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Crowley blames the kids.
Most people frown on blaming things on children, but as far as Crowley is concerned, that’s one of the major perks of his job. Some people teach because they love it, others because they’re very invested in molding minds of the future, others because they’re sadistic bastards who want to torture children. Crowley, after spending a good twenty years doing tech for flashy startups, making more than enough money and burning himself out, decided that what he really wanted was to take care of the computers at some school that didn’t think they could afford him and teach a couple of IT classes a week to the students who were interested in actually learning computer literacy.
It’s possible that this is a job Crowley made up for himself and told a school they’d give him, but the school had listened, and now he has a nice little group of year eights who follow him around like ducklings and tell him to do absurd things like try out for the new series of Bake Off.
It’s Adam who suggests it first, of course, because Adam’s always the one who comes up with the ideas, and then the other three are on Crowley too, and it seems so simple. Throw the application in on a lark and never think about it again. It isn’t as if the kids really get a victory, because of course the producers won’t want Crowley on the show. Not that he’s a bad baker, obviously, he’s rather a good one, but more because they’re all about getting along and working together and feel-good stories, and Crowley is a bitter, middle-aged queer with a lot of tattoos and barely any home life, let alone a heartwarming, camera-ready one. They won’t have any trouble finding twelve people they like much better than him who can bake nearly as well.
Crowley continues to tell himself this every time he moves forward in the application process until, inevitably and despite all reason, he’s offered a spot in the tent.
“Really?” he asks. The producers get this reaction a lot, but the tone usually is more excited and disbelieving than dubious and skeptical. “Are you sure?”
It’s the producer’s turn to be dubious and skeptical, although she’s not as good at it as Crowley is. “Am I sure? This is Anthony Crowley, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, sorry. Just--really?”
“Really.”
He rubs his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble under his fingers. Is he going to have to shave better for this? Obviously there isn’t a rule, but does he want to appear on national television with stubble? His mum watches this show. Not that his mum doesn’t know his shaving habits, but she’s always hoping they’ll get better.
Of course, he could just say no. He'd never even have to tell Adam and the rest of them that that's what happened, he could just say they'd decided not to move him forward and no one would be the wiser.
But they're asking him. They think he's good enough to go in the tent, and that's the kind of thing that's hard to let go. Crowley has always been one of those competitive slackers, the kind who wanted top marks on every exam in school but never wanted to be seen studying, and the idea of throwing in the towel on a competition before he's even tried it just isn't him.
He opens up his calendar on the computer. “Sounds great. When do we start?”
*
Aziraphale doesn't blame anyone for his application to Bake Off. He credits his lovely neighbors and some of the other nearby shopkeepers for encouraging him to apply, and at each step of the way he excitedly tells them that he’s still in the running. When he gets the call, he thanks the producer for the opportunity, makes a note of all the relevant dates and times, and then goes to tell everyone the good news.
This, incidentally, is how most people react to being cast on Bake Off. Crowley is the outlier here.
*
Crowley recognizes Aziraphale on the train. Not as a fellow competitor or as Aziraphale Fell, a person he's met before, but simply as “that cute bloke who runs the bookshop and always looks like he's late to something.”
He doesn't look like that now. On the train, Aziraphale is in his element, gazing out the window at the passing scenery in perfect contentment, as if riding the train is his true life’s passion. Crowley, who prefers modes of transportation that he himself controls, can't relate to this, but spotting Aziraphale--who he assumes is going somewhere else--does at least give him something to look at.
The bookshop man, as Crowley thinks of him, is something of a mystery. Not because Crowley doesn't know his name or anything else about him, but because Crowley wants to know those things, and he doesn't really understand why. It's been quite a few years since Crowley tried to date, and a few more than that since he succeeded in dating, but when he did those things, cute was not his type. He’d mostly picked people up at venues that catered to people like him, and he’d dated more than one person whose closet was indistinguishable from his, whose clothes he probably still has just because when the inevitable breakup came, they had to flip a coin to figure out which black t-shirt belonged to whom. He did not, as a rule, go for perpetually flustered booksellers who wore full suits year round.
Granted, before he saw the bookshop man, he also didn't think people like that still existed. Maybe if he'd known, he would have been interested in them sooner.
The bookshop man gets off at the same station Crowley does and goes to the same platform for his transfer, which is the point at which Crowley starts wondering if he should say something. He has no reason to think the bookseller knows him, except that they've been in the same coffee shop on a few occasions, and people tend to remember some individual parts of Crowley: the sunglasses, tattoos, and red hair. All he has to do to become a completely different and unrecognizable person is take off his glasses, cover his arms, and wash out his hair gel. It's a bit like being Superman. But right now, he has his sleeves rolled up and his hair gelled, so if the bookshop man has seen him, he’ll probably recognize him.
He's still debating whether or not to introduce himself when the train pulls up. The bookseller gets on first and Crowley follows him. Their seats aren't very near each other, so Crowley stops thinking about it and turns up his music to try to avoid thinking about the fact that he's on his way to compete on a televised baking program. He doesn't want to be nervous about it, but now that he's no longer distracted by Aziraphale, he doesn't have anything else to think about.
He's zoned out, wondering what the technical will be, when someone shakes his leg and he startled up to see the bookshop man in the aisle. He's never actually had Aziraphale’s attention on him before, or been on the receiving end of his smile, and Crowley finds that it's kind of a lot, actually.
He pulls his headphones off. “Hi?”
“Hello. I'm sorry, but I think I recognize you. Are you from Oxford?”
Crowley scrambles to straighten up. “Yeah, hi,” he says again, with more feeling. “You own that antique bookshop in Summertown, don't you?”
Aziraphale beams, which is even more to handle than him smiling, and sits down in the empty seat next to Crowley. “I do! Sorry to bother you, but the train is starting to clear out and, well, you are quite noticeable.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“Where are you heading?”
Admitting to being on Bake Off has been a process for Crowley. He's not embarrassed that he bakes--he rather likes upending people’s expectations of him with that revelation--but applying to a television show to bake is a step beyond that. That's not just baking on the weekend as a fun little hobby, that's real investment. That's being into baking, and he doesn't know what this bookseller thinks of him, but he's quite sure it doesn't include being into baking.
Then again, the bookseller absolutely looks like the show’s target audience, so he'll probably find out sooner or later, and it might even be a pro for him.
“I'm actually going to be on Bake Off,” he admits.
His entire face lights up now. Crowley has never seen anyone with so many distinct levels of smiling before. “Really? So am I.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Of course I don't expect I'll win, but it's an honor just to be--”
Crowley snorts. “Do people really buy that?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Come on, this whole thing is a lot of work. You do the application, the interviews, it's a big deal. You don't go through all that unless you think you might actually get on and win it.”
“Well, once you're good enough to get it, there's always a chance,” says Aziraphale brightly. “But I'm delighted just to be invited, aren't you?”
Crowley, who has been quietly reassessing his own application process, makes a face. “Suppose so.”
“But you're planning to win.”
“I'm certainly not planning to lose, am I? Who plans to lose?”
Aziraphale laughs softly, and Crowley is, quite regrettably, entranced. No one told him about talking to cute booksellers. It's even more fun than looking at them.
“You're right, I'm not planning to lose. But I don't think I could be one of those contestants who comes in talking about how they're going to take the whole thing. Always strikes me as rather arrogant.”
“I'm going to say that,” says Crowley, who had planned no such thing until this exact moment.
“Do you really think you will?”
“No idea. But that’s supposed to be some kind of magic, speaking things into existence? If I say I’m going to win, maybe that’ll make it happen. Certainly does me a lot more good than saying it’s an honor just to be nominated or whatever else people say when they’ve already decided they’re going to lose.”
“I don't think those are the only options.”
“No?”
Aziraphale, whose name Crowley still doesn't know, nods determinedly. “No. I'm going to do everything I can to win, but I'm keeping my expectations in check. Even if I do my best, there’s no way I can know how I'll stack up. And I don’t think that saying that is a sign I’ve already lost.”
“Hmm,” says Crowley.
“Of course, I do think I’m good enough that I could win. Based on previous series.”
“Same.”
“Well then,” says Aziraphale.
“Well then,” Crowley agrees.
