Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Filming doesn’t even start until tomorrow, and already Ed Teach is in trouble.

The PA standing next to him speaks into her walkie talkie. “Uh, Ev, can we get you up in room 202 for a sec? Bit of a wardrobe situation in here.”

The walkie talkie buzzes back, something garbled, and a minute later there’s a knock at Ed’s hotel room door. The PA opens it and in strides Evelyn, production manager for the shoot. Ed met her at the final round of auditions, where he’d been impressed with her straightforward, take-no-shit attitude. She’s clearly a woman used to solving problems.

Now, it seems, the problem is him.

Evelyn—who’s as tall as Ed, wears a badass eyepatch, and could likely take him in a fight—crosses the room in two strides. She stops at his bed, where at the PA’s request he’s laid out every shirt he packed for the weekend.

She stares down at them. “This is all you’ve got?”

Ed clears his throat. “The contract said bring three shirts to choose from. So I brought these three.”

“Three different shirts is what the contract says.”

“They are different.”

Evelyn looks like she’s about to get a migraine. Ed, perhaps foolishly, presses on.

“See, this one has a V-neck, and that one’s a scoop. And this one’s got long sleeves, so if it’s cold in the tent—”

“They’re all black.”

Well, yes they’re all black. All the clothes Ed owns are black. Keeps it simple, one less choice to make every morning. Frees his brain up to spiral about other shit.

Evelyn speaks to him very slowly now, like he’s a toddler trapped in a 6-foot-tall man’s body. “The contract specified that you bring shirts in multiple colors. To give us options.”

Shit, Ed must’ve missed that line. There was an awful lot of fine print in the contract, and at some point he’d just started x-ing all the boxes without reading.

Evelyn’s still talking. “We want to make sure you show up nicely on screen, aren’t too matchy-matchy with any other baker.”

“Are a lot of the other bakers wearing black?” Ed asks.

“None of the other bakers are wearing black!” Evelyn snaps. “Black doesn’t pop, doesn’t look good under the apron.”

Ed swallows. “The, um—the impression I got during the audition process was that Love Productions liked my look.”

This is an understatement. Ed caught production staffers checking him out multiple times; even overheard a conversation between two camera guys in the toilets during the technical test shoot, when they were at the urinals and he was in a stall.

“That one with the leather and the hair, he’s getting cast for sure.”

“Oh, yeah. Doesn’t even matter if you can actually bake, when you look like that!”

“He’ll be this year’s Chigs, or Sandro. Everyone’s flavor, you know?”

Ed does know that he’s . . . striking. The hair, the beard, the bod. The tattoos. He always got a lot of attention back in the day when he went out to the clubs. Which is why he doesn’t go out to the clubs anymore. Well, one reason why. As for the way he dresses, it’s just how he feels comfortable: with a thick skin between himself and the world.

Evelyn’s staring at him expectantly. Fuck, did she say something else? Ed clears his throat again, tries to focus on the situation at hand. “So, my shirts. You’re saying none of them will work for the shoot?”

“That is what I’m saying. And it’s already past 6—shops around here’ll be closed. Maybe we can find someone to drive you to—”

“Hang on, Ev,” the PA says. “I’ve got an idea.”

She beckons Evelyn toward the door, and they step into the hallway to talk. Ed catches snippets of the conversation (“open to lending something” “you think he would?” “all right, go ask”)—before Evelyn marches back in, alone.

“Apparently, there’s another contestant that Archie vetted earlier who brought a lot of extra clothing. A whole ‘auxiliary wardrobe,’ as he described it to her. So let’s cross our fingers that he’s feeling generous, Mr. Teach.”

Ed doesn’t love the idea of filming all weekend in someone else’s shirt, but he realizes that he may not have much of a choice. Evelyn’s walkie talkie buzzes a minute later with the news that, affirmative, the guy is willing to help, and Ed should report to room 417 a.s.a.p. to pick something out.

***

Ed takes the lift up two flights and starts down another hallway identical to his own. It’s nothing special, the bakers’ hotel for this first weekend—just a Holiday Inn on the outskirts of Reading, thirty minutes from where they’ll film at Welford Park. Of course, if they run into guests not involved with the production, they’re not supposed to say why they’re there. Ed’s pretty skeptical that any strangers will talk to him, since the whole leather-beard-tattoo situation tends to keep people at a distance. But if they do, he’s got a fake name (Jeff) and cover story (accounting conference) at the ready.

The real plan, though is for a coach to take the twelve bakers to Welford Park early tomorrow morning. They’ve been told to expect a long first day, with two challenges to get through, plus interviews, a photo shoot, etc. Ed wishes they were starting tonight; his body’s been buzzing for hours, champing at the bit to get going with the competition.

Whatever the camera guys said about reasons for casting him, Ed can bake. Been doing it since he was a scrawny kid at his mum’s knee back in Aotearoa, kneading dough for rēwena parāoa and dipping lamingtons in chocolate and coconut. The kitchen’s always been a safe space for him . . . at times in his life, the only safe space. And shit, he’s been a Bake-Off fan since the very first series, way back when it was on BBC2 and the tent moved to a different location around the UK every week. He stuck with the show through Custardgate and Bingate, through the move to Channel 4 and the pandemic and the debacle that was Mexican Week 2022. For fourteen years, Ed’s watched and studied—and then, over this past year, through the forms and phone calls and rounds of in-person auditions, he’s strategized. He’s finally, actually here, and he’s ready to fucking go.

He just needs a different shirt first, apparently.

Archie’s coming at him from down the hall, boots stomping, what looks like half a ramen cup’s worth of noodles hanging out of her mouth now as she hurries to put out the next fire. “417, bro,” she reminds him through her full mouth as they pass each other. “Laid out some options, just choose what you like.” And then Ed’s knocking on a door and it’s being pulled it open and—

“Hi, come on in! You must be Edward.”

Ed doesn’t come in, though. He blinks, a little dazed, at the man holding the door for him. Golden-haired and hazel-eyed, dressed in a soft-looking purple t-shirt and a tight pair of white jeans. Cute little wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

But it’s not how cute the glasses are, or even how well those jeans fit that’s stopped Ed short. “You’re a Kiwi.” It’s not a question. Ed feels that accent right down in his bones.

A grin splits the blond man’s face then, and it’s like someone just plugged in a lamp in a windowless room. “Indeed, I am!” he says. “Kia ora! Auckland born and raised, though I’ve been in England for—dear god, it’s over thirty years now. Family moved here when I was twelve and . . . well, never left. And you?”

“Uh, fourteen years here,” Ed says. Fourteen years, ten months, and sixteen days, but who’s counting? “Grew up near Wellington.”

The man nods. “You get back much?”

“Nah,” Ed says, casual, like maybe that’s been an oversight. Like maybe he’s thought seriously even once about returning since the day he boarded that plane. “You?”

The man’s eyebrows lift mischievously. “Well, technically, I’m there right now!”

Ed’s confusion must be written on his face, because the man leans forward with a conspiratorial chuckle and drops his voice. “That’s what we’ve told the kids! That I’ve gone to Auckland, to visit my cousin. Thought it’d be simpler than trying to get them to keep the secret about Bake Off. Of course, if I make it past the first few weeks I probably will have to tell them, but I figure I can cross that bridge when I come to it.”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “Right.” His brain’s gotten a little stuck on the we’ve and kids because maybe he’s already gone looking and clocked that this guy’s not wearing a wedding band. But, of course, that doesn’t mean anything. You don’t have to be married to have kids, and you don’t have to wear a ring to be married, do you? In fact, wasn’t there something in the contract about leaving hand jewelry at home when you came to film for the weekend?

“Come on in,” the man says again, opening the door wider. “I’m Stede, by the way. Stede Bonnet.” Stede sticks his hand out to Ed, which is a little awkward since Ed’s already squeezing past Stede into the room and there’s not a whole lot of space between them. He ends up doing a little T-rex arm thing so he can awkwardly shake Stede’s offered hand and—yeah, glad that’s over now.

That name, though . . .

“You’re not on the list.”

Ed says his thought out loud before he can filter himself, and Christ, even he can hear what a dick he sounds like. It’s just . . . Ed knows the baker bios by heart. He may have only skimmed the contract, but he read the cast list e-mail that went out last week closely and boom, now that info’ll live in his head forever. That’s the way his brain works—when the topic interests him, the info sticks around. Which can be incredibly useful when, say, you’re repairing a boat and know all the manuals by heart, or you’re baking and you’ve basically memorized the cookbooks. In social situations, though, Ed tries to keep the quasi-photographic-memory thing under wraps. It tends to freak people out.

Which is all just to say that he knows there wasn’t anyone named Stede on the cast list. And even if “Stede” is some kind of weird nickname for . . . John? Lucius? . . . Ed definitely knows there wasn’t a fellow Kiwi cast this year.

“Ah, yes.” Stede ducks his head. “You, ah . . . you won’t have heard of me yet. I was an alternate, see. Just got the call to come up yesterday.”

“Oh!” Now Ed feels extra, super dickish. “Well, wow, man. Congratulations!”

“Thank you!” Stede’s voice sounds chipper, but worry’s starting to write itself all over his face. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind, the last 24 hours. Apparently, a lady called Matilda broke her arm, and . . . well, I must’ve been the alternate they thought would best slot in for her.”

“Matilda,” Ed says slowly. “The 72-year-old grandmother of four from Sheffield?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

Ed takes a step back, sucks in his lower lip, and gives Stede an exaggerated once-over. “Oh, yeah, I can see it now. Stick you in a little robe and slippers and you could give the granny vibe, sure.”

Stede blushes and . . . fuck, that’s sort of adorable.

“I believe that our shared vibe may be of a different nature.” Stede rolls his shoulders, straightens his spine. “One of Matilda’s main hobbies was Latin dancing. Sadly, also her undoing, as that’s how she broke her arm.”

So Stede’s a dancer, then? He does seem fit, nice arms sticking out of that purple shirt. Great fucking legs in those jeans . . .

Ed realizes he’s still looking Stede up and down, probably making things weird. He tells his mouth to say something, fast.

“Well, that’s too bad for her, but you’re gonna kill it in the tent. RIP, Matilda Whoever-the-Fuck.” (Tourney, Ed knows her surname is Tourney.) “And welcome, Stede Bonnet.”

Stede beams at this and, shit, forget the windowless room. This guy’s smile could power a whole coastal village, shop signs and streetlamps and chippy fryers and all of it.

“Thank you, Edward,” Stede says. “Edward Teach, is that right? I haven’t had much time to study the list of bakers yet, but Archie did mention your name when she said you needed some help.”

That’s right, the shirt. “Yeah, thanks man, I appreciate it. Apparently, I did a shit job of reading the fine print about costuming. And hey, you can just call me Ed.” Though as soon as Ed says that out loud, he remembers that he’s not supposed to be “just Ed” here. A producer had spoken to him on the phone about it last week, said of course it was Ed’s choice, but given that there’d already been an iconic Bake-Off contestant named Ed (well, Edd, but close enough), he might want to consider using his full name. Not wanting to cause trouble, he’d agreed: for Bake Off, he’d be Edward.

