Chapter Text
Aziraphale took a step closer to Crowley as directed. It was a bit chilly on the field. His hands were frigid, and the tip of his nose felt like ice.
“Half a step closer.”
Aziraphale took the half step. They were nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. They had been told to stand closer, to do more together in bits during baking, since the first series did so well. The producers told them that they were half of the appeal of the show for the audience. They were charming, apparently, and had good chemistry.
Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to feel about any of it. Of course, he adored working with Crowley. There wasn’t anyone else he’d rather do the show with every week. But he felt butterflies whenever he came across an article online complementing his and Crowley’s partnership or whenever producers asked for them to be a bit more chummy on camera.
“Ready? Action.”
“Hello,” Crowley said. “It’s our second week of baking.”
Crowley was wonderfully professional in his own way. Aziraphale admired how his takes were nearly always perfect despite him reading the scripts the morning of. He admired how he strayed from suggestions on set to let his true personality shine through. Crowley won him over the day he helped a crying baker move her cracking cake from the cooling rack to the presentation tray. They had been instructed to not help contestants, but Crowley insisted later that it would have been too cruel to stand by and watch. It wasn’t a big deal, he had said, because someone else would have stepped in if he hadn’t been the first to spot the disaster.
“Which means it’s French week,” Aziraphale said.
“I thought it was bread week.”
Aziraphale looked away from the camera and to Crowley. He was smiling, eyes hidden behind his signature sunglasses.
“What?”
“It’s bread week,” Gabriel called out, arms crossed over his suit-clad chest.
Aziraphale grabbed his fingers on his left hand and rubbed. “Oh! Oh, that’s right. I’ve got my weeks all mixed up.”
“Bread week and French week might as well be all rolled into one,” Crowley said, nudging Aziraphale gently.
“Take it from the beginning. Quiet on set. And action!”
“Hello,” Crowley repeated. “It’s our second week of baking.”
“Which means that it’s bread week!”
“And it’s no easy feat to impress our judges with yeasty creations.” Crowley turned to Aziraphale. “The bakers will have a lot to prove, yeah?”
Aziraphale genuinely laughed. He had read the script and groaned at the pun, but Crowley delivering it was different. He said it so casually. It would take viewers a second to realize a joke was even told and then join Aziraphale in his breathy chuckle.
And that was the fun of working with Crowley. He was good at taking their hammy lines and making them palatable.
“That was awful,” Crowley said once they were on their way back to the tent. Aziraphale enjoyed the peace off camera. It was a short walk from one filming spot to another, but they took their time with a slow saunter. “Think they’d let me start writing my own jokes?”
“Why? Are you funny?”
“Hey! I can be!”
“Oh!” Aziraphale’s cheeks burned, and he raised his hands to them. “I didn’t mean it like that!”
“How’d you mean it, then?”
“Just that… well, you know. There’s skill to it. There’s people who spend a lot of time working on our jokes and other jokes. I just don’t know if they’d pass it on to someone without experience.”
Perhaps if they knew each other better, Aziraphale wouldn’t be so flustered. He would continue on as he accidentally started—picking on Crowley in a way close friends did. But for now, there was fear that Crowley took it the wrong way.
“I have over 40 years experience of being funny,” Crowley said. “They should be lucky to have me.”
“We are—they are.”
They take their places behind the wall of the baking room and wait to be called out. Aziraphale sips at the cup of tea that was brought to him, glancing nervously at Crowley who’s on his phone. Probably texting someone about how the twat he works with just fucked up their first take and then insulted him.
Aziraphale could hear the contestants walk in and be directed to stand at their stations. There was commotion and then silence, and then Aziraphale and Crowley were being prepped to step out.
Aziraphale forced a smile as he stood next to Crowley. His heart raced.
“Welcome back to week two,” Crowley said. He was so relaxed. Hands in pockets, a slight slouch, a lazy smile. “Your first challenge is about to start.”
“You’re being asked to bake brioche buns today…”
They nailed the announcement without Aziraphale flubbing again. The bakers laughed and readied their bowls and spoons.
After two hours of watching frantic mixing and decorating, Aziraphale and Crowley took their places at the front of the kitchen and announced that time was up.
In person, it wasn’t too dramatic. The bakers laid their bread at the end of the table, wiped their hands, and looked around to see what everyone else had done. On TV, there would be dramatic music and those with the most worried faces would get close-ups.
Aziraphale tried his best to keep a reasonable distance between him and Crowley. Through the baking, Crowley had done his part and talked to the bakers, keeping them calm when they needed it and joking about the state of some messy doughs. Aziraphale had given out his signature pep talks and shared stories about the best brioche he had 10 years before. But neither had come too close when they were allowing the contestants to bake in peace.
Crowley had sneakily checked his phone a few times when cameras were pointed away. Aziraphale had another cup of tea. They barely said a word to one another until they were joined by the judges and traveling from station to station, and Aziraphale could tell it was deliberate. His stomach churned whenever he looked at Crowley.
Of course, he couldn’t have expected Crowley to want him as company. He didn’t even want himself as company. Surely, there would be a way for either of them to get out of their contracts early.
The cameras were on them, though, and he had to smile through it. There would be time to wallow in his own self-pity when he was in the privacy of his own home.
“They came out beautifully,” Aziraphale whispered to Newt, who had six brioche cherubs in front of him. They were simple. Nothing more than a slightly-chubby figure one would see from a cookie cutter.
“Look at their little smiles and eyes!” Crowley pointed to the scoring that made tiny smiles and eyes of candy buttons. “They look like you.”
Aziraphale blinked. “Me?”
“Yeah. I’ve always thought you looked like an angel.”
He didn’t know how to respond. Crowley smiled at him. That dumb, charming smile that melted everyone.
“Really?”
Aziraphale didn’t listen to the judges say that the bread was underproved or that they had been baked just right. He only thought about Crowley snagging a wing off the plate and leaning in to apologize for eating “one of your own, angel.”
Angel.