Happy Holidays, lurlur!

[goe_mod]

Title: Sugar and Spice

Summary: This year's Bake Off is off to an interesting start. With a new co-host with the personality of a wet sponge, two of the youngest contestants ever, and an unfairly attractive Star Baker, host Anthony Crowley has his hands full trying to keep things on track.

Rating: Explicit

Author’s Notes: Happy Holidays, lurlur! Thank you so much for such a wonderful prompt set. I had a lot of fun writing this, my very first explicit-rated fic. I loved the idea of seeing Crowley and Aziraphale involved in Bake Off, and it was such an entertaining story to write. I hope you enjoy it!

Prologue

Series 12. Crowley yawned as he opened up the email containing the contestant list. Time to see what we’ve got this year. Twelve new people he was going to be stuck in an old mansion with for weeks on end. Tadfield Manor was nice enough, but sharing close quarters with twelve bakers, Gabriel, Tracy, his new co-host, and the entire production crew… well, there was a reason his Mayfair flat was full of a lot of empty space. He was used to a certain level of solitude on the regular, something he really didn’t get last year during the weeks of filming. He’d been about ready to murder everyone by the end, and his previous co-host had completely refused to come back for another year.

So, he really was not looking forward to another six weeks of filming all cooped up with everyone. Of course, with each episode the population went down by one, but by that point he was usually was sad to see them go. Still, it was a job. And one he otherwise very much enjoyed. He loved coming up with new jokes for each episode, getting to know the contestants, and watching them grow and gain confidence in their own skill as the weeks go on. It certainly beat the time he had spent in Hollywood, scrabbling for so much as a speaking part.

He glanced through the contestant list. They’ve got a wide range this year, the usual mix of business jobs, shop owners, a retired army officer, someone who reported their job as ‘organizer of the neighborhood watch’, and - Crowley had to do a double take here - two eleven-year-olds. The youngest contestants ever on the show. That was definitely going to be interesting. And… there it was. They were finally ready to announce his new co-host. Crowley had heard rumors, of course, and had a preference from all the names floated about. Several prominent comedians had auditioned for the job, but only one or two were ones he really wanted to work with.

He scanned the paragraph, and felt his stomach drop. Of course. Of course, they would want to make his job as hard as fucking possible. But there it was. The one name he had hoped would remain at the very bottom of the list. He groaned. Fucking Sandalphon. Of all the comedians they could have chosen, they had to choose the one with the personality of a bloody rock. The man’s temperament was better suited towards noir films and gritty detective dramas, not lighthearted comedy. Crowley would be lucky if he even got a halfway decent dick joke out of the man, let alone the constant stream of lighthearted humor they needed to keep the contestants’ spirits up in the tent.

Several weeks later, Crowley turned up at Tadfield Manor to begin shooting. They had some time before any of the contestants arrived to shoot the opening gags for each episode and go over the plans for each day of filming, and as much as he didn’t want to, he needed to get to know his new co-host. The challenge order had been set for some time, sent out to the bakers to give them a chance to practice their recipes and return their ingredients lists for their signatures and showstoppers, but there was always something to discuss. That was when he found out that their rooms were in the same wing as the bakers this year - something about construction, and the woman who ran the place not wanting people in the wing they’d been in last year.

“Repeat that?” Gabriel asked, scowling at the woman - Mary Hodges - who currently barred the way to the old wing.

“I said it’s out of order,” Mary told him, and Crowley’s estimation of her went up a notch. He liked it when people stood up to Gabriel.

“Then put it back in order,” Gabriel snapped. “I won’t be sharing a wall with any of these people.”

Mary shook her head. “I’m sorry sir, that is impossible. None of the rooms in that wing are in habitable condition. As I said, I am willing to find you accommodations outside the manor, however, as that will break your bubble, I imagine your producers would be unhappy with that.”

Gabriel puffed up, drawing in air in a move Crowley knew meant he was preparing to deliver a particularly vitriolic rebuke.

Just then Madame Tracy bustled into the room, phone in hand. “It’s alright, Gabriel,” she said, rushing up to stand between the incensed star and the younger woman. “I just got off the phone with the producers. They approved the change weeks ago.”

“Hmph.” Gabriel sniffed. “We ought to have been informed.”

“Well, we know now. Let the poor dear show us to our rooms and stop complaining. Filming hasn’t even started yet, and you’re kicking up a fuss.” She fixed him with A Look, and he sighed.

“Fine. But if anyone disturbs me while I’m working I will be lodging a complaint.”

“I assure you; all our rooms are soundproofed to the best of our ability. You also have a lounge reserved exclusively for the use of the judges. If you need anything else, just let me know. Now, my assistant will show you to your rooms.” She gestured to another staff member, who led him down the opposite hallways.

“Thank you,” she said to Tracy when he was gone. “I was worried for a minute there. He can get so intimidating sometimes, you never know what he’s going to do.”

“Nonsense, dear,” Tracy told her. “Crowley here wouldn’t have let him go on like that for too long.” She turned, giving Crowley a welcoming smile. “Would you, Crowley?”

Crowley shrugged. “It looked like Mary had it covered.”

Tracy grinned. “Just what I thought. Now that that’s handled, I have quite a few things that need doing before we meet. I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Of course.”

She left him to Mary, who ushered him down another hall chattering as she went. He’d learned last year that if she started talking, she wouldn’t stop. It had driven Gabriel to distraction - something Crowley had truly enjoyed watching.

“I do apologize for the inconvenience but we need you to be on the hall with the bakers. There are fourteen rooms in all in this wing, one for each baker and for yourself and Mr. Sandalphon, when he arrives. I have the crew on the same wing as Mr. Gabriel and Madame Tracy. It didn’t seem right to inflict him on the bakers like that, you see.”

Crowley tuned the rest of her chatter out, only keeping an ear open for anything important that might happen to slip through with all the other useless facts. Eventually, they reached the end of a long hall, just by the doors out to the garden.

“And I know you like your privacy,” their host was saying. “So I’ve set you up here on the end, by the garden. You share a wall with a private lounge for yourself and Mr. Sandalphon, who should be arriving shortly. I know you liked to work late on your routines for the show, so there’s an extra coffee maker in the lounge. If you need anything else, just ring the bell. Someone is always awake in the kitchen, day or night. Now, your room- “

“Thanks, Mary,” he cut her off, holding out a hand for his keys. “I can take it from here.”

“Oh.” She blinked, startled, he thought, to be stopped in the middle of a sentence. “Alright then. But you know where to reach me if you need anything. I’ll just go get things ready for the bakers. They should start arriving by the end of the week. There’s a copy of their itineraries already on your bed for reference. We have a car ready to pick them up from the station, though one young man actually lives here in Tadfield. Adam, I believe his name is. We- “

“Thank you, Mary,” Crowley said, opening the door and stepping into his rooms. “I’ll be sure to call if I need anything.” And with that he shut the door on her before she could start to speak again.

Once inside, he set his bag down and sighed. He was in for a long ten weeks, if this was any indication. Ah well. It wasn’t like he had anything better - or better paying - to do right now. So he pulled out his laptop and got back to work, writing silly skits for himself and Sandalphon (and occasionally Gabriel and Tracy) to film for the opening act each week. He’d been corresponding off and on with Sandalphon for most of the past month, preparing for this. Now it was just down to polish, unless something else came up. Even so, he managed to work well into the night. Then, with the arrival of Sandalphon and all of the work that went in to getting things up and running, he found himself wrapped up in events until late the night before the first day of the competition. Luckily, while he found Sandalphon to be a pretentious git most of the time, they were able to develop a decent working relationship and a fair number of jokes that didn’t involve sniping rudely at each other. By the time the bakers started arriving he was fairly hopeful that he would, at least, manage to make it out of this season without murdering anyone. Even with all the changes, he thought, it would be just another season, nothing life-changing after all.

Oh how wrong he was.

Chapter 1 – Cake Week

Due to his late working hours the night before, Crowley’s first meeting with the bakers was on the morning of the first Signature and Technical Challenge. Cake week in the tent, with twelve shiny new bakers. He had heard how excited they were over breakfast in the manor’s dining hall, but had woken too late to eat with them. Instead, he drank a coffee in the quiet solitude of his own room and meandered down to the tent before anyone else arrived. He liked being the first one there in the morning. The quiet gave him time to think.

Unfortunately, Sandalphon followed soon after, striding into the tent like he owned the place, trailed by the rest of the production crew.

“Good morning Anthony,” he drawled in his stage persona. For some reason, he found it funny to talk and dress like a gangster out of an old noir film, three-piece suit and gold teeth included. Crowley resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“‘Morning, Sandal.” Calling him that irked him, but Crowley couldn’t resist needling him a little every now and then. Especially when he called him Anthony. Nobody called him Anthony. Not even his mum (when she still spoke to him), and she’d been the one to give him the name. “Big day today.”

“You ready?” Sandalphon asked, full of false concern.

“Yeah. Are you?” Sandalphon hadn’t done any live filming work in ages. He was used to scripted comedy, not the sort of improv they needed to do here.

“Ready and waiting.” Sandalphon grinned his gold-studded grin and Crowley bit his tongue to keep from saying anything unwise. He hoped to whatever higher power there was that this would be Sandalphon’s one and only season here.

“Here they come!” One of the camera people said, and cameras trained out the sides of the tent to where a small pack of people were crossing the lawn from the manor house. They were a strangely mismatched bunch, Crowley privately thought, and despite instructions to walk together it showed. They had divided nearly into two smaller packs as they walked, with a few odd people awkwardly in-between. One, in particular, caught his eye. The white-haired man whose name was Aziraphale Fell. He walked casually beside a young woman who, if Crowley remembered correctly, had listed her occupation as ‘Occultist”. There was something about him. Perhaps it was his snow-white hair, or the sparkle in his bright blue eyes, but Crowley found his gaze consistently drawn to him, like a favorite painting or piece of art.

The bakers filed into the tent, each one finding a station and standing behind it. Six on one side, six on the other. They all stood expectantly facing the front, where Crowley, Sandalphon, and the judges were meant to stand. Crowley looked around the little entry way they stood in, between the judges’ tent and the baking tent, and found Tracy already there. Gabriel was running late, as usual. He liked to make people wait on him. It made him feel important.

“We’ve got a good, strong bunch this year,” Tracy said quietly, so none of the bakers in the tent would hear. “I think they’ll all do very well.”

“Let’s hope so,” Gabriel said, coming in to stand beside Tracy. “That batch last year was terrible.”

“Gabriel!” Tracy chided. “They were wonderful. You’re always too hard on them.”

“Hmph.” Gabriel sniffed. “Well. We’ll see how this group does.” And with that, one of the production assistants gave the cue to enter the tent.

“Hello Bakers!” Crowley greeted them all cheerfully as they strode into the tent. “Welcome to this year’s Great British Bake Off!”

This was his favorite part of this show. Seeing them all at the start, so ready and eager, and then watching them grow as they tested and expanded their skills as the weeks went on.

“As you can see, my former co-host Raphael had to leave at the end of last season. So we have Sandalphon here, for his very first season in the tent. And of course, you all know the wonderful Madame Tracy, and the award-winning baker Gabriel.” He paused for the judges to acknowledge the bakers, and for Sandalphon to take over the introductions.

“As you know,” his co-host said, “this week is Cake Week. The judges have asked you all to bake twelve identical sponge slices. The type, flavor, and decorations are up to you.”

“You have two hours for your first Signature Challenge,” Crowley told them. “Ready… Set… Bake!” With that, the bakers scrambled for their ingredients, and soon the delicious scents of baking filled the tent.

As hosts, Sandalphon and Crowley followed Tracy and Gabriel from bench to bench, meeting the bakers and learning about their bakes. They started with a nervous young man called Newt, who seemed shocked he’d even made it this far. One of the two eleven-year-olds, Adam, was excited to tell them all about his idea for birthday cake slices, while the other child, Warlock, needed a bit more coaxing out of his shell by Crowley before he was comfortable enough to speak with the judges on camera. Several of the bakers answered with cool confidence, while others seemed slightly overwhelmed by the chaotic nature of the tent with twelve bakers rushing against time to create twelve identical rectangular cake slices.

Eventually Gabriel and Tracy made their way over to the one called Aziraphale’s bench, still trailed by Crowley and Sandalphon. The baker was engrossed in measuring out the proper amount of flour to add into his mixer, and jumped a little when he looked up to see Gabriel looming over his station.

“Oh! Er, hello.” He smiled nervously, and Crowley watched the judges carefully, ready to step in with a joke if need be.

“What are you making for us today, dear?” Madame Tracy asked, looking over the ingredients strewn about the table. Lemon and raspberry and vanilla sat next to three bowls of flour and a sauce pot heating on the stove. There was already a fine dusting of flour coating the bench, and Crowley got the feeling that Aziraphale was one of those bakers who tended to need a lot of cleaning up after at the end but ran their kitchen with completely organized chaos.

Aziraphale blinked for a moment before recovering enough to answer Tracy’s question. “Um. Angel Cake,” he said, his hand moving in an aborted gesture towards one if the bowls of flour.

Tracy made an appreciative noise. “Oh, I do love a good angel cake. Have you made it very often before?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked up to Gabriel, then to Tracy, clearly nervous. Crowley didn’t blame him, this was his very first bake in the tent after all.

“Ah,” he said. “Well, I tried it a few times at home and it usually turns out alright.”

Tracy smiled at him kindly. “I’m sure it will taste heavenly.” She and Gabriel moved on to bother another contestant - this early on in the competition, they never had all that much time to spend with any one baker. Crowley lingered, noticing how Aziraphale had tensed up with the host’s approach and wanting to set him at least a little bit at ease.

“To taste truly heavenly, it would have to be made by an angel,” he joked, then put on an expression of mock concern. “You’re not secretly an angel, are you?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “No, no, I wouldn’t say I was.”

“Hmm…” Crowley peered closer at him, noticing how soft his pure white hair looked and wondered at himself for noticing that. “I think that’s just the sort of thing an angel would say, if one were here.”

This time Aziraphale actually laughed. “Don’t be silly. What would an angel be doing here?”

“Baking angel cake, I imagine,” was Crowley’s reply, which earned him another laugh. Somehow, the sound of it made the whole tent seem brighter.

He picked up the vials of flavor and made a face. “Lemon and raspberry, hmm? Too bad. Chocolate and raspberry is my favorite.” He put the flavoring back down. Aziraphale focused on his stove and didn’t react. Crowley pouted. “You know,” he added, circling around to peer into Aziraphale’s bowl. “I used to play a demon on TV.”

Aziraphale grabbed his pot off the stove and carefully spooned some of the mixture into one of the three bowls, folding it all together with careful, practiced motions. “Did you now?”