Ed starts talking in tight circles, trying to explain all of this to Stede. Finally, his babble trails off, and Stede simply nods, leans forward, and in that low I’ll-tell-you-a-secret-I’m-really-in-Auckland-right-now voice he says, “Edward for the tent, but really you’re Ed. I get it.”

For some reason, Ed’s heart starts beating faster at this. It’s the nerves, he tells himself. Pre-filming jitters. Anyone in this situation would be all hopped up, running at the mouth, saying god knows what to strangers. Speaking of which, he needs to get himself back on track.

“So, uh, the clothes?” Ed takes a step back and looks around the room for the first time.

Holy shit, there are a lot of clothes in here.

The little hotel efficiency closet (which is not a closet, really, no door, more like a plastic rack squeezed into a narrow alcove) is bursting with open garment bags. Shirts in several styles and colors are laid out across the double bed. And the dresser, the mini-fridge, and even the top of the TV are draped with material in all sorts of colors and textures: scarves, pocket squares, pashminas and—what do you call those tie-type things, ascots? Cravats? High fashion’s never really interested Ed, so he’s not up on the terminology.

He does a full 360, taking everything in. “All of this is yours?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m a bit of a clotheshorse.” Stede’s smile is bashful now. “But do you see anything that strikes your fancy? What’s your favorite non-black color to wear, Ed?”

“Shit, mate, no idea.” Ed cringes the moment he hears his own words. What must this guy think of him, a 48-year-old man who can’t even say what his second-favorite color is?

Stede, though, doesn’t bat an eyelash. “That’s all right. I had an awful lot of trouble deciding what to wear this weekend, too. Which is why, as you can see, I brought in so many backups.” He chuckles at himself, and it’s amazing how quickly that manages to put Ed back at ease. “I finally decided to go with this crimson piece.” He gestures toward a shirt sticking out of one of the garment bags. “I find that shades of red make me feel more confident, and the linen-and-merino blend should work nicely for moisture-wicking if things get a bit sweaty in the tent. For you, though . . . with your lovely coloring . . . ” Now it’s Stede’s turn to give Ed a thorough once-over, and Ed’s surprised to feel his skin grow warm under the man’s gaze.

Then, Stede reaches for Ed’s hand. “Is this okay?” Ed, confused, can only nod, his skin growing even warmer as Stede takes Ed’s hand in his.

Stede examines it briefly. Then, before Ed can even process what’s happening, Stede pulls Ed’s arm gently towards himself and, still looking down, splays Ed’s fingers wide across his chest. He can feel Stede’s heartbeat through his shirt—unhurried, unfussed, and completely unlike Ed’s, which is now a wild, skittering rabbit’s.

“Mate,” Ed finally manages to croak, “what the—”

“Yes, this’ll work!” Stede takes a brisk step backward and Ed’s hand flops to his side like a rag doll’s.

Then, Stede pulls off his shirt.

Is this . . . some kind of move? The hand-grab, the chest thing? Not that Ed might not be down under other circumstances. It’s been a minute since he deleted all the apps, swore off even trying anymore—but apps-era Ed wouldn’t have hesitated to swipe right on this snack, on this toasted sandwich of a man. Would’ve dived right in to take a bite, risked burning his mouth on that torso. Christ, do you get shoulders like that from doing Latin dance? Maybe Ed should be doing Latin dance . . .

What Ed knows he shouldn’t be doing, though, is even remotely considering hooking up with a fellow contestant on the most popular baking show in the UK, fifteen minutes before they’re due downstairs for dinner with the rest of the cast. A fellow contestant who may well be married—that’s just the kind of chaos-drama-fucked-up situation Ed needs like a stab wound, like a hole in the head, like a massive icy glass full of—

“Here,” Stede says, holding out his purple shirt. “It’ll look so much better on you than it does on me.”

Ed freezes. Swallows. His rag-doll arm somehow bypasses his brain circuitry and reanimates, reaching out to take the shirt from Stede.

“Go ahead, try it on. I think it’ll fit. And I promise it’s clean, I haven’t been wearing it all day or anything. Threw it on just a couple of minutes before you arrived, was considering whether it might work for the dinner. But I’m going to go with this russet button-down instead. So it’s free and clear, ready for you to wear all weekend if you like it.”

“You’re giving me”—Ed’s words come out slowly, because his brain really is only just coming back online—“you’re giving me . . . your shirt. For the filming.”

“Well yes, of course. That’s why you’re here, right? What do you think of it? Do you ever wear purple, Ed? I think it would look so nice with your skin tone.”

Ed can’t help it, he bursts out laughing. Jesus fuck, he needs to get out of this guy’s room and go meditate or something, screw his head on straight before dinner. Before he meets anyone else he can decide is coming on to him and makes a complete arse of himself.

“Yeah, um, hey—thanks. Thanks so much, Stede, mate. I’m sure it’ll work great, I really appreciate it. I’ll just take it back to my room and let you know later if there are any issues.”

Stede’s shrugging into the russet button-down thingy now, and damn if he doesn’t look like a copper penny, like an Olympic medal, all bright and shiny and . . . biteable . . .

“Well, let me give you my number, then,” Stede says, “so you can text me if you need to come back and swap it for something different.”

Ed doesn’t point out that he knows Stede’s room number now, that he could just come knock—because yes, it would be more polite to text first, wouldn’t it? So he pulls his phone out of his back pocket and creates a new contact, punching each digit in as Stede says it out loud. And all the while the purple shirt hangs off Ed's arm, cooler against his skin than anything that was so recently all over Stede Bonnet has any right to be.

Chapter Text

Fifteen minutes later, Ed is standing at the table just inside the hotel ballroom, staring at his nametag sticker.

Edward Teach (he/him)
Bristol, England
Chief Boatbuilder, Blackbeard’s Boatyard
Jane Austen’s #1 fan!

Ed thought he knew what he was doing when he listed “Jane Austen” under the “Other Interests” section of the Bake Off application. He’d read the Reddit threads about the casting process, listened to the podcasts where former contestants talked about it. One woman had applied ten times before she made it onto the show! Well, that wasn’t going to be Ed. He wasn’t gonna game the system, exactly, but he’d apply smart. A little extra leather in his application photo, a little extra eyeliner. And a little paradox for the “Other Interests” section, too.

It was the truth, though. Ed did love Jane Austen.

When he’d first arrived in England, he’d stumbled across an article about her books being prescribed to shell-shocked soldiers after the world wars. Literary Xanax, basically, for the traumatized and depressed. Ed had been pretty fucked up himself in those days, what with everything he’d left behind in Wellington. And with his strict new “no more booze, no more drugs” policy in this new country . . . well, he’d wondered if the Jane Austen treatment might work for him.

So he’d headed to the nearest charity shop and riffled through its bookshelves. Turned up a paperback of Sense and Sensibility and took it back to the bedsit he was renting near the docks. Then, for the next week, in those lonely after-work hours when in the past he would’ve downed a beer or six with Jack, he cracked open the book instead.

And it had helped. Took Ed’s brain offline for hours at a time; helped him breathe again; helped him sleep. So Ed went back to the charity shop and rustled up a battered copy of Emma. Then he got himself a library card and started hanging out at the Bristol Central branch on his days off. A feisty librarian by the name of Mary Read (yes, Read was her actual last name) took notice of Ed’s predilections and one day pulled a rare early printing of Persuasion from Special Collections for him. Ed spent the next four Saturdays feeling fancy as fuck as he donned the white gloves Mary lent him and paged through Anne and Captain Wentworth’s tale of second chances under the library’s domed skylights.

He could appreciate now that it was a little odd for a brown man to be so taken with these stories of the colonizers who’d profited off his ancestors’ exploitation. But what he liked about Auntie Jane—as he’d come to think of her—was how much she mocked and satirized the upper crust. Her books were white-person love stories, yeah, but they were fucking funny, too. And Ed loved to laugh.

So writing “Jane Austen” as his top interest on the application hadn’t been a lie, or even really an exaggeration. But that doesn’t mean that Ed expects to find it pre-printed, front and center, on his nametag sticker at the welcome dinner.

The sticker’s comically huge—big print for the oldsters, maybe, so everyone won’t need to lean in and squint at each other? Though maybe not, since almost everyone here’ll be quite a bit younger than Ed, according to the bios he memorized. Lots of them in their twenties and thirties this cycle. That Matilda woman Stede replaced was supposed to be the oldest baker here, but now that she’s out, it’ll actually be Ed who’s the elder statesman of the group.

His bad knee creaks just thinking about it.

Ed peels the back off the sticker: a satisfyingly tactile action. Stede could be older than he is, he supposes, though if he is it’s not by much. The man didn’t appear to have a gray hair on his body; Ed got a pretty good look.

He glances around the room now, eyes roving for Stede’s blond head. There’s a scrum of people by the bar, but before he can make heads or tails of it he hears:

“Jane Austen? Omigod, I’m like, obsessed with her.”

Ed turns. The man who’s said these words looks like he could be an Austen character himself: long Mr. Darcy-esque sideburns, though his vibe seems more along the lines of a chatty Mr. Collins. The man sticks out his hand. “I’m Lucius. You’re Edward?”

“Uh, yeah, mate. Nice to meet you.” Ed sticks out his own hand before realizing the huge sticker is still dangling from his fingertips. He slaps it onto his chest, where it adheres to his black t-shirt at a crooked angle.

Ed takes in Lucius’s sticker:

Lucius Spriggs (he/him)
Newark, England
Art Student
I love to swim!

“You’re a swimmer?” Ed asks, since that last line on the nametags must be to get them to talk about their hobbies outside of baking.

Lucius, though, turns pink at this question. “Yes, well—a little more in theory than in practice,” he mumbles. “I was just trying to make myself sound well-rounded on the application, to be honest. Though of course then the crew came to my house for the behind-the-scenes shoot and wanted to drag me down to the local sports centre to get action shots! Thank Christ some kid had shat in the pool that morning and the whole thing was shut down. So they filmed me sketching instead.” He lets out a slightly unhinged laugh. “Don’t tell Evelyn, all right?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Ed says.

“You’re a pal, Edward.” Lucius claps Ed on the arm in appreciation, then lets his hand linger. “Wow, a pal with rock-hard—”

“Yep, I work on boats!” Ed blurts, jumping about three feet back.

Lucius puts both hands in the air. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to manhandle you.”

“S’okay,” Ed mumbles, and he believes this kid—yes, kid, because he’s rereading the bios in his head and recalls now that Lucius Spriggs is only 21. He reminds himself that everyone here’s full of adrenaline, prone to overstepping, and that he doubts Lucius meant to make him feel uncomfortable.

Still, Ed and touch have a . . . complicated relationship.

“So who’s your favorite Austen character?” Ed asks, trying to salvage the interaction.

Lucius cocks his head to one side. “Would it be crazy if I said I was, like, into Miss Bates from Emma? Because, okay, she talks a lot and she’s kind of a stupid little bitch, but I also feel like she gets a bad rap because—”

Lucius’s reason is cut off, though, by a pinging noise. At the front of the ballroom, Evelyn’s tapping on a glass and calling everyone to attention.

“Gather round, bakers, don’t be shy!” She beckons them over. “Bring your drinks—we’ll do a little toast.”

