me? The ratatouille is scrumptious." He turned to the food truck attendant. "Make that two orders, if you wouldn't mind."

Five minutes later, as they sat on a bench feasting on what truly was a remarkable dish, Crowley sought to satisfy his curiosity. "Did you decide to take a holiday from the bookshop?"

"No, although October is a delightful month to visit the City of Angels." Aziraphale lowered his voice. "I'm on a mission."

"From . . .?" Crowley rotated his index finger, spinning it upward.

He nodded. "It's come to our attention that there are more lingering side effects to that kerfuffle in Tadfield than we initially realized. Adam did his best to restore the world, but he is just a child even if he is the Antichrist." Aziraphale winced. "I believe the Americas may have slipped his mind."

"Understandable. Who wouldn't rather think about Atlantis or Tibet?"

"What brings you here?" Aziraphale asked.

"The usual."

"Ah yes, Faustian bargain. Extended youth?"

"That was last week. On today's agenda is a director who wants to make movies that don't suck. His dilemma reminds me of the quagmire we extricated Will Shakespeare from."

Aziraphale smiled nostalgically. "That was a happy collaboration."

A subtle hint the angel wanted his help once more? It could be entertaining. He'd already secured enough Faustian contracts to keep his side off his back for months.

"Between you and me, the angels are torn," Aziraphale confided. "Most of them believe Armageddon should have proceeded and any fallout should be ignored. A few of us want to rectify the issues." He nodded to the center of the plaza. "You see the young lady sitting by herself next to the fountain?"

The backlot contained a motley assortment of actors and film crew personnel. Halloween was a few days off. It was impossible to judge if the mortals were actors in costume or employees who'd gotten into the spirit of the season. Crowley lowered his sunglasses to get a better view of Aziraphale's target. "The one wearing a jumper decorated with bats, witches, and jack-o'-lanterns?"

He nodded. "That's Ember. She's a production assistant rodent."

"You mean gopher."

"Do I? That does sound more pleasant. She's also quite an aficionado of All Hallows' Eve."

He scrutinized her more closely. Mid-twenties. Her dark eyes peered earnestly at the world from behind orange-framed glasses. The bat earrings with horizontal stripes in shades of orange and pink were a nice touch. "Halloween, more likely."

"Angels frown on that term. It sounds rather pagan."

"You'd prefer thinking her witches and jack-o'-lanterns refer to the Church?"

Aziraphale winced. "Your side somehow manages to insinuate themselves into any festival."

"I prefer to think we add a little spice to your bland offerings. What happened to Ember?"

"She dreams of being a scriptwriter but hasn't sold anything. Her latest project was a pilot for a TV series. She intended to pitch it to a producer until disaster struck. Her laptop was destroyed in a mini-cyclone the day before we met in Tadfield. Her only copy of the script was on that laptop. She now believes the incident was an omen indicating she wasn't meant to write. She's had writer's block ever since."

"How do you plan to correct matters?"

"I can't simply return the laptop. That type of miracle is frowned upon by my side. Whatever I do must be discreet and unobtrusive . . . ineffable."

What were the odds Aziraphale could pull it off without his help?

"The studio's holding an All Hallows' Eve party for its actors and higher echelon staff, the angel continued. "I arranged for Ember to be invited. She'll be able to hobnob, chum around—whatever the Hollywood term is—with studio moguls."

"And . . .?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "That's it."

"She may feel better, but that hardly makes up for her loss."

"Do you have any suggestions? Nothing demonic, mind you."

"Is she worth the effort?" Crowley countered. "Have you read the pilot?"

"I have and it's a tad bizarre for my taste. The hero is the lord of dreams. She calls him Morpheus. He's a member of a family of supernatural entities. You'd like one of them. Lucifer is his name."

He began to see possibilities. "He should be the protagonist."

"Some might think he already is. Ember made a note that he should look like David Bowie."

Crowley was about to suggest an alternate appearance—like his, for instance—when something rubbed his foot. A black kitten with a white face and paws began gnawing on his snakeskin boot.

"Truffle, no!" Aziraphale ordered in a tone he probably thought was stern.

He removed his sunglasses and glared at the ball of fluff with the stare that sent his houseplants into a state of abject terror. "You shall not munch on my boot!"