The train pulls into the station and Crowley follows Aziraphale onto the platform. There's a bright-eyed kid waiting for them with a sign saying GBBO and a few other people milling about with them, clearly waiting.
“Are you Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell?” asks the kid.
“I'm Mr. Crowley,” he says, and glances at the bookseller. The shop is called Fell & Co, so apparently he doesn't just work there, he’s an owner.
“I'm Mr. Fell. And you are…?”
“Muriel. I'm a production assistant. You two were our last arrivals, so I'll be taking you to set straightaway. Follow me!” They get the group moving before they ask, “Do the two of you know each other?”
“Not really,” says Crowley. “Just live in the same neighborhood.”
“Frequent the same coffee shop,” Mr. Fell adds.
“Brilliant,” says Muriel. “Nice to have a friendly face.”
Crowley glances at Mr. Fell, who's smiling brightly and still, somehow, looks like he thinks he's running late.
“Yeah,” Crowley agrees. “Nice.”
*
“Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale had been hoping that his station wouldn't be close to Mr. Crowley’s so he wouldn't be seeing him out of the corner of his eye, but of course, he's right across the aisle, his black sleeves rolled as high as they go, showing off all that pale skin and dark ink.
He's wearing sunglasses, for goodness’ sake, sunglasses inside the tent. Objectively speaking, he is ridiculous. Aziraphale should not be distracted at all, not here, but especially not by Anthony Crowley.
Who is hissing at him.
“Yes?”
“Is that really your name?”
“Why would it not be?”
“Well, it's not really a name, is it?”
“Are you really a teacher?” he asks. The name hadn't thrown him, but the occupation had. He'd assumed that the cool, mysterious man from the coffee shop was in a rock band or something, not an information technology teacher at the school around the corner.
“Yeah, why?”
“Then I assume you're familiar with the idea that children can be named anything. I was named Aziraphale.”
Mr. Crowley considers this. “I like it.”
“Do you? I couldn't tell.”
“Aziraphale,” he says again, as if he’s tasting. “What are you making?”
“A cake, obviously.”
“Yes, but what kind? Mine’s cayenne and black pepper.”
Aziraphale’s hands falter. “Why?”
“I like spice. It’s got dark chocolate too. Not unheard of.”
“The cayenne I'll grant you, but black pepper too? In a pound cake?”
“Take my word for it. What are you making?”
“Marbled chocolate and vanilla.”
Crowley nods. “Nice. Classic. Hard to go wrong.”
Aziraphale is trying to concentrate, but he shoots Crowley a look at that. “You say that as if it's a bad thing.”
“Nothing wrong with it, obviously. But much less room for error. You've seen the program before, you know how it goes. Do something that simple and you have to be absolutely perfect.”
“So, you're not confident enough in your own skills to believe you can deliver a classic flavor flawlessly, so you make something outlandish instead and tell yourself that if you don't like it, it's because their tastes are too pedestrian?”
Once the words are out of his mouth, Aziraphale realizes they're rather more cutting than he'd been intending.
Before he can apologize, Crowley barks out a surprised laugh. “Pretty much, yeah. Guess we'll find out whose plan is better, huh?”
“I suppose we will.”
As judging approaches, Aziraphale finds himself hoping that Crowley’s cake will be delicious, that the judges will love it, or at least like it enough to keep him out of the bottom. If Crowley is the first one eliminated, Aziraphale will actually be very disappointed.
They come to Aziraphale first, and Paul Hollywood has the exact feedback that Crowley predicted: it's too safe, so the execution will have to be flawless. Aziraphale watches as he and Mary try it, torn between terror that they'll hate it so much they cast him out of the tent without so much as trying his technical or showstopper and excitement that the Mary Berry is eating his pound cake.
Paul Hollywood gives him a piercing look, sizing him up for just long enough that Aziraphale squirms, and then he nods. “You've pulled it off. But I hope to see something a little more adventurous next week.”
“Understood,” says Aziraphale. “Thank you.”
“Wonderful balance, perfectly baked, well done,” Mary Berry tells him with a smile, and he can die happy now.
Paul is already on his way to Crowley's pound cake, which is red and black and positively infernal. “Cayenne and black pepper?”
Crowley shrugs fluidly. “You just told him to be more adventurous. Are you going to tell me to be less?”
“There is such a thing as too adventurous,” says Mary. “Am I expecting this to be sweet?”
“You're certainly not expecting it to be savory. It's a dark chocolate, not bitter but definitely not overly sweet.”
“This is still a pound cake, you know,” says Paul. “So we're expecting a pound of sugar.”
“You’re also expecting something adventurous. Don't think you'd be happier with me if I'd given you a pound each of flour, sugar, eggs, and butter and called it a day.”
“Touché,” says Paul. “Let's give it a try, shall we?”
Aziraphale leans forward, almost more invested in this than he had been in their reactions to his cake, and he isn't disappointed. Paul Hollywood’s face journey is like nothing he's ever seen, starting with alarm and then moving rapidly through discomfort, curiosity, intrigue, and anger before settling on something like respect. Aziraphale isn't computer-savvy enough to know what a meme is, but some part of him recognizes that it will become one.
“That was an experience, Anthony,” says Paul.
“Crowley,” says Crowley.
Mary Berry is having a much less dramatic and more positive reaction. “I think if I asked someone for pound cake and they gave me this, I would be disappointed,” she says. “It doesn't scratch the itch. But if someone asked me if I wanted to try their cayenne and black pepper pound cake, I'd have to say yes, and I would be very impressed.”
Crowley is smirking. “The way I see it, if someone is craving pound cake, they'll get a pound cake. It's not hard to come by. If they're looking for something a little more exotic, here I am.”
“Here you are,” says Paul. “I'm not sure I ever want to eat that again, but I’m not sorry to have eaten it once. Well done, I think.”
“I know,” says Mary. “Well done, Crowley.”
Crowley slumps against his counter in relief. Aziraphale slides to the end of his station, his heart stuttering when Crowley turns and gives him a huge, bright smile.
“Very good,” Aziraphale murmurs. The judging isn't done, but they’re having to move the cameras and get the next row set up, so they have a little time to chat without being shushed.
“You too. Nailed the classic after all.”
“Do you think I could try yours?”
Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up. “You want to?”
“I admit I'm curious.”
“It's spicy.”
“Oh, I don't mind spice.”
“Really?” Crowley asks, sounding dubious. He's not the first and won't be the last to doubt Aziraphale’s tolerance for spice, and Aziraphale doesn't let it bother him. He's among the pastiest and whitest of Englishmen.
“I won't hold it against you if it's too much for me.”
Crowley considers him. “You have to let me try yours.”
“Of course.”
“C’mon then.”
The two of them switch plates and Aziraphale cuts the corner off one of the pieces of cake, popping it into his mouth. He understands why Paul reacted the way he did, and what Mary said; if he wanted a pound cake, he wouldn’t reach for this. But it’s intriguing in the way meals at very posh restaurants are, at least the good ones. It’s something Aziraphale never would have thought of, something he would only order from a trusted chef. But it’s like nothing he’s ever eaten before. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the taste of it, the experience.
It’s hard to tell where Crowley is looking with those ridiculous sunglasses, but he’s turned towards Aziraphale with his own forkful halfway to his lips, as if he’s for Aziraphale’s reaction.
The camera is rolling again, getting the judges reacting to the two contestants in front of them, so Aziraphale just smiles, nods, and takes another bite. It’s nice, actually, that he doesn’t have to try to come up with the words for it. He’ll still try later, but he’ll only embarrass himself. It’s indescribable.
Crowley smiles, looks away, and takes his own bite of Aziraphale’s cake. He flashes a thumb’s up and a smile, and Aziraphale idly wonders what his eyes look like.
*
“To be honest, coming in I was thinking, I’ll be fine as long as the technical isn’t angel food cake. I don’t know why, but I’ve never made a halfway decent angel food cake in my life. Not that I’ve tried very much, it’s not a favorite of mine, but every time I try, it just falls apart. Might be cursed, honestly. But it didn’t get me sent home.”
“You did quite well considering how badly the technical went for you,” says Muriel, who is either a PA or a producer and Crowley doesn’t know the difference. Either way, they’re very bright and cheerful about Crowley’s failures.