Lucius squeaks and makes a beeline for the bar. Ed doesn’t, instead joining the group as it gathers near Evelyn. He starts to recognize other bakers from their bios. Jackie (she/her, age 25), a stylishly-dressed bar owner who’s trying and failing to stifle a joyful cackle. Roach (he/him, age 39), a wild-haired hand-and-wrist surgeon from South London. Zheng (she/her, age 36), a systems engineer with long pigtails and quick, clever eyes. And scowling at the edge of the group, with a wispy beard on his chin and a half-drunk pint in his hand that he’s certainly too young to have been served legally, must be Izzy (he/him, age 16). The kid who, if Ed’s calculated correctly, is set to become the youngest contestant ever on the adult version of Bake Off.

There’s another notable contestant somewhere in this group, too: Jim (they/them, age 28), a lab technician who’ll be the first-ever out trans baker to grace the tent. Which has been a very long fucking time coming, in Ed’s opinion. He scans the crowd. In Jim’s photo they had long black hair and bangs, but Ed doesn’t see anyone here who fits that description. Of course, Jim could’ve changed it, or they could be late to the party.

“Champers?”

Stede appears at Ed’s elbow, a fizzy flute in each hand. “I noticed that you didn’t have a drink, Ed, so I grabbed two of these.” He holds the extra glass out, and it’s such a kind gesture that Ed almost regrets having to turn it down.

“Nah, mate, I don’t drink. But thanks.”

Stede nods and turns to, Ed assumes, set the extra glass on a nearby table. But when he steps back to Ed’s side, both his hands are empty. “Upon reflection, I think I’ll teetotal along with you tonight,” he says. “We’ve got an early day tomorrow and we’ll need our wits about us, won’t we?”

Ed blinks. Stede’s not a small guy; he’s almost as tall as Ed is, and definitely broader. Ed’s pretty sure he could handle a flute of champagne and still wake up for the shoot in the morning. Is Stede abandoning his drink just to make Ed feel more comfortable?

“Cheers, mate,” Ed finally manages to say. Stede pats Ed on the back in response and, unlike just now with Lucius, Ed doesn’t feel the old familiar urge to flinch, to step away.

Huh.

Evelyn starts in on the toast. “All right, you lot, let me be the first to say it officially. Welcome to series fifteen of the Great British Bake Off!”

Cheers and whoops echo around the ballroom, and glasses lift. Evelyn continues with the toast, wishing that in the tent everyone’s cakes may rise, breads may prove, chocolates may temper, etc. etc. As she talks, Ed sneaks another glance at Stede. Off the enormous sticker lined up perfectly with his shirt buttons, Ed reads:

Stede Bonnet (he/him)
Norwich, England
Full-time dad
Zumba enthusiast!

“Zumba?”

Ed doesn’t realize he’s said the word out loud until Stede turns, catches his eye, and grins. “Told you I’d slot in well for Matilda,” he whispers.

Ed’s racking his brain now, because what the fuck is Zumba? He’s pretty sure he’s heard of it before, but the details are fuzzy. It must have something to do with Latin dancing, though. Maybe it’s one of those dance fitness things? Yeah, that sounds about right. And now Ed’s picturing Stede at a gym, dressed in a tank top and maybe some little shorts, “Despacito” playing over the sound system as his whole body undu—

“I teach it, actually,” Stede says. Evelyn’s toast has ended and the group is breaking up, people starting to migrate toward the buffet.

Ed shakes his head. “You teach what?”

“Zumba!” Stede says. “Five classes a week at our local recreation centre. I went to a class there a few years back, just to try something new. I didn’t expect to love the dancing so much! But I did love it, so I leaned in and got certified to instruct. Now that my kids are a bit older, it’s a nice excuse to get out of the house, do something I really enjoy. Other than baking, of course.”

“Ah,” Ed says. “Right. That sounds fun.”

He’s lying through his teeth, though. The fact that anyone can dance, sober, and actually enjoy it kind of blows Ed’s mind. He certainly hasn’t tried in years, not since his clubbing era back in Wellington. Long, dark nights full of pulsing music, vodka, coke or E or both, and Jack—always eager to get things started in the dark, always a different person the next day.

“You better not’ve done anything weird to me while I was out, Teach!”

So yeah, Ed doesn’t dance anymore. At least now he’s got the excuse of his fucked-up knee—not that anyone’s been trying to pull him back under a disco ball or anything.

But of course Stede Bonnet, human disco ball, is one of those sober-dance-loving freaks. And the way he just described getting into it . . . Ed tries to imagine what that must be like. To do something one time on a whim, love it, then just lean in and make it your whole thing.

Stede’s head is bent slightly now, reading Ed’s lopsided sticker. “Boat-building!” he cries. “Well, that’s a proper Kiwi profession, isn’t it? You’ll have to tell me more about your work, Ed. I do love boats.”

“Oh, uh, sure,” Ed says. But then in the buffet line Stede’s pulled into a conversation with Roach, the surgeon, while Ed shakes hands with another baker named Frenchie, and they end up sitting at different tables, on opposite sides of the room.

***

The buffet, ironically, includes some very mediocre bread that everyone can’t help but pull apart and prod critically with their fingers, Paul Hollywood-style. Paul’s not at the dinner, of course, nor is Prue Leith, the other judge, nor either of the presenters. Surely they’re put up somewhere posher than a Holiday Inn.

That’s fine with Ed; he’s not here to schmooze with the celebrities. He expects his baking to speak for itself in the tent, and once the cameras are rolling, he can turn on the charm. Tonight he really just wants to scope out his fellow bakers, get a handle on who’s who.

There are twelve bakers in all. Ed finds himself sharing a table with Frenchie (he/him, age 27), a bearded musician from Dover, and John (he/him, age 39) a beautifully made-up fashion designer from Belfast. John’s wearing a striking ombre jumper that he says he knitted himself, and soon he and Frenchie are talking about ombre buttercream techniques. It reminds Ed that Frances, creator of many iconic bakes in series four, was a fashion designer; Ed’ll have to keep his eye on this John. He also finds himself wondering whether Stede has seen the jumper yet. Stede and John could probably talk for hours about fabrics and designs.

But Stede’s on the other side of the room, at a table with Roach, Zheng, and Izzy. Between them is a third table occupied by Jackie, Lucius, Annie (she/her, age 38), an antiques shop owner from Brighton, and a man who was listed as Nathaniel (he/him, age 42) in the e-mail. If Ed’s eavesdropping across the gap correctly, though, Nathaniel prefers to be called . . . Buttons? He has a thick Scottish accent, the kind that’s sure to nudge American viewers (and plenty of English southerners) into turning on their subtitles. There’s always one, right? Buttons/Nathaniel is a ferry operator from Lewis & Harris.

Which leaves only Jim unmet or unobserved. Ed finally spots them slinking into the ballroom late. They seem to have cut their hair short since submitting their application photo, and they keep their head tucked down as they approach the buffet. They’re dressed in all black, too—just like Ed, giving him a twinge of recognition.

He starts to stand, figuring he’ll say hello and invite Jim to come sit with him and John and Frenchie. But somehow, before Ed even gets to the buffet, Jim disappears with their plate back out of the ballroom.

An enigma, then. Maybe they find social situations overwhelming. Maybe they’re conserving their energy and voice for tomorrow. Which would be a smart thing to do. Ed’s been observing more than conversing, but he’s starting to feel overstimulated anyway. The ballroom’s hot, and the bakers’ voices echo louder the more they eat and drink. He decides to make an early exit, too, and try to get some rest.

Ed says his goodnights to John and Frenchie, returns his plate, and heads into the hallway. Calls the lift. But just as it’s arriving, the ballroom door opens and shuts behind him.

“Heading up?” Stede asks, and Ed nods. Stede smiles at him, and Ed can’t help but smile back as they step into the lift together.

The space is small and mirrored: Stedes in every direction. Which is not the worst view Ed’s ever seen. The man certainly knows how to dress; he looks downright dapper in that russet button-down shirt, its fabric shining like something liquid. Ed resists the urge to stroke it.

“Have a good dinner?” Stede asks, and Ed nods again.

Say. Something.

“Uh, you?”

Brilliant.

“Oh, yes. Most of my table-mates were delightful. Roach and I have become fast friends, and Zheng seems to have some formidable knife skills based on how she carved her roast. I suspect that Izzy has a lot of skills, too, to have made it onto the show so young, though just between you and me . . . ” Stede leans closer, dropping his voice to that conspiratorial whisper again “ . . . the kid seems like a complete arsehole!”

A laugh tears out of Ed’s throat at this unexpected assessment. “Well, that’s the age, isn’t it?”

“My daughter Alma is sixteen, and she’s not an arsehole!”

“Oh, shit, mate. I didn’t mean—”

Stede’s straight face breaks as he bursts into laughter now. “You should see your expression, Ed!”

“I can see it! Mirrors all around us.”

Now they’re both laughing. The lift dings: they’re at floor two. Suddenly, Ed doesn’t want to get out. Maybe he wants to try leaning into something, for once.

Still, this is his floor. Be weird not to exit.

He steps toward the doors—but, fuck it. Ed’s nothing if not weird, right? He hits the door-close button. “I’ll ride up to four with you and take the stairs down.”

If Stede thinks that’s odd, he doesn’t say it. In fact, he looks delighted at the prospect of a prolonged conversation.

“So, the balance this year seems to be in favor of the men,” Stede says. “Eight out of twelve, by my count. Of course, I wasn’t meant to be here, but even with Matilda, things would have been a bit skewed.”

Ed noticed this as well, as soon as the e-mail with the bios went out. “Yeah,” he says. “Big dick energy in that ballroom tonight.”

Stede’s eyebrows lift, and now Ed wants to drop through the floor. Why didn’t he get off on two? And it’s not like what just came out of his mouth is even true! John and Frenchie, at least, seemed . . . is “soft” the right word? Maybe “tender” . . .

Ed’ll just say something else. Paper over this. “Gonna be a real sausagefest in the tent this year.”

Okay, seriously, what the fuck. Ed’s just made 200% more stupid dick jokes in this short lift ride than he has in the past fourteen years. Hopefully Stede will just ignore his dumb ass and let the whole thing drop.

“Sausagefest?” Stede asks, not letting it drop. “Isn’t that the theme of week five?”

“What?” Ed’s brain roves over the list of themes for this season. Cake Week, Biscuit Week, Bread Week, Swedish Week, Caramel Week—

“It’s Caramel—” Ed starts, but then he realizes Stede’s laughing again. That the menace is punking him. Then the lift dings, and the doors open on four.

“G’night, Ed,” Stede says with a wink, and he strides off down the hallway without looking back.

Chapter Text

A coach bus idles in the predawn light in front of the Holiday Inn the next morning. The bakers are queuing to board, clutching to-go coffees and hauling totes and duffels. There’s certain stuff you’re allowed to bring into the tent from home with prior approval: special molds or pans for your signature challenge, and even ingredients, like mushrooms you’ve foraged yourself or floral extracts you’ve boiled down from your own plants.

Ed’s not got any of that (he lives on a houseboat in Bristol Harbour, no fancy back garden for him). But he has brought a set of his own knives. Ed’s watched enough series-premier episodes to know that nervous bakers cut the shit out of themselves with the unfamiliar tent-knives, and he doesn’t want to spend the weekend with his fingers held together by blue plasters. Just being strategic: avoid self-maiming = advantage, Ed.

