Chapter Text
Aziraphale sighed in relief as soon as he was out of the tent and in the open, grassy field. While the sun was hot and beamed down directly on his head, it was better than the suffocating heat that had been trapped inside with the contestants and crew and the two of them.
“Fuck the producers for scheduling the longest bakes in the middle of a heatwave.”
Crowley lifted his hair off the back of his neck. His cheeks were splotched with red and sweat soaked his hairline. The poor thing looked miserable in his all-black outfit that had become his signature style.
Aziraphale tutted. “You can’t expect them to predict the weather when they schedule the series months ahead of time.”
They had managed to escape before makeup cornered them to dab up their perspiration and re-apply powders and concealers. Aziraphale was tired of having tissues shoved into his collar and towels pressed to his forehead. He just wanted a moment of peace without a camera on him.
“It happens every year,” Crowley said. “I think they’re doing it on purpose. It’s either their longest bakes or something with chocolate. It’s psychological torture at this point.”
Aziraphale did feel terrible for the bakers who were on the verge of breakdowns induced by both stress and the heat. Crowley was right, though. It wasn’t anything new. Filming was coming to an end, and the tension was increasing every minute along with the temperature.
Crowley had his conspiracy theories that the producers intentionally made every other episode miserable for the bakers for entertainment. Aziraphale doubted that they were that evil. But he knew what ratings looked like, and he knew how people took to social media when dramatic episodes aired. It was good for the producers, but it couldn’t have been intentional. At least not totally. Not every time.
“Oh God, they found us,” Crowley mumbled.
Two women, who were always well-meaning, approached them. The dabbing of tissues and the assaulting with brushes began.
Aziraphale was ready to be in the studio for voiceovers. He didn’t have to be in the heat with every scent of bread and cake clinging onto him by the end of the day (which he didn’t necessarily hate, but it did grow old). He could be in his own comfortable clothing rather than the dapper get-up that the audience expected to see him in, and he wouldn’t need layers of powder on his face for him to scrape off later.
“They’re getting ready to decide who’s going home, we think,” one of the women said, removing tissues from his collar.
Crowley chugged the water bottle he was handed as his makeup artist tried dabbing a powder puff into his cheeks. “I hate that part.”
“Well, I have to say it this week,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley smiled at him. “Yeah. I’ll make it up to you.”
“You could try taking your turn.”
“But they love it when it’s you.” ‘They’ was the audience. “You get all choked-up.”
“Just take your turn next week, and we’ll call it even.”
“Next week is the semi-finals.”
It was the last time someone would be sent home and the most emotional week of the series. Whoever didn’t make it would be devastated after making it so far and getting nothing. And Aziraphale and Crowley would be heartbroken having to be the bearer of bad news and see a familiar face leave. It was their annual tradition to go out after filming and buy a couple bottles of wine and whiskey and sit up all night while binging on their alcohol and take out.
“I’m aware.”
Crowley scoffed. “I was thinking something along the lines of dinner.”
“You can take me to dinner, too.”
“Unbelievable.”
Crowley slid his sunglasses off to allow his eyes and nose to be touched up. Aziraphale watched as the off-hazel, nearly-yellow looked off in the distance. His eyes gained him a bit of celebrity. They were a “distinct feature” as talent agencies and IMDb declared. Crowley had grown sick of them and never saw anything quite special about them in the first place.
Aziraphale was obsessed with them.
“Alright, let’s get back inside before we get yelled at.”
Crowley walked back into the tent. Aziraphale followed.
“What do you mean you have another gig?”
“I mean that I have another gig, angel.”
Aziraphale wished the conversation was happening in public. That way, Crowley could see how huffy he looked. He could furrow his brow and purse his lips. But as it was, he could only try to convey his near-tantrum over the phone.
“What is it?”
“I can’t really say yet. All I can tell you is that I’m not going to be at the studio at the same time as you. Is it really that big of a deal?”
“Yes! We’re always there together.”
“It’ll just have to be different this time. Listen, angel, I have to go. I have a rehearsal soon.”
“Rehearsal for your new gig?”
“Yes. I’ll talk to you later. Are we still on for lunch Friday?”
Aziraphale thought about canceling the plans just to be a bastard. “Of course.”
“Anathema’s ‘Occult Occake’ is an aesthetical twist on the traditional jam cake. Dyed black with squid ink, the cake will be layered with homemade strawberry jam. It’ll be shaped as a demon-summoning circle with powder sugar symbols and fondant candles.”