“Ta very much.”
Muriel misses his sarcasm entirely. “How did you feel about your showstopper?”
“I thought it came out pretty well. About as I’d planned. If I’d been a few slots higher in the technical, I might have taken star baker, but I can’t say Aziraphale didn’t deserve it. His pound cake was delicious, his angel food cake was flawless, and the showstopper looked amazing. Well played.”
“You did tell him his first bake was boring.”
“Did I say boring?”
“Either that or safe.”
“It was constructive criticism,” says Crowley, glancing across the field to where Aziraphale is excitedly giving his own star baker interview. He's flushed with pride, beaming, and Crowley wishes he were closer so he could appreciate it better. “It's a very expected flavor combination. I said he'd have to do it perfectly and he did.”
“Would you say he's your rival?”
“I didn't think you did rivals here. We're all under the same tent, doing our best, yeah?”
“Yes,” Muriel agrees. “But if you were to have a rival…”
Crowley literally doesn't know anyone else’s name. “Suppose it'd be him, yeah.”
They wrap up and get taken back to the train station. Everyone’s worn out and tired by this point, quiet in the van and then saying muted goodbyes as they go to their terminals.
Crowley and Aziraphale, of course, are going to the same terminal.
“Congrats again on star baker,” Crowley offers.
“Oh, thank you. But it should have been you.”
“Did you see my technical? It shouldn't have.”
“Well, no, but your pound cake was amazing. I've never had anything like it. They should have given it to you for that alone.”
Crowley looks away, feeling a flush growing under his collar. “Yours was good too.”
“It was. But as you said, it was pedestrian. I did a very nice version of something that's been done dozens of times before. You did something breathtaking.”
The flush grows worse. “Thanks. You did deserve it, though. Who'd you call?” he asks, trying very hard to sound casual even though Aziraphale wouldn't have recognized the attempt to fish for personal information if Crowley had been wearing wellingtons and a vest. “They must have been proud.”
“One of my neighbors. They've all been very supportive, so I just called until one of them picked up. She was thrilled for me.”
Definitely no significant other, then. Unless it’s a very, very new relationship. The kind that isn't ready for television yet. Which probably wouldn't be that serious either.
“She should be.”
“Do you ever take your sunglasses off?” Aziraphale asks, as if it's been bothering him. It probably has; it'll be dark soon, and Crowley actually will have trouble seeing.
“Oh, yeah, probably should.” He plucks them off and folds them in his jacket pocket. “I wore them to school the first day without thinking and suddenly that was my thing. The kids are going to watch the show, so of course I've got to wear them here too. I've told them I have a medical condition and I think I've got some of them convinced the condition is that I'm a vampire. Can’t just throw all that hard work away.”
Aziraphale is smiling again, and Crowley thinks that if he could just keep Aziraphale smiling like that, he'd be very content with his life. “I didn't expect you to be a teacher.”
“Oh, I'm not exactly. I do the IT stuff and they let me teach a couple classes, but I get better reactions if I say I'm a teacher. No one expects it, it's not just you.”
“I didn't know that was a job.”
Crowley waves his hand dismissively. “It's not exactly, but I said I'd do it for the salary they were offering and they didn't turn me down.”
“Ah,” says Aziraphale.
Crowley never knows how much to explain of his previous life. He's not particularly proud of the time he spent in the tech sector; he'd always quit before he got to the level where he was making truly obscene amounts of money, because that was also the level where you stopped being able to pretend you weren't exploiting people, and Crowley needed to be able to at least pretend. But he'd made quite a lot of money and could easily never work again, except then he'd be bored. It's not a life path most people can relate to.
“What did you think I was?” he asks Aziraphale.
“Some kind of musician.”
Crowley pulls a face. “No, not a musician. I wanted to be. The way you do when you’re a kid. Tried to start a band with some mates in year ten. Turns out I'm tone deaf and can't play any instruments.”
“That would make it more difficult.”
“Not impossible,” says Crowley. “Not these days. But I don't think it was for me, anyway.”
“Better to be a teacher and a baker?”
He's never thought of it like that before, and thinking it now makes him smile. “Something like that.”
*
In a typical week, Aziraphale allows himself to go across the street to buy a drink at the coffee shop twice. First, on Tuesday morning, the usual start of his week, to help get him back in the swing of things, and then on Saturday afternoon, when he's almost done with the week and thinks he deserves something to carry him through to the end of it.
Bake Off immediately makes his weeks atypical, as he has to close on Saturday and make up his mind about what to do about Monday. He ended up settling on opening for half hours on Mondays for the duration and, when the first Monday rolls around, he decides to go and get a tea after he closes. And then he gets a morning tea on Tuesday, and another on Wednesday.
Crowley persists in not being there.
Aziraphale had never put much thought into when he saw Crowley before. He'd noticed him because Crowley is noticeable, but he'd never put any effort into seeing him. Now that he's trying to, he realizes that he has no idea how to go about it, aside from making sure to go either before or after school hours.
Not that it's a big deal, obviously. He knows exactly when he'll see Crowley again: on the train on Saturday morning, when they go back to the tent. But he'd been hoping to see him sooner.
On Thursday afternoon, Crowley finds him. Aziraphale is in the back, reorganizing a few shelves, when he hears the bell over the door and calls, “One moment!”
“Don't rush on my account,” says Crowley, which of course means Aziraphale drops everything to immediately go back out to the front.
“Crowley.”
Crowley wiggles his fingers in a wave. “Hi. Just thought I'd stop by, see how your bakes were going.”
“I was hoping you might,” he says, and immediately wishes the floor would open up and swallow him. Crowley is cool and charismatic and interesting. He probably took this long to stop by because he has friends to discuss his bakes with. Probably a partner of some kind as well. Someone who understands computers and has tattoos of their own. “To talk about the bakes! I didn't think it would be proper for me to stop by the school.”
“No, they frown on that. How is it going?”
“I think well enough. I'm trying to be a little more adventurous, as you suggested, but to be honest, flavors aren't my strong suit.”
“Your stuff tasted good.”
“But those weren't really my flavors. I was following recipes I'd perfected. But when I need to improvise, I'm less certain.”
“Like following the rules, do you?”
“Classics are classics for a reason. And my variations are never as good.”
“So, what are you working on for this week?”
“I don't know if I should tell you.”
“I'm locked in. And if your ideas are so bad, why would I steal them? So, sweet and savory shortbread. What have you got?”
“Lemon and lavender for the sweet. What's yours?”
“Lemon too, actually. But lemon and sweet tea. I've been inspired by American barbecue, so the sweet is playing on the beverages and the savory is using smoke and barbecue flavors.”
“This is what I mean!” Aziraphale says in despair. “American barbecue, how does one even think of that?”
“Went to a wedding a few years ago in Tennessee. What's your savory?”
“Parmesan and shallot.”
“Those sound nice. Don't see quite how they tie together.”
“They don't! I just thought of two things that might be good and that I thought I could do. I don't think of my bakes as stories to tell.”
Crowley is smiling softly. “You don't have to, just have to be ready for the question. It's not exactly a little show no one knows about, they'll expect you to be familiar with the process.”
“And I am! I know you're right. That doesn't make me any good at it.”
“So I'll help you.”
He says it easily, as if his helping Aziraphale is a matter of course, an opportunity he's been waiting for.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Well, we're competitors,” Aziraphale points out. “We can't both win. If you help me, you may only be sowing the seeds of your own destruction.”
“Maybe,” says Crowley. “But I could use some help too.”
“Could you?”
Crowley shrugs fluidly. Crowley does most things fluidly. “I might get a little carried away sometimes. Take things too far for Paul and Mary.”
“And you don't have other people to help with that?”
Aziraphale is also fishing, and Crowley is as bad at recognizing it as Aziraphale was. It's not a particularly good thing to have in common.
“Well, the kids at school eat whatever I make, and some of my coworkers. But it's not like they're experts.”
Aziraphale puffs with pride. “Of course I'm happy to help.”
“Exactly. That's the spirit of Bake Off, after all. Helping each other out.” He leans against the counter. “Right then. Let's talk about why you like your flavors.”