It's cold out here before sun-up in April, and Annie, the baker in front of Ed, is shivering. She’s wearing an extremely low-cut blouse, and the fact that she’s done her hair in a kind of pile on top of her head probably doesn’t help matters. Ed’s grateful for his leather jacket over Stede’s incredibly soft, but also very thin, purple shirt (which Archie approved last night after dinner). Ed’s grateful, too, for his leather pants and the curtain of his own hair warm around his face and neck. And if it gives him a little something to hide behind for now, all the better. He’d like to take the half-hour coach journey to get into a focused headspace, and mentally review his recipes one more time.

Finally, it’s his turn to board. The coach is a full-sized luxury one, with more than enough space for each baker to grab a two-seat berth for themself. Tunneling his vision, Ed makes his way to the back row and wedges in by the window, knees close to his chest, boots digging into the empty seatback in front of him. He leans his forehead against the cool glass and does a quick body scan. Breathing: a little fast. Stomach: a little jumpy. He’s feeling more nervous than he might’ve anticipated this morning, but it’s nothing he can’t get back under control.

Breathe in for four, hold for four, breathe out for four, hold for four.

The coach starts up and pulls out of the car park, and Ed keeps up his square breathing. He feels himself settle, become more present in his body—and with that, get attuned to his surroundings. The engine’s vibrations hum up through his seat; diesel fumes mingle with a waft from the onboard toilet. The coach sways as the driver navigates a roundabout, and it’s got to be at least part nerves because Ed doesn’t do motion sickness, he lives on a fucking boat, but, the porridge he wolfed down for breakfast starts threatening to come back up.

Whose bright idea was it for him to sit in the last row again?

Ed bites his lip, hard, and at the next stoplight jumps to his feet. He grabs his knife case and staggers up the aisle, looking for an empty row in the middle. It must be a short light, though, because the coach lurches forward, and Ed has no choice but to collapse into the nearest seat. Which is how he finds himself sitting next to—

“Stede?”

Stede turns from the window to look at Ed, and if Ed was feeling a little green at the back of the coach, that’s nothing compared to the shade of Stede’s face right now. It’s almost completely colorless, like someone’s cut off his blood supply at the neck.

“Ed,” Stede squeaks between extremely raspy breaths. “Hi.”

“Stede—shit—you okay? You need me to grab Archie or something, get her to call you a medic?”

Stede shakes his head, blond curls bouncing with the motion. “No”—wheeze—“I’m fine”— wheeze—“just a bit”—

“Mate,” Ed says, because now he’s pretty sure now he knows what’s going on. “I think you’re having a panic attack.”

Stede nods miserably, and okay, that’s confirmed. He’s probably had them before—something other than baking and the purple shirt on Ed’s back that the two of them have in common.

“Okay, hey, listen: breathe with me. Stede.” Ed starts in on another square breath, exaggerating his inhale in the hopes that Stede can catch the rhythm. But it’s no use. Stede’s eyes skitter over Ed’s face, and Ed can tell he’s already starting to bob away on a fresh wave of panic.

So without thinking, Ed grabs Stede’s hand and yanks it to his chest. Splays Stede’s fingers across the purple shirt, across Ed’s own ribcage, in an almost-exact echo of what Stede did last night in his hotel room. Ed breathes in again, deep, expanding his lungs to the point where he’s sure Stede can feel the movement through his palm. He pauses at the top—one heartbeat, two—then blows the air out slowly, anchoring Stede’s hand to his chest the whole time.

Again.

Again.

“Is this helping at all?” Ed whispers, and Stede presses his lips together and gives a little nod.

“Good. Just keep breathing with me, then.”

They go through several more rounds, and Ed’s thankful for the drone of the engine and the still-low light outside and his black-leather-and-hair curtain that affords Stede a little privacy. Stede's breathing eventually steadies, and some color returns to his cheeks. Finally, he pulls his hand back from Ed’s chest and sets it in his lap, before he thunks his head back against the confetti-patterned headrest and closes his eyes.

“Oh, god,” he murmurs. “I was worried that could . . . but I didn’t think . . . before I even got into the tent! Oh, Ed, I’m so embarrassed.”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Ed reassures him. “They happen to me, too.”

Stede cracks an eyelid. “They do?”

“Sure,” Ed says. “How’d you think I knew how to help you calm down?”

Stede’s voice is quiet. “Thank you, Ed.”

“No problem. Stressful fuckin’ morning already. Almost threw up myself, there in the back seat.”

Both of Stede’s eyes open now. “Wouldn’t know it to look at you. Mr. Cool.”

Ed hopes Stede doesn’t notice how deeply he blushes at this. “Stede,” he says, grasping for a distraction, “I can guarantee you that everyone else on this coach is freaking out right now, too. Look around, have a listen.”

Ed presses himself back in his seat so Stede can see past him. Across the aisle, Lucius is clutching his stomach as he counts something out on shaking fingers, probably recipe measurements. Behind him, a sweaty John is fanning himself with a blue-feathered fan that looks more pretty than practical. And now that they’re quiet, they can hear Jim in the seat in front of them, muttering what sounds like the Lord’s Prayer in Spanish (though possibly with a few extra expletives thrown in).

“See?” Ed says. “We’re all in the same boat.”

Stede smiles weakly. “I still doubt that you are, Ed. I finally read all the bios when I got back to my room last night. You’ve been baking since you were a child, no? You’re feeling good because you’ve got your years of experience to fall back on. There won’t be much they can throw at you in the tent that you can’t handle.”

Of course, Ed’s been hoping this will be exactly the case, but he has the sense not to say it out loud. “Nah,” he says. “I’m sure those fuckers can come up with something. That’s kind of their whole job.”

“Yeah,” Stede breathes. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“The technical?”

Stede nods, his mouth a tight line again. “Mmpf.”

Makes sense, Ed thinks. The technical challenge is the one bakers tend to fear most: the challenge that’s wholly thrown at you on the day, and judged blind. You can’t practice or charm your way out of a bad technical bake. It’s a pure test of skill—and for that reason, as a viewer at least, Ed’s always loved it. Even when the producers throw down a dirty challenge, like “bake a lemon meringue pie” with no techniques or proportions or steps listed on the recipe, Ed’s all in, wishing he was right there in the tent getting his hands dirty and showing off his skills. It’s hard for him to imagine a technical that his years of baking and his mental recipe binder won’t be able to handle.

But he can appreciate that not everyone feels that way. “You wanna talk about it?” he asks. “Like, specifically what it is about the technical that worries you?”

Stede takes a deep breath. “It’s just . . . I’ve only been baking seriously for a few years, see. Started up during—well, to help me through a bit of a rough patch. Kind of like the Zumba . . . just, another tool in my box for dealing with it all, you know?”

Ed does know, because that’s why he dove headfirst back into baking, too, shortly after he moved to England. Baking and Jane, keeping Ed sane since 2010.

He nods.

“Anyway,” Stede continues, “recipes I can practice at home, I feel good about. But facing down the unknown, figuring things out on the fly? I didn’t do very well at the technical test bake during the casting process, and when I spoke to the producers after, they said that was specifically one of the reasons they were naming me an alternate instead of to the main cast.” He sighs. “What if they announce the technical today, and my mind goes blank? If I forget how to operate a stand mixer, or make a caramel, or—oh, god forbid, if they give us something with deep fryers—”

“They’re not gonna stick us with the deep fryers today,” Ed says. “It’s Cake Week, man. You know of any deep-fried cakes?”

“No, but that’s the point! I’m not even experienced enough to know whether there are any deep-fried cakes in existence that I should be worrying about!” Stede’s voice is sounding panicky again. “I don’t know what I was even thinking, applying to be on this show. I’m not a baker. I’m an idiot!”

“Okay, okay, listen.” Ed’s brain’s in overdrive now as he debates exactly how much of his . . . abnormal capacity for retaining recipes and data and past Bake Off challenges to let Stede in on. “I’ve done some, er, analysis,” he finally says, “of past technical challenges the show has done. You know, to get some idea of what we might reasonably expect them to throw at us today.”

Stede’s eyes widen. “You have?”

Ed nods. “Yeah. And, look—trends in the last few years have been back to basics. Especially for the first few weeks of the show. So I think it’s a lot more likely they’ll ask us to make, like, a simple Victoria sandwich than have us do something weird.”

“‘Make a Victoria sandwich.’” Stede’s voice is toneless. “Yes, I wouldn’t put it past them to give us exactly that challenge, with only those words on the instructions sheet.” He laughs then, bitterly.

“Okay, and if they did?” Ed presses. “If that’s exactly what it says today when you turn your sheet over, what’ll you do? C’mon, Stede. Victoria sandwich, no recipe. Talk it through with me.”

Stede stares at him, mouth slightly open. Ed stares back, eyebrows lifted. He waits.

“I . . . ” Stede shakes his head, furrows his brow.

“Come on,” Ed coaxes. “Start with the sponge.”

Stede’s voice is small. “Um . . . equal weights flour, butter, sugar, and eggs?”

“Fuck yeah!” Ed’s voice is too loud; heads around the coach turn. He slouches in his seat. “Okay, now prep the tin.”

“Twenty-one-centimeter tin. Buttered and lined.”

“Preheat the oven.”

“One-eighty Celsius. And . . . make sure I actually hit start. Bakers are always forgetting to do that in the first week and then they end up putting their cakes into a cold oven.”

“Yes, good, make sure you hit start. Okay, how long in the oven?”

They go on like this for a while, until Stede has visualized and explained every step he would take to bake, cool, and slice the cake, to boil fruit and sugar down into jam, to whip up a simple Chantilly cream. Imaginary Victoria sandwich finished, Ed then has Stede talk him through a Genoise, a Joconde, a lemon drizzle. By the time the coach turns off the motorway and into the entrance to Welford Park, Stede is looking and sounding again like the Stede from last night—engaged, enthused, and, Ed would even dare say, confident.

Ed claps Stede on his crimson-clad arm as they roll to a stop beside the impressive manor house. “You’ve got this, mate.”

The smile Stede gives Ed then is warmer than a tentful of ovens, brighter than the sun that has finally fully risen outside. “Ed. Thank you so much.”

And now Ed feels a little breathless—but surely that’s because of what he’s just glimpsed over Stede’s shoulder, out the window of the coach. White-peaked and swooping in a sea of green grass, totally iconic: The Bake Off tent.

This is happening.

***

A team of PAs herds the bakers off the coach and into their green room, which is a double-wide trailer next to the tent. They’re instructed to turn off their phones and leave them in their labeled bins, along with any other items they won’t be bringing to their workbenches. Evelyn issues a fresh reminder about hand jewelry, and a few contestants slide rings off their fingers. (All Ed’s got on his hands are his spider tattoos, and those aren’t coming off, are they?)

Evelyn and her underlings then lead them into the tent, assign them to benches, and tell them to check their ingredients and equipment for the first challenge: the Cake Week signature bake. Ed follows directions, but at the same time, he can’t help but gaze around.

He’s here. In the Bake Off tent. There’s the gingham altar up front, the retro-style fridges around the sides, the shelves at the back full of decorative knickknacks. All just like he’s seen in hundreds of episodes of TV. And this year there seems to be a new twist on the décor: the stand mixers at each workstation and the pastel fridges are all different colors. It gives the tent a sort of candy-shop-meets-Pride vibe that makes Ed just grin like a kid. Bake Off’s always been a pretty queer-friendly show, but hey, he’s not gonna complain if they want to make that part of it even more overt.