“Yeah,” Crowley picked up the third bowl of flour. “He would have stolen all your eggs and hidden them somewhere. Like Gabriel’s shoes.”

The baker chuckled. “Well, that wouldn’t be very nice of him, would it?”

“He was a very wicked demon,” Crowley said with mock sincerity. “He liked to steal people’s socks.”

That drew a proper laugh out of Aziraphale, and Crowley knew he should move on now, but he wanted to stay just a bit longer.

“Well, that is very wicked of him,” Aziraphale agreed. “If I wake up tomorrow morning to find my socks missing, I shall know exactly where to look.” He took the bowl back from Crowley’s hands and poured another third of the mixture into the bowl. Crowley felt a strange warmth where their hands brushed that lingered after the baker had already moved on to mixing the ingredients.

“Ah, but he wouldn’t steal from an angel, Angel,” he said, moving around to stand out of Aziraphale’s way. “He knows better than that.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said, briefly meeting his eyes. “Now, away with you, you foul fiend. I have to focus.”

Crowley laughed, and went to catch up with Tracy and Gabriel, grinning all the while. Aziraphale, he decided, was his favorite of this year’s bakers. That thought was reinforced when he won the first handshake of the season for his angel cake slices, and his pleased smile lit up the room.

He also came in second in the technical challenge (fruit upside down cakes), and left the tent after that first day a clear front-runner.

Tracy, who had been doing this for longer than Crowley had been with the show, watched the bakers leave together thoughtfully. “Well, we have a very talented bunch this year, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” Crowley nodded, noticing the way Aziraphale fell back to walk with the boy Warlock, whose guardian seemed more interested in her phone than talking to the boy, who had come in third in the technical.

“I think he’ll be one of our final three,” Tracy said, and Crowley blinked, confused.

“Aziraphale.” She nodded in his direction. “I noticed you watching him. He’s very talented, if a little unsure of himself.”

“He’s good,” Crowley said slowly, not liking the sly way she smiled at him. “Got a handshake and everything, didn’t he? I’ll bet anything Adam’s in the final too.”

“Hmm.” She turned her gaze back to the bakers, releasing him. “I think I’ll place my bet on the final being Aziraphale, Adam, and Anathema. She showed particular talent with her upside-down cake this morning.” Anathema had taken first place in the Technical.

Crowley handed her a five-pound note. “I’m betting on Aziraphale, and those two kids. They’re so talented it’s scary. What’s Gabe’s bet?”

Tracy smirked. “You know him. He talked big about how judges betting on the winners is immoral and might influence our judgements in the wrong way just so we win.”

Crowley snorted. “Right. And then he bet on someone anyway. Who’s he backing this year?”

Tracy laughed. This was an old game with them, and Tracy, at least, he trusted not to shift her judgements around because of the bet. The fact that she was usually right was due far more to her skill at judging talent than any attempt at rigging things. Gabriel, of course, was too proud to stoop to fixing his judgements, but he threw an epic fit each time he lost.

“He put a ten in on Michael, Uriel, and Anathema.”

Crowley snorted. “A bold choice.” He may not be a baker himself, but even he could tell that Michael and Uriel, while talented, was not the most imaginative bakers in the tent. He wasn’t sure they had the critical ability to improvise when things went sideways - and they always went sideways in the tent.

“What are you doing?” Sandalphon came up as Tracy laughed.

“Betting on the finalists,” Crowley told him cheerfully.

“Betting?!” he echoed, outraged. “Isn’t that unethical?”

“Not if Tracy and Gabriel don’t try to fix the results. Which they haven’t, by the way. Pretty sure if they were going to Gabriel would have done that last year, when he was looking at his eighth straight year of defeat.”

“Oh.” Sandalphon digested that. “Who did he bet on?”

“Michael, Uriel, and Anathema,” Crowley said, grinning when Sandalphon pulled out his wallet.

“And you?”

“I bet on Aziraphale, Adam, and Anathema,” Tracy said. “And Crowley bet on Aziraphale, Adam, and Warlock.”

“Hmm.” Sandalphon hummed, narrowing his eyes at the retreating backs of the bakers. They were almost to the manor, which meant at any moment Gabriel would barge his way back into the tent and call them into a meeting. “Alright then.” He passed Tracy a ten. “Put me down for Warlock, Uriel, and… Beelzebub.”

Tracy folded it with Crowley’s and placed the money in her purse, hiding a satisfied smile. She had won the past four years, and Crowley was absolutely convinced that his win five years ago had been a freak of nature. The weather had been far too hot and muggy, and Tracy’s choice of winner had forgotten to put her ice cream cake in the freezer, resulting in a completely melted showstopper.

Right on cue, Gabriel came striding into the tent just as Tracy closed her purse.

“Well. Interesting day today, don’t you think?” He asked, though he didn’t wait for them to answer. “We’ve got twelve very talented bakers. Let’s take a moment to make sure we’re giving them the best contest we can give them.”

‘A moment’ turned into a two-hour meeting which they only got out of just before dinner time. They also filmed their discussion of the bakers’ statistics going into the next day - putting Aziraphale, Anathema, Adam, and Warlock close to the top, while Ligur, Shadwell, and that bloke RP Tyler were in the bottom. Crowley’s private bet was that RP Tyler would be the one to go, if not tomorrow than in the next week or two. There was always an older gentleman who got eliminated within the first few weeks. As long as he’d been a host that had held true. He also knew that often times the most inexperienced or youngest baker ended up in the final three, which is why he bet on Adam and Warlock to make it all the way. He wasn’t sure why he was so certain about Aziraphale, but he knew he wanted him to stay. It was disconcerting.

It got even more disconcerting the next day, when he stood in front of that line of twelve bakers, and announced that Aziraphale had won the first Star Baker of that season. The baker had seemed so surprised, so pleased, but it was his smile Crowley would remember. The way it lit up his face just like when he had earned his first handshake, transforming him from someone attractive in a fairly ordinary sort of way into the most beautiful man Crowley had ever seen.

Chapter 2 -Biscuit Week

Week two came quickly on the heels of the first. Biscuit Week in the tent, which was always fun for the staff because there were always enough biscuits for everyone to have a taste of at least a couple bakers’ work. The signature had been a particular favorite of Crowley’s - shortbread - and he’d managed to snag two - one from Aziraphale and one from Warlock. Both had been excellent.

Then there was the technical, Linzer cookies. And the massive failure by RP Tyler Crowley had predicted came to pass when he overbaked his biscuit until it was blackened and didn’t use enough butter, and then over sweetened his jam. Aziraphale’s had been beautiful, coming in first just before Anathema, Beelzebub, and Warlock.

The day of the showstopper, all eleven contestants were expected to produce oversized biscuit castles. Crowley had been impressed particularly by the castles Adam and Warlock made, showing both the imagination of a child and the technical skills of an experienced baker. Warlock’s had been just enough to edge out Adam as the best, and earned him the second Star Baker.

At the end of the day, after a brief ‘production meeting’ with the judges, Crowley was making his way back up to the manor house when he heard sobbing coming from behind the tent. Curious, he went to investigate. And there, in the place where the star baker was usually filmed calling their family, he found a small crowd of people.

Aziraphale was there, along with Adam, Adam’s dad, an uncomfortable-looking pair of camera people, and a sniffling Warlock. As he approached the boy wiped his eyes and hiccupped, looking completely distraught. His guardian, as usual, was nowhere to be seen.

“Here now,” he said, coming to stand beside Aziraphale. “What’s all this?”

“Warlock -“ Aziraphale started to say, but the youngest of the bakers found his voice.

“I - hic - I wanted to- to call home,” he sobbed. “Like you see- see on the show.” He sniffed again and swallowed another sob, biting it down and flinching, like he expected to be hit for making noise. “B-b-but Mama and- and Father, they-they weren’t there.” Crowley’s heart broke for the little boy. He was clearly trying hard to stop crying, which was only making him cry harder, stuttering his words through his tears. And to not have his family pick up when he tried to call them? Old, half-forgotten wounds on his own heart ached in sympathy with the kid.

“Well, maybe they’re just a little busy,” he offered, knowing that wouldn’t help but needing to say something. “We can go get dinner and try again later, how’s that?”

“I’ve b-b-been trying!” Warlock wailed, before abruptly biting his lip and letting out a few whimpering, hiccup sobs as he tried to swallow them down.

“We’ve been calling them for the last hour,” Aziraphale said quietly. “And we can’t locate the boy’s nanny to see if she can ring them for us.”

“We can’t stick around much longer,” one of the camera people said regretfully. “We’re only paid for ten hours, and we’ve been here almost eleven.” Crowley winced. While it was true they didn’t have anywhere to go but back to the manor, union rules were very strict about working and paid hours - for good reason. They’d already stayed over more than they should have.

“You could borrow my Dad, if you like,” Adam offered. “We could film you telling him.”

Warlock shook his head. “I j-just wanted to call home and tell every- hic - everyone, like on the show.” Warlock scrubbed at his eyes and sniffed some more. “All the Star Bakers get to.”

To the side, Adam tugged on his dad’s arm until Mr. Young withdrew a large white hanky from his pocket, which Adam solemnly offered to Warlock, unfazed by his rejection of the other boy’s idea. He took it with another sob.

An idea hit Crowley suddenly. It might not work, but, he thought, it was worth a shot.

“You want to announce you’re star baker on the phone for the film crew, yeah? So when the episode airs, they hear you announcing it to your family?”

Warlock wiped his eyes on Mr. Young’s hanky and nodded. “Y-yeah. I knew Father wouldn’t pick up, but I thought maybe Mama…”

“Give me your phone, kid,” Crowley said, holding out a hand. Confused, Warlock did as he asked, watching Crowley type a number into the keypad.

“Now,” Crowley handed the phone back. “I’m going to go over there -“ he gestured off around the other side of the tent. “And when you’re ready, go ahead and call me. You can tell me what you’d want to tell your dad, and I promise I’ll pick up so they can film it, alright?”

Warlock stared at the phone as if he’d never seen one before. “Call… call you?”

“Why not?” Crowley gave him his best cheery grin, though inside his heart ached for the boy. “It’ll be fun. I haven’t had a phone call in ages. I’d really like it if you called me.” He hated talking on the phone, but he didn’t want to say that to Warlock, who still looked like he could burst back into tears at the drop of a hat.

The young baker hesitated, torn. “But what if Father gets upset I didn’t call him?” He asked in a small voice.

“Then we explain that he wasn’t picking up but the filming schedule had to go on,” Aziraphale told him. “We couldn’t wait. Surely as a diplomat, he knows the importance of a schedule.”

“Oh.” Warlock thought about that for a moment. “Maybe. But…”

“You know,” Aziraphale said, crouching down to be closer to eye level with the boy. “I didn’t have anyone to call last week. I just rang my shop and pretended I was calling home but nobody answered.”

Warlock looked up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. “You did?”

“I did,” Aziraphale confirmed. “I wish I’d had Mr. Crowley here to call. But I could go with him now and you could call us both. And then, if I win again, I could call you. It would mean a great deal to me if I could. What do you think?”

Warlock considered that, and then nodded. “Okay.” He’d stopped crying when Crowley handed him back his phone, but now he started to smile.

“Excellent.” Crowley smiled. “Then Aziraphale and I are going to go ‘round the other side of the tent. Call us whenever you’re ready.”

They set off together, with Adam and his father trailing behind. Warlock watched them go, phone in hand, while one of the camera people wiped his cheeks and did their best to make sure it didn’t look like he’d been crying.

Once they were out of sight and out of microphone range for the camera people, Crowley pulled out his phone and waited. Not long after, it rang with Warlock’s number.

“Hello?” He answered in his best American accent. It sounded something like a cross between a cowboy in an old western and the peculiar style of speech found only in certain New England towns, but it got the job done. “Warlock, is that you?”

“It’s me!” The tinny voice coming in over the speaker sounded excited, and Crowley smiled.

“How’d it go today?”

“I got Star Baker!” Warlock all but shouted down the phone.

“You did?! Fantastic!” Crowley said happily.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Aziraphale said in a much better American accent. “We’re all so proud of you.”

“Yeah! That’s great!” Adam chimed in, standing on his toes to put his mouth right next to Crowley’s phone.

“You should have seen it!” Warlock continued, sounding much happier now. “I made a great big gingerbread house that looks like our house, with a garden and everything! And Gabriel gave me a handshake!” He continued on like that for some time, only pausing for excited affirmations from Crowley and the others, until he’d managed to re-tell the entire day. Crowley knew they wouldn’t use most of that footage, maybe just up to the point where he said Gabriel shook his hand, but he let him keep on all the same. The kid deserved to be able to tell someone his good news, even if his parents couldn’t be bothered.

Once Warlock finally finished, Adam grabbed his dad and dragged him back to the place where Warlock was being filmed. Crowley slid his phone into a pocket and looked up to see Aziraphale watching him.

“What?” He asked, perhaps more defensive than he needed to be.

“That was a very kind thing you just did,” Aziraphale told him, the warmth in his voice making Crowley feel strangely soft inside.

Crowley shrugged, starting back towards the manor again. “I would have done the same for anyone in his position. Poor thing. Parents shouldn’t abandon their kids like that. I’d be surprised his even know he’s here.” The words tasted bitter, old hurts and disappointments rising up in him.

“Still, it was kind. I’m sure Warlock appreciates it. I know I do.” Aziraphale moved to walk beside him, looking at Crowley with a strange expression on his face, one Crowley didn’t know how to read.

“Yeah, well…” he blushed under that soft gaze, shoving his hands deep into his pockets for lack of a better place to put them. Then he frowned, a thought occurring to him. “Did you mean what you said earlier? About not having anyone to call?”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale blinked, then nodded. “Oh, yes. My family all rather disapproves of me baking, and running a shop. They consider it a bit too common, I’m afraid. They haven’t cut me off as such, but every so often one of them comes around to tell me how disappointed in me they all are. I doubt they’d be willing to take my calls now.”

“What a bunch of elitists assholes,” Crowley growled, angry on the baker’s behalf. “No offense, Angel. I know they’re your family, but hell, that’s a hell of a line to take.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “We’re an old family. Old blood, old money. Sometimes, things tend to get a little… skewed. They were happy enough when I bought the shop, it was only after I insisted on running it myself that they objected.”

Crowley made a face. “Definitely elitist assholes then. It shouldn’t matter what you do with your life, so long as it makes you happy.”