*
Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley doesn't like to think of himself as a creature of routine. This doesn't mean he isn't one, just that he likes to pretend he isn't. He tells himself that he still lives the exciting, unpredictable life that he lived in his twenties, when he could take a weekend trip to Barcelona without planning ahead at all or go to a concert even though he had already changed into his pajamas. It's a flawed perspective for many reasons, but primarily because Crowley hadn't actually enjoyed that life type when he had it, because denial about what sort of person you are is important for humans.
Still, being on Bake Off necessitates a routine, and Crowley can't even pretend to be upset about it because he's figured out a way to fill that routine with as much Aziraphale as possible. Aziraphale is the kind of person who makes Crowley think of the nice parts of routines, things like waking up with someone next to him every morning and making coffee with that person and getting a kiss before he leaves for work.
He does realize he's getting ahead of himself with thoughts like this, and he tries to confine himself to realistic ones, which is where his routine comes into it. How much actual time he gets to spend with Aziraphale during shooting is out of his control, for the most part, but the two of them have started meeting up at their usual coffee shop to get themselves something to have on the way in, and then getting the bus to the station. On the train, they sit together and chat, or sit together and don't chat. There's less of Aziraphale in the challenges themselves, but as the weeks go on, he permeates Crowley’s process more and more. Aziraphale is, without question, the more talented technical baker between the two of them, and working with him is absolutely improving Crowley's technique, just as Crowley is helping Aziraphale take more risks. They’re good for each other, at least in baking terms. Crowley assumes that would carry over to other things as well.
“We thought you were going to be rivals, you know,” Sue remarks, watching Crowley try not to murder his caramel in the third episode. “But here you are, the bromance of the century.”
Crowley rolls his eyes, which of course no one will see behind his sunglasses. “Don't call it that, that's nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it's a stupid word that people made up because men are insecure about having close friends. If you're friends, it's friendship, and if it's romantic, it's a romance. You don't need a word for when it's a friendship and you're afraid people will think it's a romance so you have to make a joke of it.”
Sue considers this. “You might be right. So which is it, then?”
“Hm?” Crowley asks.
“Is it a friendship or a romance?”
“Ngh,” says Crowley, who has absolutely no one to blame but himself. He fails utterly to come up with a response until he’s saved by a timer going off. “Excuse me, have to deal with that, we'll chat more later.”
They take the train home together on Sundays, discussing how they and everyone else did in the challenges, and part at the train station.
On Mondays, he ignores the kids trying to get him to give away secrets about how he's doing in the competition and if he's still in so that he can sketch out the basics of his signature and showstopper. By the time school is out, he's got enough of an idea to stop by Aziraphale’s bookshop to talk to him about it. Aziraphale will have his own ideas by then, and they’ll hash out anything that needs to be hashed out before Crowley goes home to bake. He’d asked for Aziraphale’s number in a bout of courage when they parted ways after filming the second episode, so he can send texts with his progress, and Aziraphale returns the favor even though he’s absolutely rubbish with technology.
For the next few days, texting is the only way they communicate, but over the weeks Crowley has been sneaking in more and more baking-unrelated conversations, and Aziraphale has been promptly responding to those messages too.
It’s nothing like any relationship he’s ever had before, but that’s probably not a bad thing. In the past, he tended to stumble into relationships by accident, or he’d try to be cool and not show that he was interested. Which he wasn’t very good at, but the objects of his affection tended to either pretend they didn’t notice because they didn’t share his feelings or take pity on him and make a move themselves.
(Aziraphale is the first to genuinely not notice, but it’s not because Crowley has gotten better at being subtle.)
He usually lets himself stop by the shop again on Wednesday or Thursday, just to check in and see how Aziraphale is doing in person, and then before he knows it, it’s Saturday again, and they’re back in the coffee shop, getting ready to go over to the train station together.
It’s the fifth week, halfway through, when he’s ordering his coffee and Adam and his gang wander into the coffeeshop.
Pepper spots him first. “Morning, Mr. Crowley!”
Crowley squints at them. “What are you lot doing here? Why are you awake? It’s half five in the morning on a Saturday.”
“We have Plans,” says Pepper, which is ominous, but not actually any of Crowley’s business. They can do whatever they like on Saturdays, as far as he’s concerned. He’s not their father.
Adam is watching him with a contemplative look in his eye. “You’re going to Bake Off, aren’t you? I knew you hadn’t been eliminated.”
“Maybe I just love waking up too early on Saturday to buy myself a coffee. You don’t know.”
Right on cue, the door opens and Aziraphale comes in, waving at Crowley as he gets in line to order his own beverage. Crowley would love it if the kids hadn’t noticed, but of course he’s not that lucky.
“Are you on a date?” Brian asks.
“Don’t be stupid,” says Pepper. “No one goes on a date this early.”
“Maybe they’re making a day of it,” Brian says. “Going on a trip somewhere. Remember when my parents took me on that stupid day trip to Cheddar Gorge? We left really early.”
The barista calls Crowley’s drink, and he picks it up just as Aziraphale finishes ordering. “Students are here,” he says, in a low hiss. “Don’t let them talk to you.”
Aziraphale is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a master of subterfuge. “Talk to me about what?” he asks, in his normal voice, at his normal volume.
“Anything.”
But it’s too late. Crowley has barely managed the first sip of his drink before the kids are upon them.
“Are you Mr. Crowley’s boyfriend?” Wensleydale asks, apparently having talked himself around to the date option. It’s a more logical guess than Aziraphale being on Bake Off, but also a more embarrassing one.
“Ah, no,” says Aziraphale. “You’re his students, are you? Good to see young people getting up so early. Not letting the day get away from you, eh?”
Crowley wonders idly if they keep arsenic behind the counter, and if they’d give him some if they do. He’d pay for it.
“Listen, all of you,” he says, rolling Aziraphale into his address for good measure. “Yes, we’re all awake early. No, we’re not talking a day trip to Cheddar Gorge--”
“Cheddar Gorge?” Aziraphale asks.
“Not helping,” says Crowley. “He’s on Bake Off, I’m on Bake Off. As far as the four of you are concerned, I don’t have a personal life and I don’t exist outside of school. So let’s all pretend this never happened and you kids can bug--take off while me and my friend here wait for his drink. Good?”
The four of them are only about fifty/fifty on listening to Crowley when they’re at school and he’s a real authority figure, so of course they ignore him and turn all of their considerable capacity to bother people on Aziraphale.
“Are you really on Bake Off?”
“How’s Mr. Crowley doing? Do they like his bakes?”
“Do you work at the haunted bookshop?”
“It’s not haunted, stupid.”
“It is, actually, I saw a ghost in there once.”
“That was probably him! He looks like a ghost.”
“I look like a ghost?” Aziraphale asks.
“Probably the pale hair and all the beige clothing,” says Crowley, who has failed to beat them and decides to join them. “But I’m afraid we need to get going, can’t miss the train.”
“We could walk you to the bus stop,” says Adam.
Crowley scowls at him. “I thought you had plans.”
“Oh, they’ll keep.”
Crowley sighs and Aziraphale smiles and raises his tea in a mock toast, and the six of them start off for the bus stop, which at least isn't far.
“We really can’t tell you anything about the competition. Not even that we’re still on it. They keep having you come back, you know, for all ten weeks, even if you’re eliminated. Just so no one will know who’s still on.”
This is a blatant lie, and Crowley shoots Aziraphale a look over the kids’ heads. Aziraphale smiles serenely.
“But you’d probably be sad if you weren’t still on the show,” says Adam. “Bad enough having to get up this early when you can still win, miserable if you’re off. I think you’re both still in.”
“Guess you’ll find out in a few months,” says Crowley. “Certainly won’t find out any earlier.”
“We could, actually, if we woke up this early every Saturday. Then we could see you on your way out.”
Adam, Pepper, and Brian all glare at Wensleydale for this idea. Pepper’s the one to say, “We are never getting up this early ever again.”
“Actually, I'm usually up this early,” says Wensleydale. He's very lucky, Crowley thinks, to have a group of friends who like him, because if he didn't he would be getting beaten up constantly. “I like it. You can see the sunrise.”