A PA assigns Ed a fridge for the weekend, a mossy-green one that he’ll be sharing with Roach. As he walks over to check it out, a sense of déjà vu hits him hard, and it only takes a moment for him to figure out why.

Ed’s very favorite scene in all of Bake Off’s history took place right in front of a fridge this color, back in 2019. That series was maybe not one that most Bake Off aficionados would rate as the best; it was a young year (no baker over forty made it even to the halfway point) and some of the eliminations had been especially dubious (cough—Helena being sent home the week she won the technical challenge!—cough).

But there was this moment in episode six. David, Michael, and Henry were standing together by a green pastel fridge, discussing something in earnest. Sandi Toksvig, who was one of the hosts then, came up with a camera and asked what they were talking about. Henry admitted that it was the setting temperature of gelatine. “Welcome to the Least Laddy Lads’ club!” he declared, to which David added, “a very masculine conversation, actually.” And then they all dissolved into happy laughter.

Ed remembers exactly where he was when he watched that scene: sitting on his built-in bed, bowl of Weetabix and milk on his lap because it had been a long day at the boatyard and he hadn’t had time to cook dinner. He had his notebook open next to him because he liked to jot ideas down sometimes while he watched, flavor combinations he wanted to try or techniques that looked worth practicing. He'd started to have notions by then that maybe . . . someday . . . if he could finally master choux pastry and chocolate tempering, and figure out how to make a crème pâtissière that didn’t turn into scrambled eggs on the hob . . . well, he just might consider applying. Just might see if there was a space in the tent for Ed Teach.

But that night, watching those guys chat and laugh and pretty much straight-up tell toxic masculinity to go fuck itself on an internationally renowned hit TV show, a switch flipped in Ed’s brain. Bake Off went from a “maybe, someday, if” situation to a “yes, I want that” one.

Because those bakers in 2019—well, they were shamelessly being their queer selves on TV, and that was awesome. But it was also clear to Ed that they, and the others in their year, were becoming friends. You could see it in the way they hugged whoever got sent home each week, and in how they all wore something the next week that paid homage to their lost comrade. It was easy to imagine the group chat where they planned these shenanigans and comforted eliminated buddies. And in the years after, seeing them cross paths on Instagram, and listening to the podcast Michael and David started together, Ed’s saw the pattern continue. Their time in the tent may have been short, but the bakers had come out of it with friends for life.

And Ed . . . well, he doesn’t have friends. He has colleagues: Fang and Ivan and Maggie at the boatyard. He has Mary and the other librarians at Bristol Central. But they don’t meet up in their free time. They don’t go out for a pint, because Ed doesn’t do pints anymore. Whatever window may have been open for real friendship with any of them, Ed missed it in his fucked-up, recalibrating, curl-up-into-a-ball period. And now it’s too late. He’s staring down late middle age and seeing nothing but solo nights at home, reading or baking until he dies alone in a puddle of his own piss.

So here he is now, in the tent, unpacking his knives and taking a stab at something different. At a chance for glory, sure. But, also, at connection. At membership in his own Least Laddy Lads’ club, or whatever this year’s equivalent turns out to be. At maybe, finally, having some people to text, to call, to travel around this country to visit after the competition is over, like they’re always doing in the “where are they now?” updates at the end of every series.

Of course, Ed doesn’t say any of this in the interview they have him film before the first challenge starts. He’s self-aware enough, at least, to know that’d make him sound pretty fucking sad. In fact, the phrase “I’m not here to make friends” might cross his lips in the interview, because he can tell that’s the kind of thing the director of his segment wants from him. A little fire, a little bloodlust. This is a competition, after all.

But when Ed returns to the green room to freshen up before the signature challenge, he finds himself trading eyeliner tips with John. He’s laughing at a joke Jackie cracks about she’s gonna take a bite out of Paul Hollywood when he comes by her bench today. He’s tossing Stede a quick, “How’re you feeling, man?” and getting a smile in return. By the time they all queue up by the manor house to film their official walk into the tent, Ed’s feeling full of something: not nervousness anymore, but a sense of camaraderie he’s been missing out on, honestly, for years.

Chapter Text

The walk into the tent takes forever. The cameras have to film them all from several angles; the bakers need to reset and do the walk three times. Ed’s paired up with Jim in the two-by-two queue, and the director for this segment encourages everyone to chat as they walk, to look animated and excited as they approach the tent for the “first” time. Jim, though, stays stubbornly silent and stony-faced, clearly in their own intense little zone. Ed can’t help but feel jealous of Roach, who’s paired with Stede two rows ahead. They seem to be genuinely having a great chat about . . . is it dog breeds? Ed can only catch a word here and there.

Finally, finally, they are at their benches, aprons on. Even then, though, they have to pause and let the big interior camera swoop over them, taking in their eager faces. It’s almost 10 o’clock already, and Ed’s starting to wonder if they’ll ever actually get to baking today.

He bounces his feet on the tent floor, which is strangely springy. A little discombobulating, actually. But that’s nothing compared to how discombobulated he feels a moment later when the presenters and judges make their entrance.

Ed’s bench is in the very first row on the right, so he’s only feet away from Paul, Prue, Alison, and Noel when they hit their marks. And wow, is this surreal. Both Noel and Alison are quite tall in person. Paul’s silver hair and beard gleam unnaturally bright against his tanned skin. The pattern on Prue’s color-blocked pantsuit looks so trippy Ed momentarily wonders if his hotel porridge could’ve been laced with psychedelics. Is it the TV lighting that’s doing this, or is Ed’s brain finally melting? The hosts are saying their lines, welcoming the bakers and describing the first challenge for the cameras, but their words are just buzzing past Ed’s ears like white noise. He grips his bench, reminds himself to breathe.

At last, Alison utters the famous phrase: “On your marks, get set, baaake!”

The challenge is underway, and the tent becomes a flurry of activity. Turns out there are so many crew members scurrying around who never make it into a shot: camera people, directors and ADs, producers and PAs, and even a lady whose sole job is to collect dirty bowls and wash them by hand in the giant industrial sink out back.

Thank goodness Ed’s practiced the shit out of his bake, because that means his hands can start measuring and mixing while his brain takes a minute to catch up. He’s here but he’s not here . . . like, he can hear the bakers and crew members around him, but he can also kind of hear the opening notes of the Great British Bake Off theme song playing in his head? He’s scooping sugar from the canister today, April 27, but he’s also watching himself do it onscreen on his boat in September, when the series will finally air. He’s in the present, but he’s also in the future with a bunch of new Instagram followers, maybe a cool new baker-y nickname, and—

“FUCK!”

Someone has already cut themself.

The handheld camera that was on Ed swings to the opposite side of the room, where Lucius is holding up a very bloody finger and looking like he might pass out. In a flash, Archie swoops in to escort Lucius out to the medic tent to get fixed up. The cameraman, a slightly doofy bald guy named Pete that Ed met earlier, runs after them to get more footage.

Suddenly, Ed is feeling very much in the present—and very glad he brought his own knives. A new camera moves into his space, this one operated by a man named Oluwande, who’s a calmer and probably more competent presence than Pete. Oluwande angles his camera toward Ed’s face and whispers a polite but forceful reminder to please narrate what he’s doing as he gets his bake going.

“So, I’m starting on my sponge,” Ed says. “Creaming the butter and sugar in the mixer, and then I’ll whack in the eggs.” They had to do this kind of thing at auditions—basically, pretend to be presenting a baking show as they baked. It felt weird, but since then Ed’s practiced relentlessly, talking to himself for hours on end while he baked at home so it would feel like second nature. It only takes Ed a few sentences to get into his rhythm, and soon he’s cracking jokes along with his eggs, wiggling his eyebrows and even coaxing a couple of guffaws out of Oluwande as he films him.

And then the entourage arrives: Prue, Paul, and Noel standing in front of Ed’s workstation. Multiple cameras surround them now, zooming in to capture their first interaction from every angle. It feels a bit claustrophobic, a bit overwhelming. Ed stops measuring almond extract and stands to his fullest height, folding his hands behind his back. He reminds himself, once more, to breathe.

Prue speaks first. “Hello, Edward. Welcome to the tent.”

“Thank you,” he manages.

Paul leans on the counter. “Tell us about your signature bake, then.”

The signature challenge is snack cakes: twelve identical ones, any flavor, highly decorated, in two hours. Ed explains his concept: “snake snacks,” little snake-shaped cakes, almond flavored sponge with a layer of raspberry jam inside to represent the snakes’ blood. He’ll cover them with marzipan, then pattern the marzipan to look like snakeskin.

Paul asks if Ed is going to make the raspberry jam from scratch, and Ed scoffs and says of course he is, and it almost feels like they’re doing a scripted bit now, he’s seen this exchange on Bake Off so many other times. Doesn’t exactly help with the sense of déjà vu. But then, things go off script.

“So, is that what snake blood tastes like when you drink it? Raspberry?” Noel asks, deadpan. He turns to the judges and pokes a thumb back at Ed. “This guy’s definitely drunk snake blood.”

“Takes a snake-blood drinker to know one,” Ed quips back, and they all laugh.

“Oh, yes, I like you!” Noel declares. “My vampire brother! Brother from another mother. Here, look at us.” Noel comes around to Ed’s side of the bench, crowds in next to him and slings an arm around his shoulders. And though Ed’s loved watching Noel on Bake Off for years, thinks he’s hilarious, he can’t help but flinch a tiny bit at the contact.

“We’re practically twins,” Noel declares, giving Ed’s shoulder a squeeze. “Same leather trousers, even!” (Thankfully, he does not attempt to squeeze any of Ed’s leather-clad parts.)

“All right, Noel, leave him alone,” Prue says, still chuckling. “Let Edward bake.”

And thankfully, they do, taking most of the cameras with them. Ed blows out one more long breath, then dives back into his recipe, grateful to have just Oluwande to narrate to now.

***

The time calls roll in, and Ed’s keeping pretty well to his schedule. He gets his sponge in the oven before the 30-minute mark, then gets it out and lets it cool while he boils jam and kneads hand-made marzipan. There’s time to carve 24 little snake cakes while the jam is cooling (Ed has a template, but he’s practiced so many times that he can basically cut the shapes freehand and make them identical). He makes 12 snake sandwiches with the jam in the middle, then rolls the marzipan thin to wrap each one. When that’s done, Ed pulls out his secret weapon: netting from a bag of supermarket oranges and spray lustre icing. It’s a trick he learned from 2019’s David, who made an incredible snake cake for his first showstopper in that series. In the last half hour of the challenge, Ed sprays scales through the netting onto all his snakes, then molds 12 little tongues and 24 eyeballs out of the remaining marzipan to stick on.

When Alison calls time, he’s just finished plating. His bench is a mess . . . he’s still vibrating with adrenaline . . but the snake snacks are finished and, he’d dare say, they look pretty good.

Ed doesn’t get a chance to check out the other bakes before the PAs usher them all out of the tent so they can clean and set up the next round of shots. There are sandwiches and salads in the green room, and since it’s midday, all the bakers grab something and head into the sunshine to eat.