“That was my thought,” Aziraphale admitted. “I did try, though, at first. I served in the army for a few years, as was expected, but I hated every minute of it. I knew then I couldn’t keep living the life they laid out for me. Military service, then a seat in parliament, a wife, children, living the rest of my life in that cold, dreary house.” He shuddered at the thought of it. “I just couldn’t. So I took the money I had saved in my personal account and bought my shop. Haven’t looked back since.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.” He wasn’t sure why he felt so strongly about it, but he was glad, incredibly so, that Aziraphale had decided on this path instead. “We’ve got too many politicians as is,” he added, in case the baker read anything into his words. “We always need more bakers, and bookshop owners - people who do things that actually benefit people.”

“Very true,” Aziraphale nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Not actors though,” Crowley added with a grin. “Or comedians. We’re like vultures, or leeches. No use but to live off other people’s misfortune for personal gain.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Well, I don’t think of you as a vulture. In fact, I think you’re a very kind person.” The sincerity in his voice made Crowley blush, but he turned on the baker with mock anger.

“No, no, don’t say that, you’ll ruin my image!”

“What image?” Aziraphale asked him, deadpan. “You’re the host on a baking show, not Tom Cruise.”

“Oh!” Crowley clutched at his chest, leaning backwards dramatically like he was going to fall over. “You wound me, Angel. Ouch, see, I’m dying!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but Crowley could see he was trying hard not to smile. “Well, you deserve it. Someone has to puncture that inflated ego of yours.”

Crowley let out a startled bark of laughter, overbalancing and falling on his backside in the grass, still laughing.

“Oh! Oh dear,” Aziraphale hovered over him, clearly unsure what to do. “Crowley, are you alright?”

“Yeah, Angel. I’m fine,” Crowley said, still chuckling. “Help me up, will you?” He extended a hand, and Aziraphale took it. The baker’s grasp was firm and warm, and he pulled the host to his feet with little exertion, showing surprising strength. He dropped Crowley’s hand as soon as he was upright, but some of that warmth still remained, tingling in his palm long after they parted ways for the night.

“Oh, Crowley, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, once the comedian had recovered and resumed their walk. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m not usually this rude to people I’ve only just met.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him, grinning. “Just met? Angel, I’ve known you a full week already. Most people start with the insults after a couple hours. Frankly, I’m surprised you held out this long.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale returned his grin a little shyly. “Even so. I am sorry. It’s just… I feel as if I’ve known you forever, somehow. Does that seem strange?”

Crowley shrugged. “Eh. Not really. I feel the same about you, honestly. Doesn’t feel like we just met last week at all, does it?”

“No, no it doesn’t.” Aziraphale smiled. “One of life’s little mysteries, I suppose.”

Crowley smiled back. “I suppose so.” Then he remembered the thought that had occurred to him before. “You know,” he said carefully. “If you wanted, next time you win Star Baker, you could call me too.” He didn’t look at Aziraphale as he said it, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Oh!” Aziraphale appeared shocked, but not displeased. “I… suppose I could. Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”

“Nah.” Crowley shook his head. “I’d be happy to.”

“Oh, well then, please.”

“You don’t have to,” he rushed to assure him, just in case he was agreeing out of an excess of politeness. “Just, I thought, since we just did it for Warlock…”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale stepped in front of him, forcing him to halt on the path. “I want to. I mean, I would like to call you, to celebrate my next win.”

“Ah.” The host blushed, crimson rising to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “Alright then.”

“I’ll need your number.” Aziraphale offered his phone to Crowley, who took it.

“It’s ah, here.” He entered in his digits. “You can use it any time. I mean. Not just when you’ve won, but, ah, other times. If- if something comes up with practice, or you need something, or, well, anything really.” His words kept tripping over his own tongue, and his blush deepened.

Aziraphale only smiled, and took his phone back when offered. “Thank you, Crowley.”

Hearing him say his name like that did something strange to his insides. His knees went weak and wobbly, and that soft-and-warm feeling from earlier returned full force.

“A- any time,” was all he was able to choke out. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

“There, I’ve texted you.” Aziraphale turned and resumed walking, as if he hadn’t just knocked Crowley entirely off balance with three words and a smile. “Now you can text me if you need anything as well.”

Fortunately, just then they reached the manor house where several other bakers were standing around outside. They called Aziraphale and Crowley over, saving him from the need to formulate a reply.

Still, late that night in his silent room, Crowley pulled out his phone and stared at Aziraphale’s text.

<Hello dear boy. This is Aziraphale.>

He tried to think of a reply, each time entering text into the reply box, only to delete it right away. He couldn’t come up with anything he considered witty enough for a reply. Words, normally the one thing he could rely upon in any situation, had for once deserted him. All he could think of were wide blue eyes, and that soft, warm smile.

At last, finally hit send and turned over to try to sleep, only to be kept awake long into the night with the sound of Aziraphale speaking his name in his ears.

<Hey Angel. Good luck with practice tomorrow. 😈 >

Chapter 3 – Pie Week

Week three and four passed without major incident. Adam and Anathema won star baker, while Michael and Shadwell joined RP Tyler and Ligur in departing the tent. Crowley and Aziraphale carried on a fairly continuous conversation over text, and soon the host found himself setting with the baker for meals whenever he didn’t get caught in meetings.

When he did get caught in yet another of Gabriel’s ‘production meetings’, somehow, he always managed to find Aziraphale in the manor’s dining hall, sitting there with a book and a cup of tea or cocoa, waiting for him. Often, they were joined by other bakers (most often Warlock, Adam and Adam’s father, or Anathema and/or Newt). Crowley enjoyed hearing all about their preparations for each challenge, helping the bakers to refine their showstopper ideas and giving them tips from things he had learned during his time in the tent. But what he found himself enjoying most of all, to his complete surprise, were the times when he and Aziraphale walked alone through the manor grounds, talking of everything and nothing and anything in-between.

And then came pie week. For the signature, mini tarts, Aziraphale did exceptionally well. Crowley felt oddly proud of him, seeing him earn his second handshake for a practically perfect bake. His bet on Aziraphale and the kids for the final still seemed safe, but that wasn’t why he was pleased. It was just, Aziraphale. Crowley knew he deserved it, and was more than pleased to watch him get the recognition he was owed.

And then, came the technical. Bakewell tart. Not a truly complicated recipe, at least, when given all the steps. Tracy had set this challenge, and devilishly removed all specifications except for amount of each ingredient, the oven temperature, and the piping directions for the top.

All seemed to be going well, at first. Crowley watched Aziraphale get his knife out to chop the butter up into fine pieces to rub into the flour, before turning to make a joke with Anathema at the next station over. She waved him off, needing to concentrate, and he was about to move on to someone else when a soft curse came from Aziraphale’s direction.

He turned, frowning, and froze. Aziraphale had dropped the knife, and blood was pouring onto his station from his hand.

“Angel!” He leapt into action, grabbing Aziraphale’s hand and lifting it into the air. “Somebody get the medics!”

The baker seemed to be in shock, his eyes glassy and movements sluggish. Crowley cursed, squeezing his wrist tight and holding it high to try to stem the blood flow to the wound. He guided him forward towards the exit to the medical tent as staff members swarmed forward to meet them. The medics ran out, pulling Aziraphale from Crowley’s grasp as the rest of the bakers paused what they were doing to watch.

All activity in the tent froze, focused on the open flap to the medical tent. When he noticed Adam and Warlock watching Newt quickly inserted himself in front of the boys, earning surprised and pleased look from Anathema. Crowley himself stood in the entrance of the tent, bloodstained hands hanging uselessly at his side, listening to the medics discuss whether or not to call an ambulance.

He felt completely useless. He’d seen bakers get injured before, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing someone cut themselves this bad. The amount of blood on Aziraphale’s work station was terrifying. His sleeve looked like it had been dyed a dark ruby-red, and Crowley worried about how pale he looked.

The medics, ever professional, stayed calm and collected. One knelt by Aziraphale, seated on a stool, carefully examining the wound, while another brought a tray full of tools and a third collected antiseptic and gauze.

Back in the tent, the production manager called a halt. Luckily nobody was too far along in the process and nothing had gone into the oven yet. The bakers milled around, talking in low, concerned voices. Newt and Anathema took Adam and Warlock out to where Adam’s dad waited, doing their best to distract the young bakers from what was happening. Sandalphon, to his credit, circled around, making jokes, trying to lighten the atmosphere. The cameras moved between them, taking candid shots with the other bakers, then panning back to Crowley, still standing there in between the tents.

At last someone had the foresight to get Tracy, who came back, took Crowley by the hand, and led him away. She stayed with him, sending a runner to go grab a new shirt, and watched as he numbly washed Aziraphale’s blood from his fingers.

“He’ll be alright,” she assured Crowley. “I’ve seen bakers do much worse than slice their hand open. Hands bleed a lot. Not as much as head wounds, maybe, but I’m sure it looks worse than it actually is.”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah, I - hang on.” He frowned. “How do you know what head wounds bleed like?”

Tracy laughed at him. “Well, I wasn’t always a pastry chef, you know.”

“Huh.” It shouldn’t surprise him, but it did. She patted him on the shoulder.

“He’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, aggressively drying his hands, trying to ignore the nagging voice in his head that said but what if he isn’t?

Tracy said nothing, and he looked up to find her watching him with a knowing smile.

“What?” He snapped.

She shook her head. “Oh, nothing. It’s just, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this worked up about any of our previous bakers before.”

“Yeah, well, none of the previous bakers sliced their hand open on camera,” he countered, scowling.

Tracy’s smile only grew.

“I mean it. He’s just another baker. I’d be this upset if Anathema cut herself, or Newt, or Beelzebub.” Then he thought about what he’d said. “Well, maybe not Beelzebub.”

She laughed. “I’m sure you think so,” she said, and left him there to go check on the bakers and set some order back into the tent.

Her words played over in his head as he accepted a new shirt from one of the production assistants and put it on absently. Why did he care so much? Because, she was right. He wouldn’t have gotten this worked up over another baker getting hurt. Hell, when that one baker passed out from the heat in the tent a couple years back, he had been concerned for her, but he hadn’t panicked like this. He had been the one circling around between the other bakers, keeping everyone calm and making sure everything went smoothly as they waited for the medics to do their job.

This time, he’d frozen. His only thought had been to get Aziraphale to the hospital right away. He almost hadn’t let the medics take him; he’d been that out of it. It wasn’t just that one of the bakers had been injured, but that Aziraphale had been injured.

Slowly, he made his way back to the tents. Someone had cleaned up Aziraphale’s station, but he barely noticed. He greeted the other bakers as he passed them, but his attention was all for the medical tent. The flap was still pulled back, and he could see people moving around inside.

And there was Aziraphale. Crowley stood in the entrance to the tent, watching him. Someone had gotten him a stool, and one of the medics knelt before him, carefully wrapping his hand in white gauze. He laughed in response to something the medic said, and the sound moved through Crowley like waves. It was the best sound in the world. Better, even, than a room full of applause. And then he looked up, his eyes met Crowley’s, and… Oh. Oh no.

I’m in love with him.

That was why he was so upset by Aziraphale being wounded. Why he gravitated towards the baker. Why, out of all the bakers who had come and gone from this tent, Aziraphale meant more to him than any of them.

Before he could start to panic, one of the medics approached him.

“You can go see him, if you like.” They smiled warmly at him, gesturing to the inside of the tent.

“Ah,” Crowley hesitated, realizing how obvious he was being. “Is he - will he be alright?”

“He’ll be fine, Crowley,” the medic told him, putting a hand on his arm and drawing him into the tent. “We had to put a few stitches in his hand, but he’s alright. He’ll just need to be careful not to stretch it too much for a couple days.”

“Oh. Good. That’s… that’s good.” It might impede his ability to do particularly delicate decorations, but at least he wouldn’t have to go to the hospital for it.

“He’s still a little shaken up,” the medic continued. “I’m sure he’d be grateful for some distraction.”

This time, Crowley didn’t miss the inflection in their voice, or the way they looked between the host and the baker. He thought of the way Sandalphon joked about them, about the looks the bakers traded when Crowley came over to bother Aziraphale in the practice kitchens. Of Tracy’s earlier words. Fuck, he thought, am I that obvious? Did everybody know but me?

Out loud he said “Yeah, of course.”

Aziraphale watched him approach, smiling in welcome, and, well. Now that he’d admitted it to himself, he recognized the way that smile brought out the butterflies in his stomach. God, he wanted to do whatever it took to keep him smiling, just like that, for the rest of his life. Five weeks ago he might have called that pathetic but now it made him feel warm, even around that tight knot in his chest that whispered doubts that Aziraphale felt the same.

“Hey you,” he said. “I heard they got you all fixed up.” Smooth. Real smooth. Was he always this much of a blithering idiot?

“For the most part. Thank you for helping me, earlier.” He continued to smile at Crowley, who only smiled back, hands in his pockets, and, oh, this was awkward. It felt like upon acknowledging his attraction, all his usual glib words ran from his mind like water down the drain.

“You’re all finished,” the medic that was wrapping his hand said, releasing it and moving back. She turned to Crowley. “If you can manage to give him a few more minutes before starting filming again, it wouldn’t hurt.”

He nodded, knowing Tracy and the production team would hold things off for at least a little while longer. “We’ve stopped the challenge for now. It’ll take a bit to get everyone wrangled back in place anyway.”

The medic left then, leaving Crowley standing there like an idiot. “Does it hurt?” he asked dumbly.

“Only a little. They did a very good job of fixing me up, see?” He offered up his hand and Crowley knelt in the same place the medic had been, gently gripping his wrist and angling his palm to inspect the bandage.

“They, ah, also gave me some fairly strong painkillers,” Aziraphale admitted, blushing in a way that could not have anything to do with what he was talking about.

“That was a nasty cut,” Crowley said, deliberately not remembering how bad it had looked, there at the baking station when he’d been convinced Aziraphale had cut his hand down to the bone.

“My hand slipped!” Aziraphale told him. “I was starting to chop up the butter to put in the dough, and, well, the next thing I knew you were holding my hand up and dragging me off to the medical tent.”

“I just reacted.” Crowley really hadn’t been thinking then, acting on impulse rather than any sort of training.

“Well, whatever you did, thank you.” The gratitude in Aziraphale’s voice made him feel warm inside.

“It wasn’t any trouble,” he muttered, feeling his ears heat up.

“Yes, but, - ouch!” Aziraphale hissed, having moved his hand in Crowley’s grasp in a way that pulled at his stitches.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Crowley let go, concerned he’d accidentally hurt the baker.

“No, no,” Aziraphale hurried to assure him. “That was me, I shouldn’t have moved like that.” He flexed his fingers a little, wincing. “Oh, that hurts.”

“Shall I kiss it and make it better?” He’d meant it as a joke. Something to lighten the mood. But it came out too honest, his desire to do just that bleeding deep and soft into his voice.