The kids bicker about whether or not it would be worth it to wake up this early for any reason, with only Wensleydale arguing in favor, and Crowley finds it's actually kind of nice. He wouldn't want them along every week, but they're good kids in the best way, meaning that they aren't actively malicious but are also little bastards. His kind of good kids.
Once they arrive at the bus stop, though, Crowley gets rid of them. “Alright, whatever your big plans are, don't get arrested, yeah?”
“If you win star baker, will you call us?” asks Adam.
Crowley hasn't gotten star baker yet, but he actually does have a good feeling about this week. He's been in the top three almost every time, and even if he didn't consider his planned bakes to be exceptional, he thinks from a narrative perspective he's about due.
“Probably could. But if I do, all four of you have to agree to keep your mouths shut about it, yeah? No telling anyone else to show off that you know something they don't know.”
They solemnly promise and Crowley only about half-believes them, but he gets the number from Adam anyway and says he'll do it if they let him.
“That was very nice of you,” Aziraphale says, once the kids have finally gone.
“Completely selfish, actually. I was going to have to call my mum otherwise, and she'd just ask me if my shirt was tucked in and I’d covered all those awful tattoos of mine.”
Aziraphale smiles a little. “I think they’re very nice tattoos.”
“Thank you. I guess I could have called you,” he adds, even as his brain tells him it's not a good idea. “That would have been funny.”
“Me?”
“Well, you're the one who was consulting on my bakes. If you weren't on the show, you're the one I'd call.”
“Oh,” says Aziraphale, and the bus pulls in before Crowley has to say anything else about that.
Once they're settled into their seats, Aziraphale says, “You're the one I’d call too,” and Crowley grins.
*
“Of course I'm thrilled,” Aziraphale tells Muriel as Crowley does his star baker call. “I thought he was past due, but I knew it was his week. Truly incredible bakes.”
“Can you at least pretend to be a little upset you're just runner up?” Muriel asks, not sounding particularly optimistic about the prospect. “You haven't got star baker since the first episode.”
“No,” Aziraphale grants. “But it's hard to be upset when my closest friend here is the winner. Do you know if they let him call his students?”
“I think so. He added them to the approved number list yesterday.” Muriel sighs. “I did tell them that you wouldn't say anything bad about him winning, but they wanted me to try. Why don't you give us something about the technical?”
Aziraphale finishes up his interview and meanders over to watch Crowley doing his. He looks pleased, flushed with happiness as he laughs into the phone, and Aziraphale is a little jealous, even knowing it's just the students.
If he gets sent home, Crowley can always call him for his next star baker win. That would be a nice consolation prize. Although, if he's honest, Aziraphale has reached the point where he firmly believes that he and Crowley will be together in the finals, and he'll be quite disappointed if they aren't.
But unfortunately, next week is pastry week, which is the week during which Aziraphale thinks it’s most likely Crowley will get eliminated, so he’s trying to prepare himself for that possibility. Crowley’s biggest struggle has always been believing that recipes are good and here to help him, and Aziraphale finds that following the accepted way to do things is never more important than in pastry. He’s planning to be very annoying in the upcoming week about making sure that Crowley is actually doing things correctly.
He’s even thinking about suggesting that they practice together, a prospect that has him somewhat nervous. Their friendship has been entirely in public spaces so far, if one counts the Bake Off tent as a public space, which Aziraphale does because even if no one from the public is there, everything is being filmed. But other than that, they only spend time together in the coffee shop or the bookshop or on the train, places where everyone can see them, where it’s possible to run into Crowley’s students. Inviting Crowley into his home would be an escalation of their current relationship. Not as much of an escalation as Aziraphale wants, of course, but it could be the next step toward that, and next steps are always a little scary.
Crowley finishes up and comes to join him; Aziraphale gives him a big smile. “Congratulations again.”
“Thanks.”
“Were all four of them on the phone?”
“Yeah, guess they were hanging out and waiting. The producers loved it, apparently I'm cute with the kids.” His air quotes and disdainful expression make Aziraphale suspect that he doesn't agree with this assessment, but Aziraphale is on the producers’ side here. Not that he’s planning to mention it.
“You're good with them,” he offers. “It is sweet. Do you think you'll invite them to the finals if you make it?”
“Don't think I can, probably. Already showing favoritism calling them.” He flashes Aziraphale a smirk. “Obviously they are my favorites, but I'm not allowed to say that.”
“Of course not.”
The van to the station is getting less crowded, but Aziraphale likes the remaining competitors more. They all chat in general terms about how they're feeling about the upcoming challenge, avoiding specifics so as not to give away any advantages, while Crowley stays quiet, resting his knees on the seat in front of him and leaning against Aziraphale’s shoulder.
Once they're on the train, Aziraphale broaches the topic of pastry. “How are you feeling about next week?”
Crowley slides his sunglasses off and twirls them idly. “I'm sure it won't surprise you that pastry isn't exactly my specialty.”
“It does require a certain amount of adherence to recipes that I didn't think would suit you.”
“All of baking does that, but it's so finicky. And it's awful to bring to school.”
“Is it?”
“So much work and the kids don't appreciate how hard it is. Just pass over like a swarm of locusts.”
“I assume that's how they usually are.”
“Yeah, but I don't mind when it's less work.”
Aziraphale clears his throat. “I was thinking a closer collaboration might help with this one.”
“You want a closer collaboration?”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“I mean that I know the producers gave you the same lecture they gave me about what we’re allowed to discuss. I didn't think you'd want to bend the rules, you're practically an angel.”
“I'm not suggesting anything against the rules.”
“Of course you're not,” says Crowley, with what could only be called a fond smirk.
“We're allowed to practice together. I have a large enough kitchen we could both bake in there.”
Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up. “You want to bake together?”
“We bake together every week. The only change is the venue,” he lies. He could probably list a dozen other differences, but he does want Crowley to say yes.
“You're that worried?”
“It's a notoriously difficult week.”
“But are you worried about yourself, or do you just think I need help?”
“Of course I'm worried about myself! All of the pastry I've ever made is strictly by the book. I may not be worried that I can't make a croissant, but I'm certainly not sure I can make an interesting one with bold flavors.”
“And you're worried I can't make one at all,” says Crowley, but he's smiling.
“It wouldn't do for you to go home the week after you're named star baker. I'm planning on beating you in the finals.”
Crowley’s smile upgrades to a grin. “Are you just?”
“Were you hoping I'd go home sooner?”
“Of course not. I'm looking forward to beating you at the last possible moment.”
“And you can't do that unless you survive pastry week.”
“Where do you live? Above the shop?”
“Yes.”
“Probably still want to take Monday to plan, I never like to bake on Mondays. I could come round on Tuesday. Bring a takeaway to thank you for hosting.”
“You don't have to do that.”
“I assume you do want to eat something. No need to bake and cook. Text me what you like and I'll come by around closing.”
“It's--” Aziraphale closes his mouth before he actually says it's a date, even though it probably is one. “You'll have to let me pay you back,” he says instead.
“I don't have to do anything. Feel free to try to sneak some notes into my jacket pocket or something.” He nudges Aziraphale’s shoulder. “So what are you thinking for your signature?”
*
On Tuesday, Crowley picks up Indian food, per Aziraphale’s request, and tells himself this isn't a date even though, again, it probably is. But since neither of them has called it a date, it exists in a quantum state of both date and not date, and neither of them is willing to address the uncertainty.
Crowley would be happier if one of them did, but only if the conclusion was that it was a date, which is the entire problem. If he asks, Aziraphale could say it's not a date, and then it won't be. The ambiguity isn't worse than the rejection would be yet.
He just has to keep reminding himself of that.
The bell over Aziraphale’s door jangles as Crowley pushes it open. Usually, the shop is empty, but today Adam is sitting in an armchair, looking through a large book in a way that suggests he's not reading so much as admiring the letters.
“What are you doing here?” Crowley asks him.
“I wanted to look at the books.”
“You're twelve, you don't like books.”
“I liked books when I was twelve,” says Aziraphale. “Good evening, Crowley.”
“Of course you liked books, you own a bookshop. Adam’s not going to own a bookshop.”
“I could own a bookshop.”
“It's difficult without generational wealth,” says Aziraphale. “But we are closing up soon, off you go. Feel free to come back any time.”