Jim and Izzy each go off alone, Jim to sit under a tree across the lawn and Izzy to climb atop a nearby boulder. He’s perched up there now, gnawing on his sandwich and scowling out over everyone like he’s the fucking lion king of Bake Off or something (the scrawny, angry one, not one of the good ones).

The rest of them, though, cluster near the fire pit—and Ed, for once, chooses the cluster. Friends, he reminds himself. You stand near the people and you talk to the people if you want to make friends.

And oh, look—he’s not even going to have to initiate a conversation. Someone is coming up to him!

It’s Buttons, and Ed readies himself to make a polite inquiry about how the Scotsman’s first bake went, or maybe where his nickname comes from. But before Ed can say anything, Buttons stops a couple of paces away to give Ed a slow, full-body once-over. It’s not quite the type Ed’s used to getting from . . . well, everyone. The type where it feels like they’re trying to look through your clothes. Buttons seems more like he’s trying to look deep into Ed’s soul, and it's a little disconcerting, to be honest.

Still, Ed can make an effort. “Hey, man,” he says. “I’m—”

“Edward. Teach.” Buttons’s brogue makes each consonant in Ed’s name snap. “The Kiwi.”

Ed’s pretty sure Buttons hasn’t blinked once since he first approached. “Uh, one of ’em, mate, yeah.”

“A rare bird from the Aotearoan isles,” Buttons intones. “And yet, here you take the shape of a mere mortal.”

Ed has no idea what to say to this, but . . . luckily? . . . someone else swoops into the conversation.

“Mere mortal?” Jackie steps closer, rolling her eyes at Buttons. “Yeah, sure, this guy’s just a regular dude.”

She then gives Ed exactly the kind of once-over he’s used to. “Now, honey, don’t you be listening to anyone who tries to call you anything but fine as hell. Why, if Jackie wasn’t already maxed out on husbands—”

“I make no argument about the fine-ness of his human shape,” Buttons interjects. “I’m merely positing, would it not be far more interesting if Edward presented himself here in his true form? That of a fuzzy, brown avian with a sharp beak and vestigial wings ending in small, catlike claws?”

“Is someone talking about cats?” Frenchie bounds over, and wow, okay, this conversation’s gone off the rails. Ed takes a step back from the group, then another. Maybe Jim had the right idea after all, hiding out under that tree. Getting to know other humans might be overrated.

“Aw, don’t run away, Regular Dude!” Jackie calls as Ed continues his retreat. “We’re just joking with ya! We won’t—”

“Whoa, Ed!”

Someone catches Ed by the elbow, steadying them both. Ed looks and sees that he’s walked backwards right into Stede.

“Are you all right?” Stede’s hand is still on Ed’s arm, and Ed finds that—once again—he doesn’t mind it there a bit.

“Yeah, fine, fine,” he says quickly. “But, hey—you wanna go sit all the way over there or something?”

Ed doesn’t even have a particular “all way over there” in mind, doesn’t point in one direction, but Stede smiles at the suggestion anyway. “Sure! I could do with a bit of quiet before the next challenge.”

“Yeah, me too.” Ed picks a random direction and leads Stede away from the fire pit, passing Zheng and John, who are deep in conversation about fondant, and Lucius and Annie, who are comparing blue-plastered knife wounds and calling Dr. Roach over for an impromptu consultation.

Finally, they get far enough away that the group’s chatter fades. Ed drops to the ground as fast as his bad knee will let him, and though he means just to sit, his body seems pretty determined to flop all the way down and just lie flat in the grass. So he lets it.

“Tired already?” Stede lowers himself more gracefully. He pops the top off his salad container and digs in with a fork.

“Little bit,” Ed murmurs. He grabbed a salad, too, but right now he can’t bring himself to sit back up and eat. In another minute, maybe. Instead, he stretches his body long, lets the sunlight warm his arms and face and the sliver of stomach his stretch exposes before he closes his eyes. “So, how’d your signature go?”

“Um. Good.” Stede’s voice is a little garbled, probably from chewing. “Yes, it went well enough, all things considered.”

“Excellent. What’d you make?”

“Oh, these little cakes my kids love. Lavender ones.”

“Lavender?” Ed opens his eyes. “For your first bake? That’s a bold choice.”

“Is it?” Stede asks, like he doesn’t know.

Shit, it is possible he doesn’t know?

Ed pushes himself back up. “Well, yeah, mate! Given how picky Paul’s been about it, historically.”

“Oh, you mean how he usually doesn’t like it?” Stede shrugs. “I thought about that, yes, but I decided to go ahead and use it anyway. I like it, after all. And who knows, maybe this is the bake that’ll change Paul’s mind about lavender forever.”

Sounds like a risky strategy to Ed, but at the same time he’s got to admire Stede’s moxie. “Must be a great bake,” he says, popping the top off his own salad. “You said it’s your kids’ favorite? They’ve got fancy taste.”

“That they do,” Stede says, “my younger one especially! Though I think they both like these snack cakes more for the novelty. I make them look like bars of soap, see—little illusion cakes, almost. So they invite their friends over, and the friends think they really are soaps, and Alma and Louis get to horrify them by grabbing a bar each and taking a huge bite.”

“Wait—you make them look like soaps?” Ed’s pretty sure he specifically remembers Paul complaining about someone’s lavender bake tasting soapy in the past. Stede’s really not doing himself any favors here, but Ed’s already feeling like a bit of a dick for acting so skeptical. “Uh, that sounds cool,” he says, changing tacks. “Can’t wait to see ’em.”

“Thanks,” Stede says, and just then Archie walks up to them holding out a couple of bottles of water.

“Got to stay hydrated!” she says, handing them out. “Drink up now and finish your lunches, we’ll be calling you back in in five.”

Stede uncaps his bottle as she walks away and drinks the whole thing in one go, head tipped back, Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. Ed realizes he’s staring at Stede’s throat, maybe thinking back to when he saw even more of that pink skin exposed last night. He swallows too, drily, then unscrews his own water bottle to take a swig.

“You know,” he says, talking just to fill the silence, “water’s good and all, but what I could really go for right now is an L&P.”

Stede’s eyes light up as he sets his empty bottle down. “L&P! World Famous in New Zealand!”

“You remember it?”

“Of course I do.” Stede starts humming the Heatwave tune from the ’80s L&P advert, which makes Ed grin. “Always have a few when I go back to visit.”

“I haven’t had one since I left,” Ed says. “Tried to mix up my own version a few times, with lemon juice and mineral water. But the minerals must be different here or something, because I can never get it to taste quite right.”

“That’s too bad,” Stede says. “But good on you for trying! Now drink the rest of that water up, you heard what Archie said.”

Ed bites back the urge to say “okay, Dad” and glugs it as instructed. The call for everyone to head back to the tent rings out just as he’s just finishing, so he and Stede get up, collect their rubbish, and cross the lawn together.

As they merge back in with the other bakers, it occurs to Ed that maybe it’s just big groups of humans that are overrated. Friendship with one particular human, though—one blond, soft-shirt-lending, perhaps-too-optimistic-about-lavender human—might be nice.

***

Ed swings by Stede’s workbench on the way back to his own, and he has to admit that Stede’s snack cakes do look extremely convincing. He’s even managed to carve the words “Yummy Lavender Soap” onto each bar in an Imperial-Leather-looking font, and Ed wants to ask Stede how he did that. But instead he gets hustled back to his bench by a PA, arranged on a stool, and instructed to stare lovingly at his own bake while a camera zooms out to get the shot. Ed’s seen plenty of these shots on Bake Off before, knows they’re part of the deal. But the whole thing is still so cheesy to execute that he has to redo his take three times because he can’t keep a straight face.

At least he’s not the only one; he hears other bakers busting out laughing all over the tent. Which means that this portion of the shoot takes ages. And then, when it’s finally time for judging, Evelyn instructs each baker to sit facing the front of the tent when they’re not being judged. They can’t look around at all, it might mess up the background shots, and that makes for another very tedious couple of hours.

When the judges get to Ed’s bench at last, they’re accompanied by Alison, whose smile is just as warm in person as it looks on TV. Paul grabs a snake snack, rips it in half, and asks Prue if she’d like the head or the tail. Prue says something about swallowing heads, Paul turns red, Alison starts laughing uncontrollably, and oh god, has Ed’s bake just triggered the first inadvertent innuendo of the series?

The judges finally get themselves under control and taste Ed’s snake snack. Prue compliments the sponge’s tender texture, and Paul starts a monologue about the sharpness of the raspberry balancing the sweetness of the marzipan. Ed’s pretty sure most of that’s going to get cut from the broadcast—with twelve bakers to cover, surely each judging will only air for a few seconds. Still, it’s nice to hear positive feedback. They like the look of the bake, and they like what’s inside, and what could be better than that?

Alison grabs a snake too, and declares that she’s naming it Squiggly and taking it home to be her pet. Then she bites it, and Ed pretends to be horrified, and Alison’s laughing with her mouth full. She says it was worth it, that she’ll get a new pet, that this one’s so delicious she’s going to swallow it head and all, and okay, Ed loves her even more now than he did from watching her on telly.

The bakers get another break during the reset for the next challenge. This time they hang out in the green room where, to Ed’s delight, there’s a chance to sample the remains of all of the bakes. He’s always had a sweet tooth, likes to eat the stuff he bakes almost as much as he likes baking it, and he tries them all. Zheng’s are his favorite: cinnamon-sponge circles with a red-bean-custard filling. They’re decorated to look like little clocks, and she says she’s called them “Make Time for Cake.” Jim’s mini tres leches cakes are also delicious, though maybe a bit too damp to work as proper handheld snack cakes. Stede’s, on the other hand, are very easy to pick up, but Ed reflects privately that they don’t taste quite as good as they look. The lavender’s intense, and could probably have used another flavor, like lemon, to cut it.

But it’s certainly not the worst of the bakes. That prize, in Ed’s opinion, goes to Buttons, whose vaguely bird-shaped cakes taste strangely briny (though the white chocolate feather he placed on each one for decoration turned out nicely).

There’s a lot of note-comparing about evaluations, which makes Ed feels kind of like he’s back in school after a big exam. Izzy, who’s literally still in school, is the worst offender, suddenly highly social when it comes to getting information on how everyone else fared with the judges.

Stede, at least, isn’t having it. “Well, I’m pleased with how my bake turned out,” Ed hears him tell Izzy, “so that’s all that matters to me.” But when Izzy walks away, shaking his head and muttering, Ed notices Stede’s face fall just a little.

He doesn’t get a chance to talk to him about it, though, because the PAs have reset the tent fast and they’re all being called back in to start the technical.

It’s past 4 o’clock now, and Ed can only hope this challenge is a short one. He’s already thinking about his bed back at the hotel, and how nice it’ll feel to collapse into it. Though he really should wash Stede’s shirt out first, since he’s going to have to wear it tomorrow, too. The bakers need to wear the same outfit all weekend, so that editors can use shots from either day and not lose continuity.

As the cameras move into place for the technical bake announcement, Ed turns around to look back at Stede. This was the part of the day he’d been so panicked about. Stede’s station is two rows behind Ed’s, and Ed manages to peer around Roach and catch his eye. “You good?” he stage-whispers to him. Stede looks a little nervous, and a little tired now, but he flashes Ed a thumbs up. Ed smiles in return, and when he turns back around, the grin stays on his face.