“Oh!” Aziraphale blushed a deep crimson, almost as red as Crowley’s hair. “Well, um.” He didn’t seem displeased with the offer, just flustered. And so, slowly, giving him ample time to pull away, Crowley gently took Aziraphale’s hand in his and brushed his lips against his gauze-covered palm.

“There,” he released his grip, grinning a little shyly up at Aziraphale. “All better.”

“Thank you, dear boy.” Aziraphale brushed his fingers along Crowley’s jaw as he took his hand back, lingering a little below his chin before dropping his hand into his lap. “It feels better already.”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to be flustered. “Ah. Then, ah. That’s. That’s good.”

He was saved from having to say more by Gabriel’s abrupt arrival.

“How’s our patient?” he asked one of the medics, full of false cheer, striding into the tent as if he owned it. Crowley made a face, making Aziraphale giggle.

“He’ll be fine,” one of the medics said.

“Excellent!” He moved to stand above Aziraphale, towering over the sitting baker. “We’ll have you back in the tent in no time. Let’s hope that injury doesn’t hold you back. You’re one of our star bakers, after all.” He was smiling, but the tone of his voice implied he wouldn’t shed a tear if Aziraphale’s injury did indeed impact his baking, and something about the way he called him a star baker set Crowley’s nerves on edge. And then, he noticed the camera following Gabriel. The pieces clicked together. He was only here for a photo op. To pretend compassion for the tv audience.

Crowley stood, shifting to stand against Aziraphale’s back and looking Gabriel in the eyes. He wasn’t about to let him pick on the baker while he was injured.

Gabriel met his gaze and shifted the slightest bit back. If he hadn’t been looking, he would have missed it. Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Gabriel’s eyes flicked to it, then back up to his face.

“He’ll do fine,” Crowley said firmly. “Should you even be here? It’s the technical, you’re not supposed to be in the tent until it’s over.” He kept his voice light, like he was joking, but his eyes told a different story.

“Oh, it’s alright. Everything is paused, after all. I just wanted to see how our star baker is doing.” Disdain dripped from his words. Crowley wanted nothing better than to tell him off, but he was very conscious of the camera filming them. Instead, he settled for grinning and making another pointed joke.

“Oh really? I thought you had a pressing appointment to whiten your teeth.” He leaned in to Aziraphale and stage-whispered “You should see his dressing room. Whitening strips everywhere.”

Gabriel’s bright smile faltered. Crowley was rarely this hostile to him in front of others, and especially not in front of the camera. Aziraphale laughed.

“Now be nice,” he chided, but his good hand reached back and squeezed Crowley’s in thanks, out of sight of the camera.

“That’s his job,” Crowley told him. “I’m just here to make inappropriate jokes and make fun of people for the audience.” And he grinned into the camera. A couple of the medics snorted and turned away to cover their laughter.

“Well, I can see you have everything covered here,” Gabriel said, and Crowley could see by the tightness of his jaw how much it cost him to keep his tone pleasant. “I’ll just leave you to it, then.” He retreated back to the tent, taking the cameras with him.

“I should go too,” Crowley said regretfully. “We’re going to have to re-set to start the technical again.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked disappointed. “Well, thank you, for coming to check in on me.”

“No problem, Angel. Let’s get you back in the tent.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes. I can do this.”

Crowley clapped him on the shoulder. “‘Course you can. You’ll be today’s Star Baker. You’ll see.”

The baker shook his head. “I’ll be happy just to stay in the competition today.”

Something squeezed Crowley’s heart at the thought of Aziraphale getting sent home. He couldn’t imagine finishing this season without him. “Absolutely not,” he hissed. “You’re staying all the way until the finale, you hear me?”

Aziraphale blinked, surprised by his intensity. “I’ll certainly do my best,” he promised.

Crowley smiled. “That’s all I ask for. I know you’ll do it, Angel.”

The baker blushed, and it took all of Crowley’s willpower not to kiss him right there, in front of the cameras, the medics, and all the other bakers. Instead, he returned to the tent to help oversee preparation for a return to the technical challenge.

Even with his injured hand, Aziraphale did well enough in the technical that he was likely safe for another week. He affirmed it with his pie display, which definitely impressed the judges. He didn’t quite manage to hit Star Baker again, but it was close. For this week, that honor went to Newt, and Hastur was out of the tent.

Through it all, Crowley did his best to maintain his cool, detached persona. Privately, he worried about Aziraphale. He could tell the baker was in pain, but he did his best to push through it. It was a relief when they weekend’s filming ended, and he knew Aziraphale would be able to rest his hand at least a little before he needed to begin practice for the upcoming pastry week.

Chapter 4 – Chocolate Week

Fortunately for everyone, Pastry week passed uneventfully. Warlock won his second Star Baker, and Uriel left the tent. Aziraphale’s hand was healing nicely, though Crowley had to be stopped from removing all the knives from the benches.

The evening before the seventh weekend in the tent was to begin, Crowley made his way down to the practice tent after getting out of a long production meeting with Gabriel and Tracy. They had needed his input on Sandalphon’s performance, and, surprisingly he hadn’t done that bad. His humor wasn’t quite to Crowley’s taste, but they’d managed to find a rhythm around week 3, and he really seemed to mesh well with some of the contestants that Crowley had trouble getting through to. He still didn’t like the man, but they could work together.

Still, recommending he continue on the show had left a sour taste in Crowley’s mouth. So, even though it was late, he decided to pop by the practice tent to see if anyone was still there. The next day was the start of Chocolate Week, and he knew at least three of the remaining six bakers had little to no experience with finer chocolate work, so he assumed it was a good bet someone would be there.

Sure enough, the lights were all on and he could see someone moving about inside. Upon entering, he found Aziraphale at his bench, scowling at a piping bag full of chocolate. On the table around him were several iced cakes, bowls of melted chocolate, and several acetate strips large enough to wrap around one of the cakes. He was muttering to himself, leaning over a clear acetate strip and trying to carefully pipe a design in chocolate onto it.

“Hey there, Angel,” Crowley said, making his way through the tent to the baker. “How’s it going?”

“Quite terribly, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale replied, most of his concentration on the design he was piping. “This collar won’t come right.” Chocolate collars were intricately piped chocolate designs, wrapped around the cakes to make a beautiful outer shell to cover the soft buttercream icing. Done right, they looked spectacular.

“How so?” Crowley leaned over to take a look at the design. Geometric shapes in a precise pattern, expertly piped. “It looks good enough to me.”

“It isn’t setting,” Aziraphale all but whined, gesturing to two other cakes which were already wrapped in acetate. The chocolate in one had melted off completely, pooling around the cake stand. The other was falling, some of the design sticking to the cake but the majority of it running off in rivulets of chocolate.

“Well, have you considered putting it in the fridge for a bit?” He didn’t know much about chocolate collars, but he knew the chocolate needed to set first, and things set faster if put in the refrigerator.

“Oh no,” Aziraphale shook his head. “No, putting it in the refrigerator would make the chocolate dull, and it needs to shine.”

“Hmm.” Crowley perched himself on the wooden countertop of the bench behind Aziraphale, watching him work. He couldn’t help but admire how those strong hands of his could pipe so delicately. Part of him wanted to know what those hands would feel like on him. Would they be gentle and soft, tracing delicate lines along his skin? Or would he use that strength Crowley could sense in him to hold him tight, leaving bruises in his wake? Either would be equally enjoyable, though of course he would have to want to touch Crowley, which wasn’t a sure thing at all. They hadn’t had much time at all to talk since pie week, and neither had brought up the hand kiss in the medical tent.

“How long have you been letting them sit?” Crowley asked, when Aziraphale didn’t seem inclined to speak again.

“The first was fifteen minutes. The second twenty.” He gestured first to the completely melted collar, and then to the half melted one.

“I see. Let’s leave this one sit for thirty then? It’s pretty hot in here, that can’t be helping it not melt.”

“I won’t have thirty minutes in the showstopper!” Aziraphale protested. “We’ve got, what, three hours? That’s hardly enough time for all the delicate work I need to do!” He sounded frazzled, like he was at the very end of his rope. The host frowned, dropping off his seat and gripping the baker by the shoulders, turning him away from the station to look him in the eyes. What he saw worried him. Aziraphale’s eyes were red and bloodshot, with deep, dark circles under them like he’d been getting very little sleep lately.

“Hey,” he said gently, carefully, as if the wrong word would cause him to shatter. “When was the last time you slept more than an hour or two?”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale blinked at him, confused. “Oh… a few nights ago, I think. It’s fine, dear boy. I’ve gone longer without sleep before. And I really do need to practice.”

Crowley resisted the urge to roll his eyes. How many bakers had he seen drive themselves to distraction, working on so little sleep they ran through the challenges on sheer adrenalin, only to collapse the minute they were released from the tent? He’d be damned if he was going to let Aziraphale do that to himself.

“And how do you plan to go into the challenge when you’re so tired you can’t tell your sugar from your flour?” He asked, gesturing to the table where the sugar sat untouched, but the flour was all over. “Do you think that will help you win this thing?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. I have to get this right. I can’t go home this week. I just can’t.”

He tried to turn back to the bench, but Crowley caught him, holding his hands tight. “Hey. Stop. Nobody said you’re going home this week. You’re one of our strongest bakers.”

“Yes, but,” the baker protested, “it’s week 7. Six of us are already gone, which just makes it more likely I’ll be the one out. I have to do better if I want to stay.” He tugged his hands, trying to get free of Crowley’s grasp.

“No, you don’t.” Crowley let go of his wrists and grabbed his shoulders, guiding him to the other side of the tent, away from the mess of chocolate and icing he’d made of his station. “What you need is to calm down and rest.”

“Oh, but- “

“No buts.”

When Aziraphale looked like he was going to say something else, Crowley put his fingers against the baker’s lips, effectively silencing him. His lips felt soft and warm, and for an instant Crowley wondered what they would feel like on his. He shook himself out of it. Now was not the time.

“Angel. Aziraphale. Breathe.” He waited until Aziraphale’s breathing evened out and he relaxed, letting his hands fall to his sides. Only then did Crowley pull back, letting him go.

“There.” He smiled. “Better, yeah?”

Aziraphale returned his smile tentatively. “I… I think so.”

“Good. Now sit.” He directed the baker to a stool against the wall of the tent. Then he snagged a timer off of Adam’s station and held it up. “Now. I’m setting this timer for thirty minutes. For those thirty minutes, we are not going to look at, talk about, or think about your bake. Alright?”

Aziraphale glanced at his station, and Crowley scowled, moving so he stood in between him and the chocolate cooling on the counter. Aziraphale laughed and nodded. “Alright, my dear. But what shall we talk about?”

Crowley shrugged. “Whatever you want. I’ve been listening to Gabriel blather on all day, anything else is music to my ears at this point.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Oh, dear, is he really that bad?”

Crowley snorted. “Of course he’s that bad. You’ve seen how he is when we’re filming. Off camera he’s ten times worse.”

“I find that hard to believe. He’s already exceedingly unpleasant on camera, for all he smiles so prettily.”

Crowley frowned. “You think his smile’s pretty?” Jealousy surged in him, only to be carefully stamped down. Gabriel was objectively handsome, he knew that. He just hated hearing that Aziraphale thought so.

The baker shrugged. “He is quite nice to look at,” he admitted. “But so is a poison dart frog. Beautiful on the outside, but poisonous when he opens his mouth.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess.” That was better, but still. Aziraphale thought Gabriel was nice to look at. The thought irked him, and he wasn’t sure why.

Aziraphale leaned forward to touch his hand. “Still, you are much nicer to look at, my dear. And you’re ever so much nicer to talk to.”

“Oh.” Crowley blushed, his ears turning a bright red from the praise. “That’s - thanks, Angel.”

“I mean it,” Aziraphale continued, looking him in the eyes. “I would by far rather have you here with me.”

“Ah, well, I’m glad.” He wasn’t usually this tongue-tied. “I, uh. I’d rather be here with you, too. More than any of the others.” He nearly smacked himself, knowing how dumb he sounded. But it must have been something Aziraphale needed to hear, because he brightened up, smiling happily at him.

“Oh good, I was hoping you felt that way.” He sat back, his hand returning to his lap, and Crowley fought the urge to reach out and take it in his. “I had thought so, but it’s so hard to tell when you’re so careful to spend time with each of us.”

Crowley looked at his feet, hoping his face wasn’t as red as his hair, and knowing it probably was. “Well…” he said. “I try to get to everyone on camera. Wouldn’t be fair otherwise.”

“I understand, dearest,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s head shot up. Dearest. The baker had called him ‘dear’ and ‘dear boy’ before, but dearest sounded a lot more specific.

Aziraphale was studying him with those bright, kind eyes of his. “You do work so hard for all of us, making us laugh, lifting our spirits when things go poorly. Coming here and making me take a break when I was going out my head over my showstopper.”

His blush deepened, and he shifted uncomfortably, unused to the praise. “Eh. ‘S my job. Keep you lot from going insane before the finale and all that.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and wished he’d thought of something else to distract Aziraphale from his upcoming challenge. “Speaking of, what do you do when you relax, Angel? We’ve got half an hour, and you’re way too tense right now.”

Aziraphale looked disappointed, but didn’t protest the change in topic. “Well, usually I make myself a cup of cocoa and sit down with a book. But you did say we shouldn’t talk about chocolate- “

“I said we shouldn’t talk about your bake. If hot cocoa is what calms you down, that’s what we’ll do. I’m afraid I’m all out of books, but if you like we can talk about whatever you’ve been reading while you’re here.”

The baker brightened, sliding off the stool and returning to his station - carefully avoiding looking at the cakes and the slowly setting chocolate designs - and began pulling together the ingredients for hot cocoa. Crowley made his way to the back of the tent, where he found a set of mugs. They were mostly there for decoration, but they did function so he assumed it would be fine to use them so long as they washed them when they were done. He carried them back over to Aziraphale, who had already started to mix cocoa powder and milk together with sugar. Crowley deposited the mugs next to the range and leaned sideways over the table onto his elbow, doing his best to block the baker’s ability to see his practice materials. He leaned so far to the side his torso was almost at a right angle with his legs, and his hair hung down sideways in a curtain of red curls.

Aziraphale glanced at him and snorted. “Good lord, Crowley, you don’t have to stand like that. It looks ever so uncomfortable. I promise I won’t start panicking over chocolate again if I catch a glimpse of those cakes behind you.”

Crowley grinned and straightened, stretching his spine until it popped. “Ooh, yeah, that’s better. I get so tensed up in those meetings with Gabriel, I swear one day they’re gonna have to put me on the rack to get the kinks out of my spine.”

Aziraphale winced. “That’s not at all good for you, you know.”