Crowley watches Adam leave then turns on Aziraphale. “What did he really want?”
“To ask about you. Apparently your students are interested in your social life.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you deserved star baker.” He smiles. “Really, I don't think you have anything to worry about. What do you think I'm going to tell him?”
It's a good question, so Crowley ignores it. “I don't trust him. Want me to lock the door?”
“Please. And thank you for bringing dinner. What are you thinking for your cream puffs?”
“Alcohol. Don't worry, I brought that too.”
“What kind?”
“Guinness. Beer float cream puffs.”
Aziraphale makes a face. “I'm not much of a beer drinker.”
“I brought a bottle of wine too. Not using that for my pastries, though. What are you making?”
“Alcohol as well, actually. Champagne-infused puff pastry with strawberry cream.”
“Sounds nice. Maybe I'm playing it too safe.”
Aziraphale holds the door to the stairs open and gestures him through. “Because I had a good idea?”
“No, of course not. But I've got a reputation, you know. Can't be too pedestrian.”
“I'm not actually sure what a beer float is, if that helps,” says Aziraphale, as if beer float is a word from a foreign language that he's not sure he's pronouncing correctly.
“A little.” Crowley sighs. “I'm in my head! I got star baker and now it's pastry week. I want to wow them and instead I'm…” He makes a noise that is a fairly accurate representation of how he's feeling and sounds sort of like ngrrk. “I feel as if I should be using bull testicles or something. Just to keep everyone on their toes.”
“I would like you to get to the finals, you know. I’m not saying that’s impossible with a bull testicle cream puff, but I don’t think that’s necessary to prove you still have your edge.”
Crowley has to pause at the top of the stairs to laugh.
“Are you alright?”
“Sorry, just…hearing you say bull testicle cream puff is really something,” he manages.
“It was your idea!” says Aziraphale, but he’s smiling too now.
“I didn’t say cream puff. It could have been part of my showstopper.”
“Of course. Kitchen’s right through here.”
Now that Crowley has recovered from his laughing fit and somewhat moved on from his baking concerns, he can take in Aziraphale’s flat, which mostly looks like an extension of the bookshop. The living space they’re walking through is lined with bookshelves with a nice, plush couch and thick carpet, the kind of room that’s designed for curling up in on a rainy day with a mug of something warm and comforting. Exactly what he would have expected, but somehow a wonder nonetheless.
“Nice place.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I mean it.”
Aziraphale shoots him a wary look. “I have it on good authority that it’s…fussy. Like somewhere someone’s grandmother would live.”
“Whose authority is that?”
“My last three boyfriends.”
Crowley, like everyone else who has ever met Aziraphale, had been working under the assumption that he liked men, but it’s nice to have the confirmation. “They’re exes, that makes them bad authorities by default. Never trust anyone you broke up with.”
“What if they broke up with me?”
“Then you trust them even less, they’re obviously idiots. All three of them broke up with you?”
“No, it was a mixture. I was just curious.”
“Well, they’re wrong in any case. It’s nice.”
“Thank you.” He takes the bags from Crowley’s hands and starts to unpack the takeout. “I assume you have one of those very posh flats. Leather sofa, abstract artwork, stainless steel appliances…”
“I used to, yeah. When I lived in London it was all the flashiest new things. Haven’t really kept up since I moved out here, though. Decided to try buying things I actually liked.”
“What would you like to drink and how long were you in London?”
“Whatever you’re drinking and, hm, about twenty years, give or take. Went there for uni and stayed until I got tired of it.”
“You weren’t a teacher there.”
“No.”
“What were you?”
“I was in tech. Worked for all kinds of very evil firms until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I always tried not to be too evil personally, but there’s only so much you can do when you’re in that business. I assume you understand, coming from generational wealth.”
“Some,” Aziraphale admits. “It’s not a generational fortune, but enough money that I can run a bookshop and not worry about my rent, at least.” He pours wine while Crowley puts out the cartons of takeaway food, and once Aziraphale has gotten plates, they settle in to eat. “It is strange, isn’t it,” Aziraphale muses, tucking into his meal with gusto. “We’ve been spending so much time together, but I really don’t know that much about you.”
“What do you want to know?”
Aziraphale thinks it over. “It’s just you and your mother?”
“You make us sound like much more of a pair than we are. I barely see here. But if you’re asking if she’s my only family then no. No siblings, but my dad’s still alive. He’s just the strong, silent type. Mum tells me he’s on the line when she calls but I just have to take her word for it. You?”
“An older brother. We aren’t very close. My parents were…well, Gabriel was much more the son they were hoping for. The first time I told them I was going to bring a man home with me for the holidays, they told me I was only welcome if I came alone or with a woman. They thought they were being quite generous, not disowning me outright.”
Crowley hisses. “Wankers.”
“Not to speak ill of the dead, but yes, they were. But they didn’t cut me out of the will, so when they died I got the money to start the shop.”
“I don’t mind speaking ill of them.” He plays with the stem of his wine glass. “I was expecting some pushback from my parents about my whole thing, but they never actually minded. Brought home a girl, brought home a boy, brought home a whole drag persona, my mum still focused on the tattoos and how she doesn’t like my hair.”
“That sounds nice. Nicer, anyway.”
“Nicer, yeah. Who’s the Co?”
Aziraphale cocks his head. “I beg your pardon?”
“The shop, it’s called Fell & Co. You’re Fell, who’s Co?”
“One of the ex-boyfriends, I’m afraid. I thought about changing the name, but it does sound more sophisticated, doesn’t it?”
“Which ex-boyfriend?”
“Number two. I thought we’d get married, but…we didn’t.”
“Never married?”
“No. You?”
“No. Nothing against it,” he adds. “I still could.”
“Could you?”
“Why not? There’s not an age limit. Have you given up?”
“I suppose not. I don’t think about it much these days. Marriage, that is,” he adds. “It doesn’t feel like the goal it once was. I’ve never given up on companionship.”
They eat in silence for a moment, and Crowley tries and fails to come up with any of the dozens of things he could say to convey to Aziraphale that he would make a good romantic companion. Instead, he finally asks, “Is your brother’s name really Gabriel?”
“It is.”
“And they named you Aziraphale? You should’ve been the one to disown them.”
“I like my name. It’s unique.”
“I like it too,” Crowley says, even though he wouldn’t like it nearly as much if it was attached to a different person. “But it must’ve been a nightmare when you were at school.”
“I mostly went by Fell. You still go by Crowley,” he points out. “And you don’t even have a terribly uncommon name.”
“That’s why. Had a few other Anthonys running around. Went by AJ til year five or so, and then I decided it was too childish. Switched to Crowley and never looked back.”
“It does suit you.”
“I think so.” He sighs. “I guess we should start baking soon, hm? Do we need to divide up the kitchen? Come up with shifts?”
It’s a large enough kitchen that they can work at the same time, even if it requires a bit of navigating around each other. It’s a nice, companionable sort of navigating around each other, sharing a space, asking each other for advice. Crowley does end up liking his Guinness puffs, and even if Aziraphale doesn’t exactly like them, he thinks they’re executed well and certainly up to Crowley’s usual standard of weirdness.
“I should probably go,” he says, with genuine reluctance, once they’ve cleaned up. “Early morning, as always.”
“Yes, of course. But if you’d like to come by later in the week, practice your showstopper…”
“I’ll see. It’s a lot of ingredients to bring over. But, uh, I might do. It was nice, having someone else to…Well, it was nice.”
Aziraphale beams, and Crowley’s resolve weakens. “It was, wasn’t it?”
“I’ll let you know about later in the week. Maybe Thursday.” He reminds himself that it’s not a date--not officially a date, not an unambiguous date--and doesn’t kiss Aziraphale goodnight.
But he thinks about it very hard.
*
Pastry week gives Aziraphale his second star baker, and he does actually ask if he can call Crowley.
“You want to call Crowley?” asks Michael. She’s the executive producer and from what Aziraphale can tell, she doesn’t know how to smile. “Crowley, who’s doing his interview with Muriel right over there?”
“Yes. We were discussing it the other week and thought it would be funny. I’d call him if he’d gone home, so why not call him even though he’s here?”