The presenters and judges file back in to film their intro, then the judges exit the tent. Finally, it’s time for Noel to reveal what the first technical of the series will be.

“Bakers!” he intones. “Today’s challenge has been set for you by the lovely Prue. Since you’ve spent the morning baking sweet cakes, the judges would like you to please make something a bit different: a gateau salé, which is French for ‘salted’ or ‘savory’ cake.”

A murmur of surprise moves through the tent—and, okay, Ed was wrong this morning on the coach. This is a weird one.

“But not just any gateau salé!” Noel continues. “Specifically, you will be baking a gateau salé aux escargots. You’ll find the ingredients and your pared-back instructions under the sheets on your benches. You have one hour and thirty minutes to complete this challenge, so don’t go at an escargot’s pace. On your marks . . . get set . . . bake!”

For a hot second, time in the tent stands still. Ed only knows a few words of French, so it’s possible he misheard the word Noel’s been repeating.

Because . . . escargot? In a cake??

Ed whips the drop cloth off his ingredients and—nope, he didn’t mishear. Sitting there next to the flour and eggs and oil and milk is a giant bowl full of snails, still in their shells.

Chapter Text

Time speeds back up, and the air is full of squeals and screeches. Ed can hear Lucius freaking out all the way across the tent: “Omigod! Omigod! It’s snails, omigod!”

And look, fair, because Ed’s freaking out a little too. He knows plenty of French baking techniques, but he’s not one for fancy dinners, doesn’t hang out in French restaurants. He’s never eaten a snail before, much less baked with one. As extensive as his brain-library of recipes may be, culinary techniques for preparing snails occupy exactly zero of its shelves.

Okay, so he’s gonna have to wing this one, just like everyone else. Ed snatches up the laminated recipe, praying there’s enough written there to give him a clue on how to start.

Step 1: Remove snails from their shells (note: snails have been pre-cleaned and steamed). Set meat aside.

And . . . that’s it. Step 2 starts in with cake technique, instructing the bakers to whip their eggs with the milk and olive oil. Ed skims the rest of the recipe but finds no other mention of the snails, except in the penultimate step where he’s supposed to stir them into the batter. There’s nothing about whether to chop up the meat or leave it whole, nothing about how to get the goddamn snails out of their shells in the first place.

Dickfuck.

Ed’s eyes rove his bench. There’s something he missed, wrapped in another layer of gingham. He yanks the cloth loose to reveal an array of items that look more likely to be found in Roach’s surgery than in a home kitchen. There’s a scalpel-esque knife; some kind of miniature . . . forceps?; a hammer, or whatever you call the thingy doctors use to check reflexes; and an itty-bitty fork with only two tines.

Is Ed supposed to use these things on the snails? All of them, or just some? In turn, or at the same time?

It’s a fucking test, and even as Ed’s brain starts to spin out over it, he has to give the producers credit. They know what they’re doing here. Twelve nervous bakers, who—because this is a technical—aren’t supposed to help each other, or even look at each other’s benches? Hundreds of snails to process and no clear instructions on how? It’s diabolical . . . and it’s going to make great TV.

Then again, it’s not like the producers need everyone to be flummoxed here. They just need footage of one good fuckup, one good freakout. One baker to make an absolute monkey’s arse of themself over snails on international TV.

And that baker could very well be Ed.

Because Ed hasn’t moved now in over a minute. Hasn’t said a word since the challenge started. He should be narrating to the camera, making jokes about the snails or experimenting with the accoutrement in front of him. But he can’t do it. Can’t bring himself to just grab a utensil and give things a go. There’s a reason Ed wears black every fucking day—because he’s not good at making choices on the fly. And now a choice has him frozen like a deer in the headlights, like a snail in the salt.

“Hey, man—you all right?”

The camera guy’s voice sounds faraway and distorted, like it’s filtering in through water. Ed manages to turn his head toward the question. Because Oluwande’s a nice guy, right? Maybe he’ll take pity on Ed here, give him a clue on how to proceed.

“Do you know what to do with these?” Ed manages to whisper. It’s only then that he realizes it’s not Oluwande behind the camera—it’s Pete, the bald guy, again.

“Nope,” Pete says cheerfully. “I’ve never even seen any of those before!”

Right.

The thing Stede was so afraid of happening in the tent? It’s happening to Ed, now. A full-on panic attack. His head’s spinning, his bad knee’s shaking and his good one’s about to buckle. He’s going down in five, four, three—

Whack! Something smacks into the back of Ed’s left shoulder.

“Whoops!” The springy floor bounces as someone runs up behind him. “Slippery little suckers , aren’t they?”

It’s Stede, and the thing that just bounced off Ed is a snail shell. Stede squeezes past Pete and ducks behind Ed’s bench. “Can you help me find it, Edward?” he asks Ed brightly. Too brightly, like he really wants to make sure the mic and camera pick this up. “Can’t afford to lose one, you know, we’ve only got so many each.”

Ed barely has time to nod before Stede’s pulling him down to the floor. Then, in the seconds Pete takes to adjust his camera angle, Stede whispers fast into Ed’s ear.

“Do not use the mallet, it’s a diversion. And the knife’ll slice you through the hand. Hold the shells with the tongs and scoop the meat out with the fork, just stab and give it a little twist if it’s stuck. Okay?”

Ed’s so shocked he barely has the wherewithal to respond. “Uh, okay,” he finally manages to whisper back.

“There it is!” Stede’s voice returns to its full, chipper volume. He snatches the recently-airborne snail off the floor, holds it up for Pete to film, and gives Ed a quick pat on the back with his mollusk-free hand before returning to his own workstation.

Okay. What the fuck was that?

Did Stede actually clock, from two rows back, that Ed was losing the plot up here? And then manage to fling a snail at him—aimed perfectly—just to have an excuse to come give Ed exactly the info he needed?

Had to be, right? No way that was all just a big fucking coincidence, but Ed doesn’t have more time to reflect on it now. He’s lost precious minutes off a fairly short bake; he needs to take advantage of the info Stede’s just given him and get to work.

So he grabs the tongs (tongs, not forceps, JESUS), snatches a snail from its bowl, and goes at its insides with the fork. Stab, little twist. It works like a charm. In under three minutes, Ed has all his snails de-shelled, and he’s even managed a few lines of commentary for the camera.

After that, the technical’s pretty straightforward. A gateau salé is basically a cross between a quick bread and a quiche, both dishes Ed knows well. He flicks through his internal recipe binder, finds what he needs, and runs through the steps, mentally ticking each one off as he completes them. And with his brain finally out of panic mode, it’s easy to decide how to incorporate the snails at the end. Ed leaves them whole but tosses them in extra flour before folding them into the batter, which should help them stay suspended throughout the cake instead of sinking to the bottom. Works for berries, works for snails!

Then it’s into the oven, and though the recipe didn’t specify a baking time, Ed knows from experience that a loaf-cake will need almost an hour to cook through. He sets his timer for 50 minutes, which will bring him close to the end of the challenge. He just hopes he can cool his cake fast enough to get it out of the tin in time for judging.

The minutes tick by. Ed cleans his bench; he sets up his cooling rack and serving plate. He crouches, bad knee protesting, and stares through the oven window, willing his gateau to rise and brown the right amount. He wonders how Stede’s getting on with the recipe, and hopes the answer is fan-fucking-tastic. If anyone deserves to win this technical, Stede does.

When the timer finally beeps, it’s gloves on, oven open. Ed’s cake is golden on top and springy when tapped; his tester comes out clean, a huge relief. Still, there are only seven minutes left on the clock. While Ed would never do this at home, he hustles his bake into the moss-green freezer to speed the cooldown. A couple of minutes later, Roach follows his lead, shoving his own cake into the freezer’s top shelf. Ed feels a little bad that his bake has already warmed the freezer, and that Roach got the worse spot since heat rises. But there’s nothing he can do about that now.

With three minutes left, Ed yanks his tin back out. It’s warm, but not scalding anymore. Feeling extra glad he lined the tin with paper hanging over all the edges, Ed’s basically able to hammock the cake out of it, keeping it in one piece. He gets it onto the serving plate and clears the paper away just as Alison calls time.

“Please bring your bakes up to the gingham altar and set them in front of your photographs,” she instructs. Since Ed’s already up front, he’s one of the first to deliver his bake to the judging table.

“Oh, Ed, yours looks fab!”

Ed turns to see Stede smiling at him. He’s carrying a plate with . . . well, it’s loaf-cake-shaped, at least. Maybe not quite as golden as what Ed just delivered, but from what Ed can spot now on other bakers’ plates, Stede’s managed better than some. At least three of the plates being walked to the altar hold what can only be described as abstract piles of crumbs. Ed even spies a cake down at the end that looks like its snails got baked into it with their shells still on.

Everyone’s looking around at each other’s snail-cake disasters, and Ed’s not sure where it starts, but soon almost all of them are all howling with laughter.

The PA army seats the bakers on a row of stools for the judging. Prue and Paul enter, take a look at the specimens on the table, and more laughter ensues.

The judging happens far faster than in the signature round, as it’s basically filmed in real time. Annie, who turns out to be the one who didn’t de-shell her snails, ranks last; Buttons and John also rank near the bottom. Stede lands near the middle of the pack in seventh place, and Jim’s name comes up shortly after Stede’s. Zheng ranks third, Izzy second.

And somehow—in a twist Ed cannot fucking believe when he hears his name called—he wins the technical challenge.

“It’s the distribution of the snails that pipped it for you over Izzy,” Prue explains. “You did a wonderful job of keeping them whole and intact, too, Edward. Well done.”

Ed doesn’t even know what to say as the nearest bakers lean over to whisper congratulations. Stede’s far down the line, but gives Ed a huge grin and pumps a fist into the air. Ed wants to stand up and give Stede the credit he’s due for saving Ed’s bake—for saving Ed’s arse in this competition, honestly! But to say anything would be to give away that Stede technically cheated by sharing his snail-processing technique. So Ed keeps his mouth shut for now.

But when it’s time to get back on the coach and return to the Holiday Inn, Ed makes sure to grab his same seat from the morning, right next to Stede.

“Ed, congratulations!” Stede grasps Ed’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Stede. Mate.” Ed drops his voice to a whisper. “I fuckin’ owe you, man.”

Stede scoffs. “Oh, I’m sure you would have figured it out on your own. I just . . . hastened the process. I imagine you would’ve done the same for me.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Ed insists. “If the tables are ever turned, I’ll do everything I can to help you out.”

“But you already did.” Stede gets quiet. “This morning? Here on the coach? Ed, I would never have even made it into the tent today if it weren’t for you.”

“Nah,” Ed protests. “You would’ve—”

“I would’ve passed out,” Stede insists, “and they’d be shipping me home to Norwich right now with an oxygen tank. But it’s kind of you to pretend otherwise. Why don’t we just call things even?”

“Yeah, all right,” Ed says—but then, he remembers what he’s wearing. “Wait, no. I still owe you one, for lending me your shirt!”

Stede’s eyebrows quirk. “Turned out to be a lucky shirt, didn’t it?”