The host shrugged, leaning back against the bench, but at a more regular angle. “Eh. ‘S not too bad. I’ve definitely had worse. You try sitting through a meeting with Gabriel like that and see how stiff you get.”

“Mm. You have a point there, my dear. Perhaps you are the one who needs some relaxation.” He poured the completed cocoa into two mugs, and passed one to Crowley.

“Mm, maybe.” Crowley grinned, an idea coming to him. “Hey, you know they have comfy chairs in the judges’ tent. We should go sit there until your timer goes off.”

“Oh, but,” Aziraphale looked nervous. “Aren’t we not supposed to go there?”

Crowley just laughed. “Angel, that’s part of the fun of it! Come on, don’t tell me you never do anything you’re not supposed to!”

Aziraphale shook his head, smiling fondly at him. “Well, alright then. Lead the way, dear boy.”

Crowley smiled back, and then, acting completely on impulse, he took Aziraphale by the hand and led him back to the partitioned judges’ tent. His hand felt warm and strong in his, fitting together so perfectly it was like they were made for each other.

He positioned the baker in Gabriel’s oversized chair, dropping his hand to let him sit. That was when he noticed the bandage still wrapped around his palm, and frowned.

“How’s that coming along?” He asked.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale blinked at him, then followed his gaze down to his hand. “Oh, this?” He lifted it up to show Crowley. “It’s healing quite nicely.”

“Hmm. Can I see?” He sat on Sandalphon’s usual stool next to the chair, taking up Aziraphale’s hand again and, at the baker’s nod, carefully unwrapping the white gauze. Underneath, he found was a mostly-healed wound, the stitches already removed.

“It’s mostly there just to keep it clean,” Aziraphale explained. “They say it probably won’t even leave too much of a scar when it’s all healed.”

“Good.” Crowley traced the raised line of it until Aziraphale’s fingers twitched.

“Sensitive?” He asked, stopping, but not dropping his hand.

“No,” Aziraphale shook his head. “Or, not really. It felt nice.”

Crowley hid a smile. “I used to do hand massages, you know. I could give you one, to help you relax. If you wanted. You don’t have to.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked surprised. And then, “would you? Please?”

This time Crowley really did smile. “Of course Angel.” He shifted until he was cradling Aziraphale’s hand, thumbs pressed into the thick muscle at the base of his palm, and began to move in slow, circular motions. He was gentle, using a light pressure to avoid causing unnecessary pain.

“Ohh,” Aziraphale let out a small groan of pleasure, closing his eyes and letting Crowley work. “That feels wonderful, dearest.”

“I’m glad.” Crowley slowly worked his way up Aziraphale’s palm, cataloging each callus and line. Then he turned his hand over and pressed his thumbs into the back, before giving each finger individual attention. Somewhere in the tent his timer started to go off, but the sound was distant, unimportant. They both ignored it.

When Aziraphale’s injured hand was done, Crowley carefully wrapped it back into the clean gauze. Then he took up the baker’s other hand, repeating the process. He worked in silence, listening to their breathing, and the occasional small noise of pleasure. Aziraphale sat with his eyes closed, head leaned back into the chair, allowing himself to just sit and feel everything Crowley was doing.

At last, Crowley released him, sitting back, his hands feeling strangely empty.

“Relaxed now?” He asked quietly, almost in a whisper, unwilling to break the nearly reverent stillness of the night around them.

“Mm, yes.” Aziraphale opened his eyes. “Thank you, my dear. That was lovely.”

Crowley blushed. “Well. It wasn’t any trouble.”

They watched each other, there in the silent tent, Aziraphale sitting in Gabriel’s grand chair, Crowley perched on Sandalphon’s stool. The air felt electric on his skin, like that glorious moment just before a summer thunderstorm when all the world smells crisp and new, waiting for the skies to open up and release the cooling rain.

And then Aziraphale leaned forward. Slowly. Deliberately. And took Crowley’s face in his hands.

“Angel…” Crowley breathed, hardly daring to move for fear he would let go.

“Shhh.” His fingers brushed against Crowley’s cheekbones, along his jaw, tucking his long hair behind his ears. “Come here.” He moved closer, pulling Crowley in. And Crowley went, willingly, shifting from the stool to the low arm of the chair. Their faces were bare inches apart. He looked down into Aziraphale’s eyes, and saw his own desire reflected back.

“God, Angel, I want to kiss you right now.” Crowley murmured; words so soft they would have been inaudible to anyone but the baker.

For a reply, Aziraphale pulled him down, rising to meet him until their lips met in a kiss. It started soft at first, and then grew more urgent, deeper, until Crowley felt as if he were drowning in it. He tasted of cocoa, and of cinnamon, sugar, and some unnamed spice.

“Angel,” he breathed into it. “Angel. My angel.”

“My Crowley.” Aziraphale broke the kiss, but held him there, foreheads resting together, breath mingling, only a millimeter away from another kiss. “I may have to share you out there. But for now you’re mine.”

“Yes,” Crowley agreed, slowly becoming aware of the position they were in. He’d slid off the arm of the chair and into the baker’s lap, their legs tangled together. Aziraphale’s strong hands held him close, one on his neck, one on his rear. “I’m yours.”

Aziraphale kissed him again, long and sweet and slow. Crowley melted against him, boneless, trusting him to hold him in place. His arms snaked behind Aziraphale, sneaking under the hem of his shirt to feel more of him against his skin. Aziraphale’s hand shifted lower on his back, clenching in the fabric of his jacket, and Crowley could feel his arousal through his trousers.

“Dearest-“ he said, breathless, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by sudden darkness descending around them.

“Oy!” Crowley tumbled off of his lap, startled. Aziraphale cursed, standing, and a startled sound came from the main tent.

“Is someone there? I’m sorry! I thought the tent was empty!”

“Fuck,” Crowley growled, rubbing his bruised backside. Then, louder, “we’re here!”

The lights came back on, and one of the production assistants stuck her head in.

“Sorry!” She said again, glancing at them curiously. “I didn’t realize you were still here. I’m supposed to turn off all the lights now.”

“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale had already straightened his shirt, looking nothing at all as if he’d just been in the middle of what had been fast becoming a very intense kiss “We were just leaving.”

“Um, yeah.” Crowley tugged his shirt back down into place. “Sorry.”

They exited the tent together slowly, walking back to the manor house and their separate rooms. But, before Crowley could wonder if this would be a one-time thing, Aziraphale silently took his hand, and held it all the way back up to the tent.

That week in the tent, to the confusion of everyone else, each time Aziraphale caught Crowley’s eyes and looked towards the entrance to the judges’ tent, the host would blush and lose the thread of whatever he was saying. And Aziraphale would just smile sweetly, and go back to what he was doing. He did particularly well with his chocolate work, making delicate and beautiful treats for his signature, and a perfect caramel chocolate candy in the technical. Even the chocolate collar cake he’d been so worried about turned out well. So well, in fact, he was named Star Baker for the second time. They were both sad to lose Newt, who had become a friend, but time in the tent marched on, getting ever closer to the finals.

Chapter 5 – Historical Week

Historical week turned out to be the worst week for Aziraphale, which surprised everyone but Crowley, who had learned by now how this usually worked. Aziraphale was practiced at “historical” bakes for his shop, and everyone knew it. He claimed he had a different book on display every week, and offered pastries for customers that were popular around the time period the book was written, or about. So everyone expected he would be good at “historical week” bakes. And, just like bakers from past years who were proficient at pastry or chocolate, the pressure on him to do well in “his” week took its toll.

The signature asked for the remaining five bakers to produce their version of hot cross buns. Aziraphale’s came out baked, but the flavors were all wrong and his icing was far too runny. Luckily, he wasn’t the only one with issues - Adam’s came out underbaked, while Beelzebub over baked theirs until they were nearly charcoal.

Then, came the technical. Princess Cake, a 1920’s Swedish treat with layers of sponge, whipped cream, and jelly, covered by a perfect layer of marzipan. Everyone struggled with that one, but Aziraphale, of all things, forgot to add the sugar to his sponge, and was unable to stabilize the whipped cream enough to hold the proper dome shape under the weight of the marzipan. It was a disaster, and he came in fully last in the technical. They all knew he would need a miracle to stay in the competition, and watching his face as they left, Crowley ached for his friend.

It was fully dark by the time Crowley managed to get back to his room. After the judging, Gabriel had kept them all in a production meeting until well after dinner. By the time he was just done with all of Gabriel’s bullshit, and had finally managed to plan some more jokes with Sandalphon for the next day, he was exhausted. Despite that, his worry for Aziraphale drew him to the bakers’ lounge, and the practice kitchens, seeking out the baker who didn’t seem to be anywhere at all. The other bakers told him he had missed dinner, and when Crowley knocked on his door nobody came, no matter how much he knocked or how long he waited. It was pouring down rain outside, so he couldn’t be out in the gardens, but Crowley couldn’t find him anywhere inside.

Eventually, it became clear that Aziraphale did not want to be found. Clearly, he wanted to be left alone after his disastrous day in the tent. Crowley knew as well as he did that he was at the bottom of the pack. Unless someone had a truly spectacular failure during the showstopper, he would be out. And, well, Crowley had been doing this job for years. He’d seen bakers come and go. Even ones he liked particularly well. It always sucked, but with Aziraphale… Aziraphale was different. The thought of walking into the tent next week without him there, of watching him go home and never seeing him again… it opened a great gaping hole in his chest, one he didn’t know how to fill.

Worried and heartsick, Crowley at last gave up the search and returned to his own rooms. Aziraphale knew where to find him, if he wanted to talk. And if not, well, Crowley wasn’t exactly the praying type. But he prayed that tomorrow would go better for the baker than today - not for Aziraphale’s sake, but for his own.

He had just removed his shoes and was working on unbuttoning his coat when someone knocked on his door. He opened it to find a thoroughly soaked Aziraphale standing there, shivering.

“Angel?” He asked, reaching out instinctively and then pulling back, not wanting to overstep and chase him away.

Aziraphale blushed and looked down, dripping onto the carpet. “May I come in? I, uh. I was taking a walk and it started to rain, you see, and, well, your room is much closer than mine, and…” he trailed off helplessly.

“Yes, yes, of course, come in!” Crowley did reach out then, and pulled him inside. “Let’s get you dried off. Sit.” He led Aziraphale over to the bed and pushed him down before tugging off his sodden jacket and hanging it over the radiator to dry. The clothes underneath were just as soaked, rainwater dripping into small puddles at his feet.

Crowley clucked his tongue, hands on his hips as he surveyed his friend. “This won’t do,” he said, making a decision. “You look like a drowned rat. What were you thinking, going off like that when it was about to rain?”

Aziraphale studied his feet. “To be honest? I wasn’t. Thinking, that is. I… After today, I just… needed to clear my head a bit, I suppose.”

“And walked right into a downpour.” Crowley shook his head, but grinned, keeping his tone light and teasing. “Come on, you need a warm shower and something to drink.”

“Oh, but-“ Aziraphale started to protest, but Crowley cut him off.

“No buts. Stay right there, and don’t move.” He fixed him with a stern look before going to the bathroom and turning the shower on to as warm a setting as he thought Aziraphale could stand. He left one of his towels and the robe folded on the counter, ready for when he finished his shower. Then, when steam began to form on the mirrors, he returned back to his room and pulled Aziraphale from the bed.

“You’re going to shower,” he instructed. “I’m going to call room service and have them bring up some dinner. How does that sound?”

“Ah. Alright.” Aziraphale let himself be guided into the bathroom. Crowley had nearly pushed him into the shower fully clothed and was fumbling with the buttons of his shirt before he remembered himself and gently pushed the host’s hands away.

“I can do this bit, my dear,” he said, blushing scarlet.

Crowley, too, blushed, acutely aware of what he had almost just done. “Ah. Right. I’ll- I’ll just be outside.” He all but fled the bathroom, closing the door behind him so quickly he didn’t see the way Aziraphale’s eyes lingered on his body as he left.

It didn’t take long to call down to the kitchens and have them bring up a hot pot of tea and some sandwiches, which left him with very little to do. He could hear the shower still running, and hoped Aziraphale would take all the time he needed to warm up. He sat down at turned on the tv, but only flipped through a few channels before turning it off and standing up again, unable to sit still. He checked on Aziraphale’s jacket slowly drying on the radiator, rifled through the clothes in his own closet, straightened their shoes by the door, and wandered over to the kitchenette where he opened and closed a few doors, aimlessly looking for something to do. He frowned at his collection of bottles on the counter, picking up one and then putting it down, moving on to the next. He hated feeling helpless. There wasn’t anything he could do for Aziraphale besides order him some food, get him a warm shower, and listen if he wanted to talk. It didn’t feel like very much at all, not when he remembered the look on his face as Gabriel ripped into his technical bake.

“Get a grip on yourself,” he growled under his breath. “The last thing he needs is you acting like an idiot.” He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. What could he do? He was just a host on a baking show. A failed comedian that couldn’t hack it in Hollywood. He couldn’t even really bake himself, so he had no advice to give that Aziraphale hadn’t already been given. He scowled at his reflection in the awkward hotel room mirror on the wall above the bed. What did he have to offer Aziraphale? Was he kidding himself with the thought that the baker might just return his affection?

He shook his head in disgust. Aziraphale needed someone to be there for him right now, and here he was worrying about himself.

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of dinner. Crowley brought it inside and placed it on the table by the window, arranging the seats so that Aziraphale would have the chair closest to the warmth of the radiator. He had just put silverware out and was looking for the teapot when he remembered the cocoa they never finished in the judges’ tent the week before. He returned to the small kitchenette, pulling out milk and cocoa powder. He wasn’t really one for sweets much himself, but he had learned over the years that sometimes bakers wanted to practice their bakes in the middle of the night, and had begun to keep a stash of common ingredients in his room “just in case” around the start of his third season on the show. Vanilla came out of a cabinet, along with brown sugar and his personal supply of dark chocolate. He didn’t have marshmallows, but they could make do with the whipped cream he kept in the fridge for nights when he needed his coffee to be extra sweet. By the time Aziraphale emerged from the shower the comforting scent of hot cocoa was filling the room.

He looked up from the stove when he heard the door opening, and was treated to the sight of a slightly damp Aziraphale, skin still pink from the heat of the shower, wrapped up in his fluffy bathrobe and standing awkwardly in the doorway, his hair a mess of damp white curls.

“Ah, Angel!” A few stray locks of hair brushed against Aziraphale’s forehead, and Crowley had to physically restrain himself from going to him and smoothing them away from his face. “I know you skipped dinner so I had the kitchen send up some sandwiches. I wasn’t sure what you liked so I got a few different things. We can order more if there’s something else you want.”