The demonic furball ignored him.

"He likes you," Aziraphale said, chuckling.

Crowley heaved a slow sigh. "Don't tell me he's another of your ineffable deeds?"

"He was my first effort. Adam awoke suddenly to realize the kitten had been ejected from a car window during the earthquake that smote Los Angeles in the buildup to Armageddon. I promised to look into it. So far I've been unable to trace the owner." The kitten jumped into Aziraphale's lap and began purring loudly.

"So you're the one who named him Truffle."

"I could hardly call him Hey You."

"A chocolate treat is better?"

"You misunderstand. Truffle is named after those delectable fungi we're so fond of." Aziraphale scratched behind the kitten's ears. "The way Truffle digs in his litter box reminds me of a truffle hound. It's quite a compliment."

"Of course, you would view it that way." Despite himself, he began to feel a slight . . . not attachment, softening perhaps. The kitten only had touches of white, and any gourmet knows that black truffles are much more prized than white ones. Was this Aziraphale's tacit acknowledgment of the small devilish side he liked to keep hidden? Surely that deserved a return gesture.

"Since you insist, I'll help you out." Lucifer's part was intriguing. This would give him a chance to make a few edits.

"We don't have much time," Aziraphale warned. "The party is the day after tomorrow."

"That's cheating. Halloween is five days off."

"Yes, but they want to hold the party on a Saturday." Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. "No miracles, remember."

Those earrings spoke to him. Where there was a bat, there was a way.

#

A day later, when Crowley spotted Aziraphale in front of the crepe food truck, he cut in line behind him.

"I hoped you'd show up," the angel said, a look of relief crossing his face. "The party's tonight." He turned to face the truck. "I'll have the peach ghost crepe and my friend will have . . .?"

"The satanic ritual crepe calls to me." Coated in chocolate and pecans, it looked much more sinful than Aziraphale's anemic choice.

"Where's your hirsute mascot?" Crowley asked as they took their crepes to an empty bench.

"Sleeping it off at the motel. He and I had an exhausting night. I wanted to read. He wanted to party."

"He was just getting you in the mood for tonight's blast."

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes but didn't question him. He was probably deluding himself that Crowley was joking. "Do you have any updates on Ember?" he asked instead.

"Several, in fact. I discovered she has a girlfriend named Briar. Hadn't you looked into her sex life?"

Aziraphale blushed. "Absolutely not and you shouldn't have either."

"Of course, I should have. I'm a demon, remember? As I suspected, Ember's girlfriend is also on a production crew. She's an assistant to the producer Ember hoped would read her script. Unbeknownst to our would-be screenwriter, Briar made a copy of it. She considered it so outstanding that she snuck it into the stack of works for her boss to review." All true events if only Ember had told her about the script. "Briar didn't want to say anything to Ember in case the producer didn't like it. He read it this morning." I inserted it into his pile last night and then gave him the subconscious poke on the shoulder. "The producer will be at the party tonight. We simply need to add a few nudges."

Aziraphale blinked in amazement. "Outstanding work! And no miracles were performed?"

Crowley scowled. "Angel, this is me you're talking to." He was sure demonic miracles didn't count. In any case, a few minor alterations to Briar and the producer's memories were hardly worth mentioning. The pilot was surprisingly good, especially Lucifer's part. The world needed to see it.

"What sort of nudges are you referring to?" Aziraphale asked warily.

"A few carefully worded phrases implying we're producers who are also interested in the script should suffice. If you'd permit a slight enhancement to his cocktail, the effect would be more noticeable."

"But we won't be at the party. I don't do Halloween parties."

"Now you do. I've already chosen my costume. I'll go as the Scarlet Pimpernel. I procured a magnificent cape, lined in red. As for you . . ."

Aziraphale grimaced. "Couldn't I go in my usual attire?"

"Impossible. It's a wonder they let you on the backlot."

"That hasn't been an issue. They believe I'm in a revival of The Music Man."

"What about the Louis XVI suit you wore? It was quite becoming. You could play the aristocrat I saved. That will be an easy role since I rescued you from the guillotine, as I recall."

"For which I'm eternally grateful." Aziraphale took a slow breath. "Only a few hours to prepare. I'll need to get a wiggle on."