Aziraphale wished he could record the lines before knowing the results. Anathema would have been the winner that week if that cake had turned out as she had envisioned it. The jam, which she had attempted to make in the tent, had been far too runny and seeped into the cake. Aziraphale had stood by as the hosts cut into it and revealed the soggy mess.
It was the first time Anathema had cried on camera, and it was all Aziraphale could think about.
“Can we try that again, Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale nodded. If Crowley were there, nothing would feel amiss and Aziraphale wouldn’t be flubbing his lines.
“Anathema’s ‘Occult Occake’ is an aesthetical twist on the traditional jam cake…”
He wouldn’t be thinking about Anathema’s face crumpled as soon as the hosts looked up at her with disappointed raised eyebrows and comments about how “Really, we expected better from you.” It was the worst Anathema could be confronted with—disappointment. Aziraphale had picked up on that by helping her plate biscuits and giving her mid-bake pep talks. She didn’t care if her presentation went wrong or if flavors didn’t work well. She only cared if she had expectations set on her, and as it looked as she was going to win the entire series (and as nearly the entire country hopes for it), she felt the pressure.
“Anathema’s ‘Occult Occake’ is an aesthetical twist on the traditional jam cake…”
If Crowley were there, he could point out how Anathema had quickly dried her tears and how Newt had run over to hug her as soon the cameras cut. He could take Aziraphale’s mind off the ordeals they had to go through.
“Anathema’s ‘Occult Occake’ is an aesthetical twist on the traditional jam cake…”
“Try this one.”
Aziraphale turned around and a bite of cake was being shoved in his face. He took Crowley’s hand and held it away so he could have a little dignity while taking it in his mouth. Once he realized how their fingers were touching and for so long, though, he pulled away with burning cheeks. It was obscene.
When the cameras finally went off for the last time that year, Aziraphale and Crowley were free to finally eat the cake they had watched being made for hours. And they were always determined to eat their fill of each of the three cakes presented before they were divvied up among the crowd of past-contestants and family.
Aziraphale hummed. It was rich and sweet and moist and satisfied his growling stomach. “Is that Newton’s?”
Crowley nodded and stabbed at the mangled piece on his plate. The cakes were supposed to remain pretty after being cut into, but Crowley somehow had the ability to make a mess out of anything he ate.
It was endearing if a bit annoying when Aziraphale wanted to take his time savoring every bite. Aziraphale could never be too annoyed with anything Crowley ever did. At the end of every day, he thought of Crowley and smiled.
His chest was tight, and his mouth was dry. He regretted not grabbing a glass of champagne.
“I was thinking,” Aziraphale said, “of taking a holiday in a few weeks.”
Crowley shoved more cake into his mouth. The dear would end up sick if he didn’t pace himself. Again, it was endearing yet annoying.
“Where’you goin’?” Crowley asked around the cake.
“That’s the thing.” Aziraphale rubbed his hands together and smiled. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me, and if you would, I’d like you to have some say.”
Crowley froze. He swallowed his cake. He looked away.
“Uh… sure. I don’t have much on. Just a little filming over the next month.”
“Oh, of course. Your new gig.”
Aziraphale’s heart sank, though he wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t disappointed. He got what he wanted. A holiday with his friend whom he fancied that could potentially lead to more. But he wasn’t happy, either.
“Yeah.”
Crowley was becoming more popular, Aziraphale had to admit. While Aziraphale had made his fair share of guest appearances since the show gained its devoted, international following, Crowley was becoming an actual celebrity—noticed in shops, gaining masses of new followers on social media, earning nominations for bougie awards. Aziraphale was happy for him. But he also knew that with the newfound popularity, there was less time to spend together.
There would always be new gigs and interviews and publicity. There would be business dinners and coffees and contract meetings. There would be conflicting schedules and canceled lunches and postponed traditions.
“I’ll check my schedule, and we can plan something around it.”
“Around your new schedule. Right.”
And there was always the fear of Crowley leaving the show for good. What would Azirpahale do then? They were a duo at this point. Would Aziraphale be asked to leave the show? Would he leave on his own accord if his partner—filming partner, totally professional—wasn’t around anymore?
And if they weren’t filming together anymore, then would they grow apart?
“We can figure it out,” Crowley said. “And then we can decide where we’re going.”
“Alright.”
Crowley smiled. “Why do you look sad?”
“I don’t! I’m quite happy. There’s no reason to be sad.”
Crowley clearly didn’t believe him. He cut into Anathema’s winning cake and handed a somewhat sloppy piece to Aziraphale.
Cake healed all wounds.