“Thank you, my dear boy,” Aziraphale rewarded him with a sincere smile, but didn’t make his way over to the table. Instead, he came to stand just behind where Crowley was working on the stove.

“What’s that you’re making?”

“Ah.” Crowley blushed, all too aware of his presence at his back. “Hot cocoa. One of the contestants on series six gave me the recipe. I can’t make it as good as she did, but it should taste alright.”

“Mmm,” the baker inhaled, standing so close Crowley could feel his breath. “It smells heavenly.”

Crowley’s usual glibness once again failed him with Aziraphale so close. He couldn’t think of a thing to say that wouldn’t sound incredibly stupid. “I, ah, that is. Um. You said you like hot cocoa when you need cheering up.”

“You remembered!” Aziraphale’s surprise squeezed at his heart.

“‘Course I remembered.” He gave him a quick smile, noting his blush before turning back to stir the pot of milk. Milk, he had learned, required constant attention when boiling. It went from smooth to exploding out of the pot so quickly.

“I may not be a star baker,” he added. “But I can make a good cocoa in a pinch.”

“Thank you, dear. It smells wonderful already.”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to blush, unused to such direct praise. Especially not for his cooking, or lack thereof.

“Well, we’ll see how good it is in a bit. Why don’t you go sit?”

“I would,” Aziraphale said, “but I do believe you’re about to burn that chocolate.” The baker pointed to the pot where he was melting his dark chocolate with a little cream and brown sugar into a syrup to add to the warm milk. He reached around Crowley and picked up a whisk, stirring quickly.

“Oh. Um. Thank you.” Crowley moved over to continue tending to the milk, conscious of every place where their bodies touched, working together on the small stove.

“You have to watch sugar carefully,” Aziraphale cautioned him. “It doesn’t give the same dramatic effect as milk boiling over, but it burns so quickly. It's why caramel is so difficult to get right.”

“Mm. Is that so?” It was very hard for Crowley to think, with Aziraphale’s shoulder pressed up against his like that.

“Oh yes. Here,” once again, Aziraphale reached around him, removing the milk from the burner and guiding his hand onto the whisk. “You do it just like this. Keep any one bit from sitting too long on the bottom. It’s much easier over a double boiler, less danger of it burning too quickly.”

His hands were firm and warm over Crowley’s, He guided him for a few more strokes before releasing them, instead letting a hand rest on Crowley’s lower back. “Good,” he observed when Crowley maintained the speed and motion Aziraphale had shown him. “Keep doing it just like that.”

“Or what?” Crowley asked, grinning at him, the hand on his back making his skin tingle wonderfully even through his sweater.

“Or I suppose I should have to punish you,” Aziraphale said, and the implied threat in that gentle, soft voice sent pleasant shivers down his spine.

“Oh?” He lifted an eyebrow, keeping one eye on the chocolate and half-hoping it would burn just so he could see what Aziraphale would do. “And how would you do that?”

“Mm,” Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “That would depend.” He put the milk back on the burner, stirring with the wooden spoon. It was, in Crowley’s inexpert opinion, almost ready for the chocolate he was melting.

“Depend on what?”

Aziraphale met his eyes then and held them. “On what you wanted.”

“Oh.” He felt his face heat, desire burning hot in his veins. “I- I see.” He swallowed hard, his whole body responding to the unspoken promise in Aziraphale’s voice.

“I- oh!” The milk began to froth, and Crowley only noticed just in time to pull it from the burner. “Milk’s done.”

“Ah. So it is.” Aziraphale stepped away to let him finish, and Crowley felt the loss of contact like a physical blow. He poured the now melted chocolate mixture into the milk and stirred them together. Then he poured the cocoa into two mugs and topped them both with whipped cream.

“There we are.” He led the way over to the chairs by the window, gesturing for Aziraphale to sit first before handing him his mug.

“Thank you, dearest.” Aziraphale said, accepting the drink and relaxing back into the comfortable armchair. Crowley settled in next to him, nudging the plate of sandwiches closer to the baker.

“You should eat,” Crowley told him. “You’ll need your energy for tomorrow.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose I shall. If only to give a good show before they send me home.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. For all we know, Anathema’s showstopper could collapse in on itself. Or Beelzebub could forget to use sugar. Or the judges could decide to do a double elimination next week instead. It’s not over until it’s over, Angel.”

Aziraphale shook his head, slowly sipping on his cocoa. “I know, dear. But you saw my buns. They were a disaster. And I came in last on the technical.”

“Yeah, but Adam’s buns were weirdly soggy, and Beeze overcooked theirs. I think Gabriel’s soul died a little when he tasted them. Only Anathema did really well on the signature today.”

“Yes, but in the technical, Adam got a handshake and Beelzebub came in third.”

“Three out of five isn’t all that impressive. I’d say they’re in as much trouble as you right now,” Crowley tried to reassure him. “Your flavors may have been off in those buns, but they were well baked. Beelzebub can’t say that. You just need to really kill it tomorrow and you could save yourself.”

“Only if someone else does poorly,” Aziraphale said sadly. “And it doesn’t feel right, hoping for someone else to fail simply so I can remain in the contest.”

“Well, I don’t mind it. I’m going to keep on hoping for Beelzebub to crash and burn. Mostly because I think Anathema would hex me if I was rooting for her to fail, and those two kids are way too talented for eleven years old.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “You’re our host. Shouldn’t you be impartial?”

Crowley shrugged. Part of him did feel bad about how much he wanted someone else to fail tomorrow, but selfish or not he did have a preference and he wasn’t going to lie about it.

“I’m allowed to feel however I want,” he told the baker. “I just can’t influence the judges one way or the other. Tomorrow, in the tent, I’ll be working just as hard for Beelzebub, Anathema, and the kids. That doesn’t mean I won’t be praying for one of their jelly molds to fall apart.”

That drew another laugh out of Aziraphale, but then silence fell between them and he sighed. “I’m not - I’m not upset, really,” he said quietly. “I know I did my best. I got all the way to the quarter finals, which is better than I ever expected when I applied.”

“You did. You’ve done very well, against some of the strongest bakers I’ve seen in the tent. I think you could give even Gabriel a run for his money if you wanted, Angel.”

“Do you really think so?” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up with pleasure, and he finally reached out and took a sandwich from the tray.

Crowley leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I do. You’re a good baker, Aziraphale. Don’t let one bad day, or that asshole Gabriel, convince you otherwise. You can do this. Even if nobody else has trouble tomorrow, if your showstopper is good enough, you still have a chance.”

“And even if I don’t, I have no regrets. I got to come here, meet some wonderful bakers, learn new techniques and recipes, meet you… I’m not sure if, given the chance, I would have done anything differently.”

“Meet me?” Crowley couldn’t hide the pleased surprise in his voice that he had made the list.

“Mm, yes.” Aziraphale smiled at him. “In fact, meeting you should have been at the very first thing I mentioned.”

“Oh.” He blushed, feeling warm from more than just the cocoa in his hands. “I, ah.” He didn’t know how to say what he wanted to say to Aziraphale. Nor did he know if he would even want to hear it. So he settled for “I’m glad.”

Silence fell between them, and Crowley let it be. Aziraphale knew better than he did what he needed. And if what he needed was to sit in comfortable silence with another person, well, Crowley was happy to make that happen. He leaned back in his chair, sipping his cocoa and watching as Aziraphale finished his dinner. He wished it could be like this every night. They could cook together in his Mayfair kitchen, or perhaps the more intimate space he imagined must be the kitchen in Aziraphale’s apartment. Then they could retire to the couch together and sit just like this. Maybe he’d bring his laptop and work on new jokes while Aziraphale read, or they could watch tv, or just talk late into the night about whatever caught their fancy. Maybe Crowley would stay over some nights, and when Aziraphale woke in the morning he would bake something wonderful for breakfast, waking Crowley with enticing smells from the kitchen. They could start their day together, before he had to go open the shop and Crowley had to go off to a set to film somewhere. And then in the evenings, he would return, and they could do it all over again. It was a wonderful daydream.

Ah, but who was he kidding? It was just a fantasy. While there was clearly some mutual attraction there, it wasn’t like Aziraphale had given him any indication that this… whatever it was between them was something he wanted to continue on after he left the show. Hell, they had barely even mentioned it. Stolen kisses in the back of the tent, holding hands under the dinner table, sneaking about like school children. It was all a grand game. But Aziraphale had never seemed inclined to put a name to it. And Crowley wasn’t so foolish as to try. He would enjoy what he had, for as long as he had it. And that four-letter word would remain unsaid, where it couldn’t ruin anything.

“You know,” Aziraphale said slowly into the silence. “I was wrong. I do have one regret.”

“Just the one?” Crowley leaned forward again, ready to listen and offer what help he could.

“Yes.” Aziraphale smiled, and something in his voice sent the butterflies spinning deep in Crowley’s gut. “There is something I haven’t yet had the opportunity to do. And I would regret it very much, if I never took the chance.” There was promise in those words. A promise that sent a thrill through Crowley, his body responding to the desire clear in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“And what-“ he asked, having to swallow to wet his suddenly very dry mouth. “What would that be?”

“I should like,” Aziraphale said carefully. “To pick you up, carry you over to that bed, pin you down and then have my way with you.” He watched Crowley’s face for a reaction, hope and desire burning in his eyes. “If, ah. If that’s something you would like, of course.”

Crowley tried to speak, closed his mouth, swallowed, and tried once more. “Angel,” he managed to squeak out. “I- ah. Yes.”

“Yes, what?” Aziraphale smiled and stood, all of his hesitancy gone in the face of Crowley’s blatant desire. There was an air of command in his voice now, and Crowley couldn’t help but react.

“I- I’d like that. Please.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Very good. Then you shall have it.” And, with arms strengthened by years of kneading dough, he picked Crowley up out of his chair and carried him bridal-style over to the bed, depositing him onto it and holding him there with one hand on his chest. Crowley barely had time to protest before he was flat on his back on the bed, insanely turned on, his cock straining against his pants.

“Now,” Aziraphale said, leaning over Crowley, his robe coming loose from the motion and revealing his bare chest beneath. “We shall need a word for you to say, if you want me to stop. What would you like?”

Crowley’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. He could feel the baker’s strength in the hand holding him down, though he knew if he tried he would be able to throw him off. But he didn’t need freedom. What he needed was more of that strength, pressing him into the mattress, keeping him in place as he squirmed.

Aziraphale chuckled, gently caressing his face. “You do need to use your words, dearest, or I shall have to be firm with you.”

“Um.” He took a breath and tried again. “How about… about apple jelly?” It was the flavor of Aziraphale’s bake tomorrow, and not something he expected either of them wanted to be thinking about right then.

“Good. Now you must use it if you want me to stop at any time, even if just for a break. Do you understand?”

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale smacked him lightly on the chest. “Use your words, dear. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Angel.” He needed Aziraphale to be touching him, now, more than just that one point of contact where the baker pinned him to the bed.

“Good boy,” the baker murmured. “You’re going to be so good for me tonight, aren’t you?” He pressed down on Crowley’s chest, pinning him until he couldn’t have escaped even if he wanted to.

Crowley shivered, his praise and his strength doing something to him, something he needed but didn’t understand, taking the complicated ball of emotions that burned in his chest and lighting it on fire. “Yes,’ he breathed. “I’ll be good for you. So good, Angel.”

Aziraphale smiled, something hungry burning in his eyes. “Ah. Such a sweet little demon I’ve caught in my trap. I wonder what I should do with you?”

So that was how he wanted to play it. Crowley could do that. He started to squirm harder, struggling futilely against Aziraphale’s strength. “Let me go!” He hissed, shoving ineffectually at the arm holding him down. “Let me go! I swear, angel, when I get out of here- “

Aziraphale’s other hand reached out, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and pulled. Crowley went silent, eyes wide, staring at Aziraphale’s face, now so very close to his as he leaned over him, the weight of his body holding him still. He could smell him now, the fresh cotton scent of the bathrobe, the citrus of the bath soaps from his shower, and something else. Something of burnt sugar and cocoa that was undeniably his.

“None of that now,” Aziraphale said quietly, the words simmering with warning. “You don’t want to make this harder on yourself, do you?”

Crowley shook his head, wincing as his hair pulled.

“Now,” Aziraphale told him. “You are going to keep quiet and only speak when I tell you to, is that clear?”

Crowley nodded.

“You may answer.”

“Yes.”

He used Crowley’s hair to pull his head up from the bed, closer to his face. “Yes, what?”

“Yes… sir.”

Aziraphale hummed in pleasure and released his hair. “Very good. Though you may call me Angel, if you like. I do so like hearing you call me that.”

“Yes, Angel.”

“Thank you, love.” He brushed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, gentle, too gentle, and Crowley squirmed under him, needing so much more. “Now, whatever shall I do with you?”

Crowley kept quiet. He had been ordered not to talk.

Aziraphale reached out and began to unbutton his shirt. Slowly, torturously slowly, he removed one button at a time. The only point of contact between Aziraphale and Crowley was his hands, caressing his skin as the shirt fell open before him until all of Crowley’s chest was exposed.

“Oh my.” Aziraphale sighed, running gentle hands up Crowley’s sides. “Oh, how beautiful you are, my dearest.” He gently removed the sleeves from his arms, tossing the shirt to the ground and marveling at what it had revealed, soft pale skin stretched over hard muscle and bone. “You are a vision, my darling.”

Crowley squirmed, whining, needing more. His nerves sang with desire, his sensitive skin electrified, fizzing pleasantly wherever Aziraphale touched.

“Hush,” the baker caressed his cheek, leaning over him, drawing his fingers down to his jaw and then back up the side of his face, tracing the winding pattern of his tattoo. “This is beautiful work,” he murmured, breath ghosting across Crowley’s skin. “Tell me, when did you get it?”

He was breathless with desire, but still he understood the baker wanted him to answer. “I was… seventeen. Had just gotten kicked out for the first time, wanted to do something wild.”

Aziraphale’s expression crumbled for a minute, distressed by the meaning of Crowley’s words. But now wasn’t the time for pity, and Crowley wasn’t about to let his depressing past ruin this moment. He squirmed under Aziraphale, bucking his hips so that the large bulge in his jeans brushed against the baker. Aziraphale’s gaze turned predatory once again, and his hands came down hard on Crowley’s shoulders holding him in place.

“None of that, now, you devious thing.”

“Angel, please!” Crowley whined, trying desperately to get some friction on his leaking cock. He could feel a wet spot forming in his pants and he needed Aziraphale to be fucking him now.

The baker drew back, scowling at him. “Now, what did I say about talking without permission?”

The lack of contact hurt; his bare skin felt ice-cold where Aziraphale’s hands had been. He kept his mouth shut, trying to plead with his eyes for some relief.