Michael’s lips somehow thin further, which Aziraphale didn’t think was possible. Surely there must be a point where they can be no thinner. “We can try it. But I reserve the right to make you call someone else.”
The first time doesn’t work because Crowley’s phone is on silent and he doesn’t know Aziraphale is calling him. After a brief discussion between Crowley and a couple of the producers, Crowley throws a quizzical look Aziraphale’s way and Aziraphale shrugs, giving him a helpless smile. They orchestrate a scene where Crowley is interrupted by his phone mid-question, and Aziraphale can see him holding up a finger to the camera as he picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Crowley? I’m star baker!”
“You don’t say.”
“They loved the cream puffs. You were right about making the strawberry cream less sweet.”
“Of course I was. I’m always right.” Aziraphale can see him tapping his jaw out of the corner of his eye. “I’m supposed to be more excited, aren’t I? I’m not very good at the whole effusive thing.”
“But you are happy for me.”
“Oh, yeah, of course! Happy, proud, all of that. I knew you could do it. And next week too, right? You’re going to be the only star baker from here on out. Leagues ahead of everyone in that tent. Certainly no dashing, tattooed IT teachers who might threaten your supremacy.”
“Oh, no, the dashing, tattooed IT teacher isn’t a threat at all. I could beat him with one hand tied behind my back.”
“Course you could. Congratulations again. See you in the van?”
“See you there.”
Aziraphale hangs up the phone to find several of the producers watching him. “Was that alright, or do I need to call someone else?”
“No,” says Michael, her expression unreadable. “I think that will do.”
*
The way Crowley sees it, he has a very clear window of time when he can do something stupid about Aziraphale. The window will start whenever one of their gets eliminated from Bake Off and last until, at the lastest, the third episode of the series airs, because Crowley is pretty sure that’s the point when every single person watching the show, Aziraphale included, will realize that he has a giant, ridiculous crush. And while that would technically solve his problem, Crowley thinks he'd rather get out ahead of the whole thing.
The easiest and fastest thing would, of course, be to walk into the shop and ask Aziraphale out to dinner. This would result in pretty much instant resolution of the whole feelings issue, he might get a date out of it, and he could do it at any time. It would be incredibly simple.
The lie he tells himself is that he's not doing it because if Aziraphale isn't interested in him, it will make the last few weeks of the show awkward, when really he's just not prepared to take the leap of voicing his feelings. It's been a long time since he's been as invested in a person as he is in Aziraphale, and his desire to maybe get a boyfriend out of the whole thing is at war with the fear of losing the first real friend he's made in years.
Which is what makes the post-show window so appealing. It's far enough in the future (assuming that they both survive to the finals) that Crowley doesn't have to do anything right now, but with a clear and pressing end date as well. It's ideal.
Except for the way that he talks to Aziraphale every day now, and sees him most days, and he just likes him more and more. It’s easy to get ahead of himself, to let his mind skip forward to the things he wants to have, to think too much about the world that will exist if he manages to ask and Aziraphale says yes.
Adam and his friends aren’t helping, which Crowley doesn’t even understand. If they’re trying to matchmake, they’re terrible at it, but he thinks they’re probably just bored and think that poking about in their teacher’s personal life and trying to catch him doing unteacherly things is fun. Crowley probably would have done the same, at their age, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying. Any time they see him with Aziraphale, he becomes aware of how much he’s with Aziraphale, and how much more he’s with Aziraphale than he really needs to be. He likes the other contestants well enough, but if Maggie or Newt or Tracy lived nearby, he wouldn’t be popping around to see them at their shops every other day, or going over to their flats to practice his bakes. He’d probably see them at the train station and make polite small talk until they got on the train, and then put in his headphones so he could zone out until he got to the tent.
Crowley is thinking about the general Aziraphale issue as he watches the bookshop for a second on the Tuesday before they film the eighth episode. Watching the bookshop, in this case, mostly means watching Brian, who is always too covered in unidentified goo to be allowed to touch the books, and watching Adam, who is always too Adam to be trusted. Pepper is settled with a not particularly valuable copy of The Art of War, and Wensleydale was raised to believe that old books should only be admired from a respectful distance, so they’re fine, but Crowley is still on edge.
Adam, as usual, is the one who pushes him over said edge. “Were you and Mr. Fell a couple before Bake Off, or not until after? Is that the sort of thing you have to tell them when you apply?”
It's one of those perfectly phrased questions that assumes a reality that doesn't exist and then blazes boldly ahead with it. “We're not a couple now,” says Crowley.
“You're minding his shop while he pops out to do errands,” says Pepper, without looking up from her book.
“Can't exactly leave you lot alone in here. What does it matter to you, anyway?”
“I want to know how the rules work,” says Adam. “Seems like the two of you have an unfair advantage. You get to work together at home. The others don't get to do that.”
“Actually, any of them could do that,” says Wensleydale. “Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell live close together, but the others could still meet up. They're not doing anything the others couldn't do.”
“But the others don't,” says Adam.
“I don't see how that's my fault,” says Crowley. “Anyway, the producers cast two people with addresses close together in Oxford and booked us on the same trains, so you can't say they didn't know. And they gave us a whole list of how we can and can't help each other. Didn't think you'd care about the rules so much.”
Adam shrugs “Just think things should be fair, that's all. It's a lot of advantage, having your boyfriend to help you.”
“Just if your boyfriend is good,” says Pepper. “I know loads of girls who would be better off if they chucked their boyfriends.”
“You don't know loads of girls, Pep,” says Brian.
“I do! And I know boyfriends are useless. Sorry, Mr. Crowley.”
“If he's gotten on the show, he actually does need to be good,” says Wensleydale.
“Not if he got eliminated in the first episode.”
“But he didn't, so he’s--”
“Not my boyfriend!” Crowley says, louder than he probably should, mostly because this conversation is giving him a headache and he still needs to bake later. “Nothing happening with us at all! Just a teacher and a bookseller who are friends. Just friends! Nothing more.”
Due to the cosmic laws of bad timing, Aziraphale chooses that moment to return to the shop, and manages to hear all of Crowley's protestations. Of course, Crowley doesn't realize this until he remarks, “Yes, just friends. What's going on?”
Crowley’s heart sinks, and he pushes his sunglasses up. “Just explaining to Adam that we're not breaking any rules.”
“Ah. Well, we are not, and I'm afraid it's about closing time. Pepper, would you like to borrow that book or leave it here?”
“You'd let her borrow a book?” Brian asks. “You won't even let me touch them.”
Pepper sticks her tongue out. “I'm more responsible than you are.”
“You're cleaner,” says Aziraphale. “I’m very sorry, Brian, but until you go a full day without having chocolate on yourself, the rules will remain in place. Pepper?”
“I'll leave it here. Thanks, Mr. Fell.”
“Thank you for coming, I’ll see you all later,” Aziraphale says, herding them out so he can lock the door behind them. Crowley just watched him, wretched, trying not to feel as if he's said something unforgivable when all he's done is say something true.
“Listen, I was just--”
“No need to explain,” Aziraphale says, brisk and cheerful. “I heard enough that I think I can put together what happened.”
“Yeah, but--”
“I don't know what you think you need to apologize for, but I assure you there’s no need. Now we can--”
Crowley catches his arm as Aziraphale tries to walk past him, and once the momentum brings him to face Crowley, it's easy enough to just keep going, to lean down and kiss Aziraphale as he's wanted to for weeks, for months, since before he even knew him, when some part of him still knew, somehow, that Aziraphale was absolutely perfect.
Aziraphale doesn't keep him in suspense, at least. He's kissing back before Crowley’s even quite realized he initiated the kiss, his hands tangling into Crowley’s hair, his mouth opening before Crowley’s even asked, and the relief of it courses through him like lightning. The answer to the question he didn't want to ask is yes, and now he can ask it for the rest of the night and get that yes every time.
Aziraphale pulls back when Crowley pushes him against the counter, and he manages, “Crowley, we can't--” even though Crowley is kissing his neck.
Crowley jumps back as if he's been burned. “Right, sorry, I shouldn't have--”
Aziraphale pulls him back in by his lapels and kisses him quickly. “I mean that we still need to practice our bakes, my dear,” he says, affection and amusement twinkling in his eyes. “I’m not going to get eliminated just because I can’t stop kissing you. But perhaps this time, when we’re done baking, you could stay.”