#

That evening the soundstage designated for the party was filled with revelers, several of whom Crowley had negotiated contracts with. Not that they'd recognize him. Altering perceptions and memories was a favorite device in his bag of tricks.

Aziraphale was more handsome than ever in his ivory jacket, waistcoat, and breeches. If Crowley's swagger was a little more pronounced than normal, it was understandable. He'd overheard several comments about what a handsome couple they made.

"I spotted Ember," Aziraphale murmured. "She's over by the punch bowl."

Their target wore a broom skirt and peasant blouse with several chains of love beads and silver bangles. She reminded him of a flower child of the '60s. Those were good times . . . the Doors, the Rolling Stones. Now they knew how to throw a party. "That's her girlfriend standing next to her."

Briar appeared to be copying Joan Jett with black spikey hair, goth makeup, a tight leather miniskirt, and fishnet hose.

"What's our plan?" Aziraphale asked.

"The bloke in the Elvis costume is the producer. We'll saunter by, exclaiming our excitement over The Lord of Dreams. After he hears us praise it, he won't be able to resist talking with her about it." Especially after I've given him the psychic kick in the arse.

And the rest, as they say, was celluloid magic. While he and Aziraphale sipped fright-night cocktails, they watched their drama play out. Elvis buttonholed Ember to secure a promise to meet with him the next day. Briar admitted to her afterward that she'd given him the pilot to read. Smooches were exchanged. Ember and Briar were destined for a happy ending both in their love lives and professional careers. Chalk up another success for the Scarlet Pimpernel and his angel sidekick.

#

After the party, he and Aziraphale left Tinseltown to return to their respective homes in London.

On the day of Halloween, Crowley debated his options. The holiday in London was rather a bore. Hardly anyone practiced Mischief Night anymore. What was Aziraphale up to? Wouldn't he want to be teased about the satanic connections in All Hallows' Eve?

A few minutes later, Crowley parked his Bentley in the space that magically appeared in front of the angel's bookshop. He paused at the front door. For the first time in history, Aziraphale had decorated for the holiday. True, the cobwebs and dust were permanent fixtures. After all, this was a bookseller who preferred to not have customers. But where had the goofy cloth bats and cats come from?

"You did this for me!" Crowley exclaimed, opening the door. "You remembered I like spooky."

"Not at all," Aziraphale replied, but the smile on his face told a different tale. "Truffle insisted I decorate. He is an American, after all." He nodded to the furball perched on one of the bookcases. The former owner hadn't been found. Was Truffle responsible? Who wouldn't prefer life with Aziraphale?

Crowley peered inside a large plastic jack-o'-lantern on the floor by the door. It was filled with an assortment of candies the angel would ordinarily never eat. "You're passing out treats!"

"Oh, I doubt seriously anyone will come by. Not many Londoners indulge in the custom."

"But if they do, wouldn't you rather I trick them?" Crowley transformed his face into a seething inferno guaranteed to scare the bejeebers out of anyone.

"Now look what you've done," Aziraphale said with a sigh. "Truffle's hissing. You frightened him."

"No, I didn't. Truff's simply warming up for the night's festivities." Crowley dropped into a chair. "I don't suppose you happen to have any alcohol?"

"Actually, I have some rather delightful mulled wine. Care for a glass?"

After four glasses, the stuff was starting to grow on him. "So, what are we going to do for our next act, Angel?"

"What next act?"

"You know." Crowley waved his hand in the air. "Those deeds your side insists on performing. Wouldn't it be more amusing for us to team up? We'd be the Dynamic Duo of Ineffable Deeds!"

Aziraphale frowned. "I don't think my side would approve."

"Who cares? We'd be like Starsky and Hutch."

"Hamlet and Horatio?"

"That's the spirit, only not so gloomy. More like Bonnie and Clyde."

"Or Bert and Ernie?" Aziraphale smiled. "May I tempt you to more wine?"

"Isn't that my line?" Crowley propped his boots on a stack of books and winked at Truffle. "Consider me tempted."


Notes: Treat for Nununununu who asked for something fluffy and fun. Crowley snatched the prompts for Halloween, costumes, and a black cat.