Aziraphale sighed. “Naughty demon, trying to tempt me, when I’m the one who caught you in this trap. I see I will have to teach you a lesson after all.” With surprising speed and strength he lifted Crowley up and flipped him over onto his stomach. Then his hands reached around him and found the buckle for his belt, tearing it open and popping the button to his jeans. In one swift motion he pulled both jeans and boxers down to his knees and exposing his bare ass to the air.

“This is what you get for tempting me. Coming up to me in the tent, teasing me, putting yourself on display in those tight clothes of yours until all I want to do is push you up against my bench and fuck you senseless. “He delivered a stinging slap to Crowley’s ass, and Crowley gasped, his cock straining as pleasure and pain shot up his spine like a lightning strike.

“Oh yes. You like that do you?” He spanked him again, hard enough to sting. “Filthy boy. You always keep yourself so clean, but I bet you’d like it if I fuck you on that table. Get you all dirty, all covered in chocolate and flour.”

Another slap, this time to his other ass cheek. He could almost feel the hand print he left behind, and it hurt so, so good. Crowley whimpered. He needed to touch himself, if only to get some sort of relief for his rock-hard cock and aching balls, but his hands were pinned under his chest, held there by Aziraphale’s hand pressing down on his back.

“You’d be quite a sight then,” the baker continued, letting his hand fall to cup Crowley’s ass cheek, thumb massaging the reddened skin lightly. “Batter in that beautiful hair of yours, icing smeared across your skin, so sweet and delicious, the perfect treat all for me.”

Crowley made a strangled noise, his body trembling with the strain of staying still while Aziraphale spoke to him like that. God, he could come just like that, untouched, from hearing him murmur all the dirty things he wanted to do to him.

“I imagined doing this to you that night you came to me in the tent,” he whispered, leaning over Crowley to speak into his ear. “I wanted to bend you over my station spread that chocolate over your back. I would have licked it all off, slowly, teasing you with my tongue until you begged for release.” He pulled back and delivered another slap. The soft flesh of Crowley’s ass turning red and hot from his ministrations.

“I would have made a chocolate collar around your neck, and you would have let me, standing still while I piped the chocolate onto your skin.”

Another slap. It stung in such a delicious way, Crowley knew he would be tender in the morning, carrying a reminder of this night with him into the tent.

“And then,” Aziraphale trailed his fingers down the hard knobs of Crowley’s spine, down to his ass where he slipped them between his cheeks, pressing lightly at his hole. “I would open you up with my chocolate-covered fingers, fucking you just with my hand until you came, squirting your batter all over.” Crowley wriggled and whined, the filthy things Aziraphale was describing to him burning hot and electric under his skin.

Aziraphale slapped his ass again, three times in quick succession. “Stop that now. You’ll get your relief when I’m good and ready.”

Crowley forced himself to lay still, his cock hard and sensitive against the rough bedcover.

“Good boy,” Aziraphale told him, gently massaging the swollen, red skin of Crowley’s ass. “My good boy.” A sound formed in Crowley’s throat, something needy and wounded and deep. Aziraphale kissed his back, just between his shoulder blades. “Yes, my very good boy.” Crowley shivered from the praise, need and want building in him until he could barely stand it, and Aziraphale hadn’t even touched his cock once.

He moved then, releasing the pressure on Crowley’s back. He bent down and removed Crowley’s jeans the rest of the way, leaving him completely naked save for the silver chain he wore around his neck. “Turn over,” he ordered. “I want to see you.”

Crowley did, the cool air chilling his bare skin. His cock stood at attention, swollen and red, leaking already, begging to be touched. Aziraphale sighed in wonder, hands going to Crowley’s hips and holding him there. “So beautiful,” he murmured. “So perfect. Just like I imagined you would be.” He knelt, bringing his face level with Crowley’s hips, and ran his tongue along the length of him, teasing, sending a wave of pleasure cascading over his body. He grinned when Crowley moaned as he pulled back, raising himself onto his elbows so he could better see the baker’s face.

“You don’t think I’d let you off that easy do you?” Aziraphale asked. “Tempting me like you have been these past weeks? Standing so close to me, driving me wild with desire, while the camera filmed and I could do nothing about it?” He shook his head, and removed a small bottle of lube from the pocket of his robe. “I found this in your bathroom, you devil. And I know exactly what to do with it.” He unscrewed the top and poured some out onto his fingers, slicking them up.

He moved slowly letting the lube drip along his fingers, letting Crowley watch, anxious, waiting, needing his hands on him now. He reached for his own cock, needing some form of release, and Aziraphale swatted his hands away.

“No touching yourself,” he commanded. “I said I was going to have my way with you. And I shall.” Crowley shivered, the firm desire in that usually gentle voice made him ache. He wanted him inside him, needed him, needed to be filled and desired and loved more than he would ever admit.

“Spread your legs for me, darling. There we go.” Aziraphale watched as Crowley spread himself, inviting him in. “Beautiful.” His fingers were cold and slick on Crowley’s ass as he pushed into him, working him open. His questing finger stroked inside of him, stretching him, and another finger slipped inside. Crowley moaned, his head falling back and he rocked on Aziraphale’s hand. He didn’t want this slow preparation, he wanted it to be fast and hard, to feel it burn. But Aziraphale was patient, methodical.

His other hand came up, caressing his hip before gripping him hard, holding him in place to keep him from rocking. “Stay still,” he commanded. “There’s a good boy.”

A third finger worked its way in, and Crowley couldn’t help it, he begged. “Please- please, Angel, need you- need you now.”

“Quiet.” Aziraphale flicked his balls, and Crowley bit down on a scream, only remembering at the last second there were rooms around them where people might hear.

“There we go. Remember, we’re not the only people in this hotel.” Aziraphale caressed his balls where he had flicked them, drawing more unintelligible moans out of Crowley. His other hand continued to work his fingers into him, stretching him wide. “There now. You’re doing so well, my beautiful demon.”

He withdrew his fingers, the sudden emptiness making Crowley whine with need. Then he stood, opening his robe and letting it fall to the ground behind him. Crowley could see his cock, thick and full, and moaned. He wanted it inside him. Needed it. Would die without it. He was so ready, so primed with desire, and -

Aziraphale shoved into him in one great thrust, all the way to the top. Crowley keened. It felt so, so good. So right. His walls tight and hot around Aziraphale’s cock, he was so full, so stretched. He bucked his hips, moving up and down on the cock that filled him, needing more of that sweet, sweet sensation.

“You feel so wonderful, dear boy,” Aziraphale moaned, gripping his hips with strong hands, holding him still. “You’re so good to me. Giving me everything I want. You’d give me anything I asked for, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Crowley panted, struggling against his grip, needing movement, needing to be fucked. “Yes, anything you want Angel. It’s yours.”

At last, at last, Aziraphale began to move, pushing in and out in long, slow strokes. “What I want,” he said, leaning forward to look Crowley in the eyes, his pupils blown so wide there was hardly a sliver of blue visible. “What I need is you. All of you.”

“Take me,” Crowley begged. “I’m yours. Always yours.”

“Mine,” Aziraphale agreed, his fingers digging into Crowley’s hips. He sped up, rocking, and Crowley groaned in pleasure, his untouched cock leaking trails of semen. It throbbed with need, and he longed to touch it, to stroke himself with Aziraphale’s thrusts, but Aziraphale had told him to keep his hands where they were, and he sobbed, so full of sensation he could barely think.

“Oh, you poor thing. So needy, aren’t you?” Aziraphale released his hips to grip his cock, stroking it in time with his movements. “You’re so hard for me,” he said in wonder. “So good. You’re always so good for me.” The praise made him shiver and he wrapped his legs around Aziraphale, pulling him in.

“Yes, just like that. You’re perfect, Crowley. Perfect, and wonderful, and- “

Crowley came, the orgasm rolling through him in waves of pure pleasure, his seed spilling over Aziraphale’s strong hands. Moments later Aziraphale threw back his head, uttering his own cry as warmth flooded from him into Crowley. He collapsed on top of him, with only enough strength left to crawl further up the bed and gather Crowley up within his arms.

Crowley clung to him, tucking his head beneath Aziraphale’s chin and wrapping his arms around his back.

“Was that… alright?” Aziraphale asked, hesitant now that it was all done.

“Alright?” Crowley gave a weak chuckle, utterly spent and exhausted, feeling so wonderfully and thoroughly used. “Angel, that was brilliant.”

They fell asleep tangled together on top of the covers, and didn’t wake until morning. When one of the camera people spotted them leaving Crowley’s room together that morning, Aziraphale wearing the same, slightly damp, clothes he had worn the day before, she smiled knowingly and said nothing.

In the tent that day, Aziraphale’s jelly mold was perfect, though he blushed deeply whenever Crowley wandered over to his station and asked how the apple jelly was coming along. It was enough to save his spot in the competition, and Beelzebub, whose mold collapsed, leaving them with only a pile of fruit and jelly to present to the judges, was sent home. Crowley would never say he was relieved to see another baker leave, but that night anyone walking outside of his room would have heard some very interesting noises echoing through the door. Shortly thereafter, the manor’s cleaning crew learned to leave extra soap and towels in Crowley’s room, while leaving Aziraphale’s room alone but for the occasional dusting.

Chapter 6 – The Finale

The remaining two weeks of the competition went by in a blur. Crowley was the happiest he could remember being, but as the final drew closer, he was also filled with dread. Because the final meant Aziraphale would leave, and Crowley had no idea what that would mean for them. The sex was regularly mind-blowing, but even without it he could happily spend the rest of his life beside Aziraphale. It was just… he had no idea what Aziraphale felt for him. Despite all the pet names and endearments they said to each other, neither one had brought up the one word that hung over it all. Love.

And there was the heart of it. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was truly, deeply, and irrevocably in love with the baker. Losing him would shatter Crowley, in ways he really didn’t want to think about. But Aziraphale had given him no indication that he felt the same. For all the host knew, Aziraphale would be more than capable of leaving him behind the minute his time in the tent was over.

It was easy to ignore when he was with Aziraphale, trading kisses in dark hallways or holding hands under the table. But when Aziraphale was off practicing, or he was called in to production meetings, the same worry reared its ugly head. What if Aziraphale kissed him goodbye after the final, and that was the last they ever saw each other? It was an all-too-possible reality, and one he very much did not want to contemplate. The worry made him snappish and irritable, despite his best efforts to hide it.

Eventually, the night before the finals began, Tracy sat him down and asked him point-blank if something was bothering him.

“No, nothing really,” he told her, trying in vain to seem completely unbothered. Tracy just leveled him with her best Look, and he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Ok. Fine. I think it’s been at least a little obvious that Aziraphale and I- “

Tracy laughed. “Crowley, I’m pretty sure a blind man could see what you two mean to each other.”

Crowley made a face. “Right. Well. As to that…”

“Oh no, you didn’t break up with him, did you?” Tracy asked, frowning at him.

“What? No!” Crowley shook his head. “No. It’s not that. It’s just…”

“Just?” She prompted, when it became clear he didn’t intend to go on.

“Just that I don’t know what he wants. If he’s happy with this being just a - a fling. A bit of fun while he’s away from home, and when he leaves he’ll want to leave it all behind.” The words spilled out of his mouth, burning like bile.

“Well, what do you want?” Tracy asked.

Crowley shrugged, looking miserable. “I don’t know. I…gah.” He folded his arms on the table and rested his head on top of them.

“Oh, Crowley.” Tracy put a comforting hand on his arm. “I think it’s pretty plain to all of us that he’s in love with you. Gabriel wouldn’t even bet with me on it.”

Normally, Crowley would have been shocked she hadn’t managed to get a bet out of Gabriel, but now he just tugged at his hair and groaned. “Then why won’t he just say that?”

“Have you told him?” Tracy asked, by way of an answer.

“Why would I tell him that?” Crowley wanted to know. “If he’s thinking this is all just a nice lark, I don’t think he’ll like me bringing that up. What would I even say? ‘Hello Aziraphale. I’m in love with you, and I want to take you home and make love to you forever?’”

Tracy patted his arm. “You should say exactly that, then. It’s always best to communicate these things clearly in any relationship.”

“Bah. Fuck communication,” Crowley growled, not raising his head from the table. “I’ll just go live in the woods. Be a hermit. Better than this bloody uncertainty.”

Tracy sighed. “That would be a shame. Our ratings would drop significantly without you around to look at.”

Crowley’s head shot up. “What?”

She laughed. “Didn’t you know? You’re one of our main draws.”

The host stared at her. If his eyebrows could rise any higher, they would have been in his hairline. “No way.”

“If you don’t believe me, you should take some time to look through the forums. There are almost as many posts dedicated to you, Gabriel, and myself as there are the bakes.” She grinned. “Even Sandalphon is developing a following, before these episodes even go on air.”

“You’re kidding.” He made a face, unable to imagine anyone being attracted to Sandalphon, let alone posting about it on the internet.

“Look it up. I promise you I’m not.” Tracy smirked. “You should see what they’ve been saying about your bum, dear. There’s going to be quite a few disappointed people when this season airs.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Crowley, you couldn’t be more obvious if you tried. It was obvious from the first week you were attracted to him. By the time the two of you finally got caught in the tent, we’d all known for weeks you would end up together.”

“Ah.” Crowley blushed, remembering that brief but very intense make out session with Aziraphale in Gabriel’s chair. “You, uh, you heard about that.”

Tracy snickered. “Dear, you know how gossip flows around here. I’d be surprised if anyone on set didn’t know.”

“Oh no.” Crowley’s head hit the table again.

“Crowley,” she said, serious again. “I’m telling you this as your friend. We can all see how he feels about you. You need to talk to him.”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright,” he agreed.

He didn’t talk to him. Instead, he bounced between Aziraphale, Anathema, and Adam, inquiring about their bakes and making them laugh, trying to relieve their own stress and bury his own. When he wasn’t on camera he hid out in the judges’ tent, nearly vibrating with pent-up energy. Tracy watched him with disappointment, but said nothing. The day ended with no clear front runner, and no clearer idea for Crowley on where Aziraphale stood with him.

He had almost resolved to speak to Aziraphale about it that night, but when he returned from the tent he was clearly upset, stressing about the next day’s challenge. So instead he pushed and poked and prodded until he convinced Aziraphale to take him to bed and fuck him hard, trying desperately not to think that it could be the last time. They fell asleep together in Crowley’s bed, and he could almost have sworn he heard Aziraphale murmur “I love you” just before he drifted off. Of course, it had to be wishful thinking.

He woke the next morning and slipped out before Aziraphale got up, unable to face him knowing that this could be their last day together. Not feeling like breakfast, he headed down to the tent where the set was buzzing with the news that Aziraphale had changed the theme of his bake.