Crowley grins. “Oh, I could absolutely stay.”
*
There's a part of Aziraphale that thinks one of them will go home once they're officially together, like some kind of divine curse balancing out the amount of happiness being with Crowley gives him with at least some measure of bad luck. It's a punishment Aziraphale would happily take on himself if he had to--given the choice between winning Bake Off and dating Crowley, he would pick Crowley every time--but there doesn't seem to be anyone keeping score. Aziraphale gets to have all the good things, somehow. It's hard to believe.
“Although, of course, our good luck can't last.”
“Awfully pessimistic of you,” says Crowley. He has his head in Aziraphale’s lap as he scrolls through videos on his phone, so domestic and comfortable Aziraphale can barely stand it. “I would have assumed you were the optimist in this relationship.”
Said relationship is still new enough that the mere mention of it is enough to make Aziraphale’s stomach flip pleasantly. There's a part of him that thinks he's too old to be this happy about having a boyfriend, but it’s easy to ignore that part. Why would he try to talk himself out of being happy?
“I'm not being pessimistic! It's a simple fact. There will be one winner of the series. The best-case scenario is that it's one of us, but it can't be both of us.”
Crowley taps his knee absently. “See? Glass half empty, you. Don't think of it as one of us losing, think of it as one of us winning. If you win, no one's going to be happier for me than you.”
“We could both lose.”
“And then neither of us has to beat the other, so it's still a win. It's not as if there's some great cash prize one of us is going to take from the other. And even if it was, neither of us needs the money.”
“Just the bragging rights.”
“Oh, I can brag about anything. If I win, that's easy. If you win, I get to tell everyone that my boyfriend won. And if neither of us wins, well, we still made it to the finals, didn't we? Plenty to brag about.”
“I wouldn't have made it this far without you, you know. Without your help…”
“Don't say that,” says Crowley, making a face. “I didn't tell you anything Paul Hollywood didn't. You were the first star baker, you would have figured it out on your own.”
“I might have. But I wouldn't have enjoyed it so much.”
“That I can agree to. Without your good influence, I might have really made the bull testicle cream puff.”
“I certainly hope not.”
“Probably not, no. But I would have done a test one just to see.”
Aziraphale kisses his forehead out of general fondness. “And I'm sure it would be as delicious as it was possible for it to be.”
“Feeling better about the finals?”
“I think so. Do you think we should tell them we’re an item?”
“Nah.”
“That's it?”
“What more do you want me to say? We can tell them when they come back to do that where are they now check in they always do. If we tell them before the finals, they’ll just be weird. Well, weirder. I'm sure they're already going to ask endless questions about what it's like to be competing against a friend. They'd be even worse if they knew we were together.”
“When you put it like that,” Aziraphale murmurs. “I think I’m rooting for you, you know.”
“Really?”
“I go back and forth. But I think I’d like to see you win. You in your sunglasses with your sleeve tattoos, standing in the middle of a garden with flowers and a cake stand. I’d quite enjoy seeing that.”
And, two days later, Aziraphale finds he truly is completely happy when Crowley is named the winner. He’s so thrilled, in fact, that when Crowley turns to him, he pulls him down and kisses him, just like he wants to, and Crowley laughs against his mouth, kisses him back for a few lovely seconds before he lets go.
“Suppose that answers that question,” says Mel. “Either give us a hug without the tongue or we’ll air that. Your decision.”
Crowley cocks his head and Aziraphale, and Aziraphale smiles at him. Crowley was right, he’s going to have no trouble at all bragging that his boyfriend won Bake Off. He’ll have much more trouble not telling strangers he runs into on the street.
“I think it was an appropriate amount of tongue,” he says, and Sue snorts.
“Of course it was. Let him go, we still have interviews to do.”
The interview is a good start to what Aziraphale assumes will be a bright future of talking about how wonderful Crowley is to anyone who will listen, although they do convince him to talk a little about his own bakes and journey on the show as well. Under ordinary circumstances, he’d be done and free to enjoy the picnic for a bit after that, but since he’s not only a runner up, but the winner’s boyfriend, he gets to join in on the family bit too. It’s a little odd, as he’s never actually met Crowley’s parents before, but Crowley points out later that it’s probably not a bad thing that everyone is on their best behavior for the cameras. They shake hands and hug like they already know each other, and Crowley calls him my boyfriend a lot, which he always loves, and once they’re finally free, Aziraphale drags Crowley off so they can track down Gabriel--who decided he wanted to come after all--and Bee and the kids. Crowley and Bee, as it turns out, actually know each other from both working at the same awful startup for a few years, and the two of them get on like cats who are forced to share the same space even though they hate each other, which is weirdly nice. Maybe they could visit Gabriel’s family for holidays sometimes. Aziraphale has never felt prepared to be a cool uncle on his own, but he thinks he could be half of a set of cool uncles.
Once it’s over, they take the train home as usual. Crowley had considered taking his car, a vintage Bentley that he’s only recently started allowing Aziraphale to touch, and even then only under strict supervision, but the two of them decided that it would feel more appropriate to take the train home. It’s how they come home from Bake Off, after all. Why abandon it in the home stretch?
Aziraphale leans his head against Crowley as the countryside speeds past. “Congratulations again, my dear.”
“Thanks. Another day, you would have taken it.”
“And another, Maggie would have. But today was yours, and I’m very happy for you.”
“Me too. Although, truth be told, it’s only the second best thing I got from the show.”
“You flatter me.”
“Who said I was talking about you? I meant the idea for bull testicle cream puffs.”
Aziraphale laughs. “Of course.”
“You’re definitely third, though. No question.”
He finds Crowley’s hand and laces their fingers together. “Well, so long as I’m third.”
*
Before their series of Bake Off starts airing, neither Crowley nor Aziraphale has ever been on television, so neither of them knows how they’ll feel about it. To both their surprise, Aziraphale finds it quite enjoyable, while Crowley has to watch with an alcoholic beverage in one hand and the other hand over his face.
“It’s just embarrassing,” he explains, midway through the first episode, after he’s gotten his alcoholic beverage. “I look like a wanker.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“Of course you don’t, you’re not allowed to. But I know.”
“The sunglasses might be a bit much,” Aziraphale admits. “But I wouldn’t say wanker! You seem...eccentric.”
Crowley groans. “You can stop trying to help any time, angel.” He’s been trying out pet names and recently hit on angel. So far, he really likes it. It feels right.
“I’m sure you’ll be very popular,” Aziraphale says reassuringly, and he does turn out to be right. Crowley doesn’t keep up with any of the online reaction himself, and Aziraphale is too computer illiterate to do it himself, but Crowley gets updates from his students. Apparently people like him and think his flavors are fun. After the first episode, they’re expecting him and Aziraphale to be like fire and water, but the second brings them around to “shipping,” which is a word Crowley pretends not to know mostly so Adam will have to explain it to him.
“Let’s just say they’re going to be really happy you’re boyfriends,” Adam finally says, after a long period of Crowley just looking at him with wide-eyed innocence.
As they’re starting the third episode, Crowley tells Aziraphale, “This was my deadline for myself.”
“Deadline?”
“To ask you on a date.”
“Really? Why?”
“Well, I was pretty sure that if I didn’t tell you before this episode, you’d figure it out on your own. This is the episode where it becomes completely obvious I’m in love with you.”
“Is it?”
“There’s a very embarrassing scene where I refuse to answer a question about love while I’m making some caramel. Can’t imagine they cut it, given how things turned out.”
“Is that why Mel asked me about romance? I thought it was rather odd at the time.”
Crowley groans. “It’s going to be even worse than I thought.”
“Yes, but I love you too,” Aziraphale points out. “So there’s really nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Crowley can think of a number of things, first and foremost how much of his early courtship of his boyfriend is going to be broadcast to televisions around the world, but Aziraphale is curled into his side and he has a glass of nice wine and he did win the series, and that’s more than worth a little embarrassment on a global scale.
“I’m not going to enjoy it at all,” he says anyway, directly into Aziraphale’s hair.
“Of course you aren’t,” Aziraphale agrees, and Crowley wouldn’t change a single thing.