“What?” Crowley frowned at the assistant who was preparing Aziraphale’s station. “He changed it?”

“Yeah. Submitted the designs last night. Thank god we had all the ingredients on hand. I don’t think he’s even practiced this one.”

“Huh.” This was news to Crowley. The challenge was wedding cakes, and up until this morning -or, supposedly, the last night- Aziraphale’s plan had been to do the traditional white, three-tiered cake and cover it in buttercream roses. Now… he noticed cocoa on his station, a bar of German chocolate, and raspberries. It completely escaped his notice that chocolate and raspberry was one of his own favorite flavor combinations.

When the bakers filed into the tent, Crowley tried not to meet Aziraphale’s gaze, confused at the sudden change and unable to understand why he didn’t say anything about it. Aziraphale, for his part, looked even more nervous than he had on that first day. He gripped his hands tightly together in front of him, fidgeting with his ring until Crowley and Sandalphon signaled the start.

Once he was free to walk around the tent, Crowley slowly made his way over to Aziraphale’s station.

“So,” he said, hands in his pockets, trying very hard to project the image of nonchalance, and failing. “I heard you changed your whole design last minute.”

Aziraphale glanced at his eyes, then back down at his mixing bowl. “Yes, I did. I… got some inspiration, and decided to change things up a bit.”

“You didn’t say anything last night.” He tried not to sound hurt. He would have thought this sort of thing would be something Aziraphale would want to talk to him about. Then again, he could already be trying to pull away. Preparing to leave at the end of the day, and never see Crowley again.

“I was distracted,” Aziraphale said, a little testily. “Please, Crowley, I need to focus.”

“Oh.” He felt like someone had just doused him with a bucket of ice water. “Of course. I’ll let you work.” He turned and walked away, not seeing the way Aziraphale’s eyes followed him as he went.

“Ouch,” Sandalphon gave an exaggerated wince when Crowley passed him. “How badly did you screw up?”

Crowley ignored him, heading back to the judges’ tent to take a break. He couldn’t face the pity in the eyes of the other bakers. Or the camera people. Or… every-fucking-body in the tent. It felt like they were all watching him, waiting to see him break down.

For the next five hours, Crowley moved between Anathema and Adam, avoiding Aziraphale’s station as best he could. He caught glimpses of the cake he was building - something complicated and square, with a brick pattern pressed into the fondant - but refused to go over and talk to him. He would have claimed it was out of pride, or stubbornness, but really it was fear that kept him away. He didn’t want to be rebuffed again.

Finally, it came time for the very last round of judging. Crowley helped Anathema move her cake to the judges table, and was impressed by all the detail that had gone into it. It was a three-tiered cake in honor of her great-grandmother Agnes, featuring a lemon and rosemary sponge, with delicate designs of herbs done in sugar and colored fondant on the sides. The judges were impressed by her decorations, but weren’t entirely sold on the amount of rosemary in the lemon cake.

Next, Sandalphon assisted Adam in carrying a truly gigantic wedding cake up to the judges. He proudly proclaimed that he made this wedding cake for his older sister, who had a boyfriend she wanted to marry. He’d made three different flavors of sponge (“So everyone can have something they like!”), then covered it all in a sky-blue fondant so perfectly smooth there wasn’t a single rip to cover over. Not that it would have mattered, as he’d also piped on dozens of her favorite flowers - sunflowers - and then used a white chocolate collar on the top cake where he managed to spell out one of her favorite quotes. It was probably the most technically proficient showstopper he’d done in the tent, and it impressed Gabriel enough he had to take a moment before he could come up with anything to say.

Last, it was Aziraphale’s turn.

“Crowley,” he said quietly. “Would you help me, please?”

Crowley swallowed, and nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got you, Angel.” He walked over to Aziraphale’s station, and stopped in astonishment. Unlike the circular cakes of Anathema and Adam, Aziraphale had created three tiers of square cake. The bottom layer was covered in a perfect mirror glaze of deep blue with wispy spots of brighter color and sparkling luster dust, just like a galaxy. Settled carefully on top of it was a second layer in stone colored fondant, with the sides stamped in a precise pattern and carefully airbrushed for shadow and light to form the replica of a stone wall. On top, around the base of the third cake, was a jungle of expertly piped plants and fondant animals. Trailing vines climbed the sides of the final cake, which was also crafted to look like a wall. On top, where the cake topper would go, were two figures crafted out of sugar. One, all in white, with a fluffy cloud of white hair and pure white wings. Another dressed in black with fire-red hair, black wings tucked against his back. There was no mistaking who those figures were.

“Angel…” Crowley breathed, staring at the cake. “You designed this last night?”

Aziraphale blushed. “Well, I’d been thinking about it for a few weeks, really. But yes. I only put it on paper yesterday.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale was watching his face. He couldn’t say anything more personal in front of the camera, though it was clear he wanted to.

Crowley helped him lift the beautiful cake, carrying it between them up the. Length of the tent to where Gabriel and Tracy were waiting. When they placed it on the table and Crowley took his place to the side with Sandalphon, silence fell in the tent. Tracy was smiling, her hands clasped to her chest as she looked at the cake, then to Crowley and then to Aziraphale.

“Well. Aziraphale. This-“ Gabriel stopped, gesturing to the cake. “This is impressive.”

Aziraphale smiled, pleased. “Thank you.”

“You changed your design at the last minute, didn’t you?” He asked.

The baker nodded. “I did. The challenge was wedding cakes that meant something. And I realized this design means more to me than the one I had planned.”

“And what,” Tracy asked, casting a significant glance at Crowley, “does this design mean to you?”

“Well, you see-“ Aziraphale took a deep breath and straightened his waistcoat, steadying himself. “See, there’s this… person. Someone I only met very recently. Someone who has very quickly come to mean a great deal to me.” He looked past the judges, to Crowley. Speaking to him instead of them. “I wanted to show him just how much, but I’ve never been very good at just telling him how I feel. I wanted to bake this wedding cake to show him that- that I do care. That I love him. And that I’d be very interested in seeing how far this goes between us, if he’ll have me.”

Crowley was forbidden by the rules from saying anything, but he hoped the wide, joyous smile that took over his face was enough of a clue for Aziraphale. I love him. Aziraphale had just admitted to loving him, in a way that would be broadcast out to thousands and thousands of viewers. There was no stronger declaration of intent that Crowley could think of.

“And what flavor of cake have you baked for us today, Aziraphale?” Tracy asked, preparing to cut a slice out of the bottom cake.

“It’s, ah, chocolate cake with raspberry ganache and raspberry icing.”

“Any particular reason for this choice?” She pulled a thin slice free, depositing it on a plate for tasting.

“He told me once it was his favorite,” was Aziraphale’s answer. Crowley was astonished. The only time he could remember ever mentioning that was way back in the first week, when he was joking about the flavor of Aziraphale’s angel cake.

He remembered, he thought. He remembered my favorite flavor.

He was so surprised by that revelation that he missed the judging of Aziraphale’s cake, only coming back to the present when he was asked to help Aziraphale take the cake back to his station.

In the judges’ tent, three smaller cakes from the top tier of each wedding cake sat in front of the judges. Crowley tuned out their conversation, staring at the beautiful sugar angel and demon that topped Aziraphale’s wedding cake. Aziraphale’s wedding cake for Crowley.

I wanted to bake this cake to show him that I do care. That I love him.

The words sang inside him. He wanted nothing more than to go to Aziraphale right then and there, and tell him that yes, he would have him. That he, too, wanted to see where this thing between them went. That he would gladly follow Aziraphale in whatever he wanted to do.

At last, Gabriel and Tracy finished deliberation. And Sandalphon led the way from the tent, carrying the prize cake server. Crowley followed, eager for this part to be over so he could talk to Aziraphale.

The bakers lined up in the field, watched over by a group consisting of everyone who had helped make this day possible, from Mary and her staff to the production assistants and camera people. They held hands, with Adam in the center, standing ready.

Crowley stepped forward, a glass cake stand in his hands. “Hello Bakers,” he said, smiling fondly for all of them. Over the past ten weeks, he had grown to care for all three bakers, if in very different ways. They smiled back at him. Three eager faces, ready to learn who this year’s winner would be.

“This decision was very, very close,” he told them, knowing that the cameras were all trained on him. This moment of suspense would be experienced by thousands of viewers worldwide. But for now, it was just him, and the three talented bakers in front of him.

“This year’s winner of the Great British Bake Off… is…” he took a deep breath. “Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale gasped. Adam squealed, and threw his arms around the older baker. Anathema, too, hugged him, the three of them bouncing up and down in a moment of pure emotion. And then Aziraphale reached out, and pulled Crowley in, letting him share in this moment of joy.

Later, when the final interviews were done and the audience was finally allowed to eat cake, Crowley found himself alone with Aziraphale.

“So,” he said, unsure of where to begin. He decided to try for humor. “I bit the head off of my figure. Hope you don’t mind. It’s just, not every day one gets to bite one’s own head off.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Oh dear. Well, I suppose I could always make him another one if I need to.”

Crowley grinned and stood there, awkward, hand in his pockets.

“So…” he started again. “What you said in there…”

“That I love you?” Aziraphale asked, stepping closer, into his personal space.

“Yeah,” Crowley nodded. “That.”

“I meant it,” the baker told him. “Every word. These past few weeks have been the best of my life. And that’s all because of you. And I don’t… I don’t know what you want. But I know I’d like to stay with you, for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Angel.” Crowley took his hands in his, looking down into eyes as bright as the sky. “I’ve wanted to be with you since that very first week. And nothing that I’ve experienced since has changed that.”

“Good.” Aziraphale smiled up at him, warm and soft and full of love. “I do love you, my dearest Crowley. And I should like it very much if you would stay with me forever.”

The words washed over him, filling him with a mix of emotions so intense he could not describe them. Love. Joy. Desire. Relief. Aziraphale loved him. Truly loved him. And wanted to stay with him, even now that the contest had ended.

He leaned down, and kissed him, drinking him in, reveling in the taste of him. He fisted his hands in the baker’s shirt, drawing him closer, and felt Aziraphale’s arms wrap tight around him. When the kiss broke he stayed there, warm in his embrace, letting his head fall to Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I was so worried you didn’t want to stay,” he said. “That you’d just go home today and that would be the end of this.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale told him, holding him close. “You are astonishingly dense.” The words were fond, full of love that took away the sting. “I don’t know if there was any way I could have made myself plainer. I want you. In every way that you will have me, for as long as you desire.”

Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Love you, Angel,” he said, the words muffled by the fabric of his shirt. Aziraphale heard, and understood all the same.

“And I you, my foul fiend.”

They stood there together like that for some time. Until, slowly, they became aware of a long string of profanity being spoken somewhere nearby. They both looked up, to find a camera trained right on them. And Tracy standing in the way, cheerfully repeating every swear word she had ever learned. She grinned when she saw they had noticed her.

“Carry on,” she said, clearly pleased with herself. “I’ve got this.” Then she turned back to the camera and started to repeat her list of swears, this time backwards.

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh.

“What on earth is she doing?” Aziraphale asked, intrigued and a little astonished by the sheer vocabulary of bad language Tracy was displaying.

“She’s swearing into the camera,” Crowley explained. “So they can’t use any of this footage.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale grinned. “In that case…” He surged forward, once again capturing Crowley’s lips in a deep, wonderful kiss.

“Wow.” Crowley was breathless by the time they broke apart, knees weak enough he knew without Aziraphale’s support he’d have long since fallen to the ground.

Aziraphale laughed. “I must say,” he said. “That as much as I appreciate that pretty cake stand? The best prize I’ve won here, by far, is you.”

Comments

ahhh!!!

[lurlur]

Oh my goodness!! I love this so much! It's a wonderful gift and exactly the sort of thing I was hoping for.
Gabriel as Paul Hollywood was a fantastic choice. I adore Tracy in her role, too.
Crowley being exceptionally dense about how obvious they were to everyone else was really just, heh, the icing on the cake!
I'd never know this was your first explicit fic.
Really enjoyed every second of it!

Re: ahhh!!!

[secret_kraken]

Oh, I’m so glad you like it!! I had so much fun writing this for you. Your prompt set was amazing, and I had a really hard time deciding which one I wanted to write.

[improbabledreams900]

A wonderful AU! I've never watched the Great British Bake Off, but it was a charming, refreshingly low-stakes setting for A&C. And I liked how you fit the rest of the characters in as well!

[secret_kraken]

Thank you! I really loved writing this piece because of how low-stakes and fun it is. Bake Off is such a gentle show, it was nice to be able to write these two into it.

[maniacalmole]

Oh boy. I was wondering who the co-host with a ‘wet sponge’ personality would be XD

(By the way, I’d love to see how Noel Fielding and Crowley interact, wouldn’t you?)

Yesss, Mary AND Madame Tracy standing up to Gabriel :D

Their little flirty thing over the angel cake is so cute :)

LIGUR is there!? Some of these cakes, I simply wouldn’t dare eat XD

Adam trying to help Warlock when his parents didn’t answer the phone was so sweet :) And then Crowley, because he knows how it feels to have bad parental figures! And Aziraphale, calling his own bookshop, which is probably true, because he’s also lonely XO

“Tracy laughed at him. “Well, I wasn’t always a pastry chef, you know.”" WHAT DOES THIS MEAN

Kiss on the hand!!!!

YES now Crowley stands up to Gabriel too!!! And he backed up!!!

Aw, Anathema’s Agnes cake :) And Adam’s sounds fantastical!
And Aziraphale’s!!!!!! Eden in chocolate and raspberry!

Madame Tracy with the rescue swears XD

This was so nice and well done!!!! Really great, I loved it!

[secret_kraken]

Thank you! I’m so glad you enjoyed it!

I almost did write Noel in and make it a crossover instead of a full AU (With Paul and Prue as judges), but I wasn’t sure I could do him justice. I feel like he and Crowley would either get on like a house on fire, or clash horribly. I love him on Bake Off, though I’ll admit I haven’t seen anything else of his.

Tracy with the rescue swears was one of my favorite parts to write. When I heard that the hosts will actually do that for contestants sometimes, I knew I had to use it :)

[maniacalmole]

The rescue swears are real? I LOVE that!

I can see what you mean about Crowley and Noel Fielding XD I feel like maybe he and Aziraphale would get along well, and then of course Crowley would be jealous.
I recommend watching the Travel Man episode (or maybe there's more than one?) with Noel Fielding if you can find it somewhere!

[cupidsbow]

What a delightful confection you've baked, Santa. Thank you for sharing it!

[secret_kraken]

Thank you! I’m so happy you enjoyed it!