“Shit, yeah. Your lucky shirt!”

Stede smiles. “Well, I’d say it’s your lucky shirt now. I don’t know that it’s ever brought any luck in my direction.” He pauses then, bites his lip. “Though it did bring you to my door, didn’t it?”

Ed’s brain jams. Or maybe turns into jam. Something gooey and sticky and stupid.

Because . . . is Stede Bonnet flirting with him?

Nah, Ed’s probably just projecting. Stede’s saying it was lucky Ed came to his door because then they knew each other a little, so it wasn’t too weird when Ed had to help him through his panic attack. Ed’s brain’s just malfunctioning now, reading too much into a little comment because it’s so exhausted.

“Sure did, mate,” he says, trying to keep it friendly. He shoots Stede a friendly smile, too, and gives him a friendly pat on the knee. Definitely doesn’t let his hand linger. That wouldn’t be friendly.

The coach engine starts, and Ed drops his head back against the headrest. He lets his eyelids droop. Christ, he is exhausted. With every second that ticks by, he feels more adrenaline from the two challenges and judgings drain from his body, like butter from a poorly-laminated pastry. Ed’s pretty sure he’s never felt this sleepy at 7 PM before . . . not even while reading Mansfield Park, the most soporific of Auntie Jane’s six novels.

Still, before he nods off, he has a question.

“How’d you know?” he asks Stede, his voice slurry. “’Bout the snails. How’d you know just what to do with’em?”

“Ah,” Stede says. “Well, I was lucky enough last year to go on an extended family holiday to France. And my son, Louis—well, he wanted to try all the French delicacies he’d ever heard of: frogs’ legs, sweetbreads, escargot. He spent weeks researching restaurants, planning out our agenda and . . . oh, Ed, you’re tired, you don’t want to hear all about this.”

“I do!” Ed insists, and it’s the truth, even if he’s fighting to stay conscious enough to say it. He actually wants to know all about Stede, to listen to whatever stories Stede wants to tell him.

“All right then,” Stede says. “I’ll go on, but if you fall asleep I won’t be offended.”

And then—well, Ed can’t swear to it, but he feels like Stede shifts his voice into a more soothing register on purpose. Like he starts telling Ed the France anecdote specifically as a bedtime tale. So Ed lets himself drift in and out. There’s more about Louis, and a bit about Alma, the daughter. Also, Ed’s pretty sure he hears Stede say something about a dog . . . but did he really bring his dog on vacation with him to France? Bring it to restaurants?

The one thing Ed knows he hears, though, is the name Mary. Stede mentions her multiple times, making it clear that she’s his kids’ mother. And in the story they all go on holiday together, then they all come back to the same house, so . . . that’s it then. Mary is Stede’s partner. His spouse.

Ed’s maybe a little surprised to learn it’s a woman, but hey, no one ever gave him a gold medal in gaydar. Stede’s lilting voice slides into a side story about Mary and Alma sneaking their paints and easels into Monet’s garden at Giverny, and as he describes them making art together, the fondness in his voice is so evident that it slices through Ed’s brain-fog and leaves him feeling a bit gut-stabbed.

Because, okay, he knew there was a good chance this guy was paired up with someone. But he didn’t know-it know it before, did he?

Now he does. Which means he should probably stop thinking about how biteable Stede’s chest looked without his shirt on yesterday. About how pretty Stede’s eyes are when they’re all lit up with a smile. About how nice it feels to be sitting close to Stede right now, breathing the same stale coach-bus air.

Ed wakes when the coach judders to a halt in front of the hotel. His neck’s at a weird angle, and he realizes with horror that he has fallen asleep on Stede’s shoulder. And, oh god, that’s not all. There’s something heavy and solid pinning his head in place: Stede’s head, emitting gentle snores, pressing Ed’s into a skull sandwich.

And then—

“Smile!” Lucius pops up over the seat in front of them, holding his phone. “Oh, adorbs!” he exclaims as he takes a photo of them like that, Stede’s head and shoulder playing the role of bread and Ed’s head the jam, squished in the middle.

Always the fucking jam.

Stede stirs, lifts his head off Ed’s. “Oh, Ed—sorry—” he mumbles.

“No, I’m sorry.” Ed pulls away, fast. He can feel himself turning scarlet. Lucius snaps another fucking picture, but before Ed can say anything, someone’s grabbing the phone out of Lucius’s hand.

“Don’t be a twat!”

It’s Izzy, of all people, growling at Lucius from the aisle. “Didn’t you read the contract? No photos on the coach! You want Love Productions to start making us leave our phones at the hotel?”

“Sorry,” Lucius mumbles. “They just looked so cute together . . . ”

Izzy makes a thoroughly disgusted noise, like even the word “cute” offends him to his contemptuous teenaged core. He shoves Lucius’s phone back at him, though not without a warning (“You’d better watch your fucking step!”) before launching himself down the aisle and off the coach.

“Rude,” Lucius says before sinking back into his own seat to gather his things. Ed doesn’t have any things to grab, having left his knives in the tent, so he jumps into the aisle, needing to put distance between himself and Stede. Stede, who’s partnered with a woman named Mary—and whose body Ed just spent the last twenty minutes pressed up against, without even having been conscious to enjoy it.

Chapter Text

“Bakers, please step away from your benches! The showstopper challenge is now complete!”

It’s the next day, and after four and a half hours of baking and filming and justifying their every flavor and design choice to the roving judges, the bakers have completed their last challenge of Cake Week.

Ed steps back to survey his showstopper. The brief was to make a 3-D sculpted cake representing “what makes you happy”—a pretty typical prompt for the first week of Bake Off. Open-ended enough to let the bakers make any kind of cake they like, while the theme will help the producers tell a story about each of them. Win-win.

As soon as Ed got the brief, he knew he’d make a boat out of cake. Boatbuilding has been his profession for three decades now, ever since he entered an apprenticeship in Wellington as a teenager. Since coming to Bristol to work at Blackbeard’s Boatyard, Ed has specialized in houseboats and other personal craft designed specifically to traverse the UK’s narrow canals. He even bought a fixer-upper houseboat of his own, which he christened “Jane.” He’s lived on Jane for more than a decade, docking at a slip walking distance from the yard and sometimes even sailing up the River Avon on weekends.

Does working on boats make Ed happy, though?

Well, he’s good at it, and it pays his bills and passes the time, which for a long while now has felt like enough. Plus, the idea of a boat-cake seemed pretty fucking cool. The design took some time to perfect, but he eventually nailed things down. And luckily, today, the project has mostly gone to plan.

Ed’s made a Black-Forest-inspired chocolate-and-cherry layer cake, which he carved into a houseboat shape and paneled with tempered chocolate textured to look like wood grain. He built a “glass” wheelhouse out of melted boiled sweets and baked a gingersnap wheel. As a final touch, Ed sculpted a figurine of himself out of fondant, piped on long silver hair and a beard with royal icing, and positioned it lying under the bow so it would look like it was doing repairs to the underside of the boat.

When Noel calls time, Ed finally shakes off his hour-long decorating hyperfocus to look around the tent. Directly behind him, Roach’s bench looks and smells like a citrus massacre (seriously, the man must have used forty oranges in his showstopper!). Across the aisle, Zheng’s bench is by contrast very neat, like she’s had time to tidy up. Which is extra impressive when Ed gets an eyeball on her cake, which looks like a huge, extremely realistic bowl of soup spilling over with noodles, fishcake slices, boiled eggs, and even a pair of edible chopsticks. Ed overheard some of her interview with the judges during this challenge. She’d sounded self-deprecating, joking about the limits of her skills and ambitions. But it’s clear now to Ed that Zheng is a baker who knows exactly what she’s doing.

Ed cranes his neck to look around Roach and see what Stede has come up with—and when he does, his breath catches. Because Stede has also made a boat-cake.

For the briefest moment, annoyance flashes through Ed. Two boat-cakes—that’s overkill, right? Shouldn’t the producers have nudged one of them toward a different design? But the feeling is gone before Ed even breathes out. Because Stede’s cake is wildly different from his own. In fact, it’s just wild. And Ed can’t take his eyes off it.

It’s a pirate ship, and it’s easily twice as big as Ed’s houseboat. Not at all seaworthy from an engineering standpoint, but that hardly matters, does it? It’s got a swooping cake base that looks to be covered with elaborately piped meringue and punctuated with truffles. There are curved brandysnap sails, three masts made of rolled tuilles, and not just one brightly-colored rice-paper flag, but a whole line of them, in every hue of the rainbow, each with a different little piratey design stenciled onto it. There’s a Stede figure behind the wheel, plus a large figurehead on the bow of the ship that looks like . . . a golden unicorn? Christ. Ed may be the boat guy, but right now he’s feeling like he focused way too much on reality with this showstopper. Why didn’t he put some fucking imagination into it?

They take a short break so the PAs can clean up the benches, then it’s time to film the judging. For this challenge, each baker will carry their showstopper up to the gingham altar, where Paul and Prue will examine and taste it.

The procession begins, and Ed’s glad for his bench position now, because it gives him a front-row seat to the show. Buttons comes up first, and presents a sheet cake beautifully decorated to look like the sea. The judges like its appearance, but debate whether it is 3-D enough, suggesting Buttons could have added height with meringue waves or something along those lines. They praise the flavor, though—a traditional Scottish Dundee—and Buttons returns to his station with a slightly maniacal grin on his face.

More bakers bring their cakes up. John’s had some kind of disaster, piping icing onto his cake while it was still warm so it looks more like a blob than the beautifully-patterned ball gown he was going for—and adding insult to injury, the cake itself turns out to be raw. Annie, who came in last in the technical, seems like she’s probably saved herself with a well-baked carrot cake sculpted to look like a bunny. (“Oh, yeah, rabbits make me happy,” she coos in an oddly lascivious voice when questioned by the judges.)

Roach’s orange cake, which he’s decorated with various baby-toy-shaped items inspired by his young son, gets the strange feedback that it actually doesn’t taste enough of orange. Frenchie’s cake gets criticism for its appearance—he was going for a Christmas gift design, but the whole thing looks more like a generic box.

Lucius’s paint-palette lemon-and-thyme cake earns good reviews, as does Jackie’s margarita-flavored cake that’s also shaped like a giant margarita. Jim gets a rave for their coconut-and-vanilla cake, which is all stabbed up with little syringes full of different homemade syrups to be injected into each slice. Izzy also gets positive comments for his mirror-glazed, triple-chocolate cake in the shape of a Volkswagen people carrier—modeled after his mum’s car, apparently, which he’s currently learning how to drive. The clear standout, though, is Zheng’s soup bowl: cardamom sponge and salted caramel filling, which apparently tastes just as good as the cake looks on the outside.

The order in which the bakers are called forward seems random until Ed realizes his cake and Stede’s will be judged last. He suspects then that the producers have set it up this way on purpose: save the two similar-themed showstoppers for the end, pit them head-to-head. His suspicions seem confirmed when he’s called to bring up his bake, and Prue says, “Look, now we have two boat-cakes left to judge, from Edward and Stede! It’ll be a battle of the Kiwis.” She delivers the lines stiltedly, like a producer fed them to her off camera and told her to get them in however she could.

Because it’s catchy, isn’t it? Battle of the Kiwis! Ed can imagine the hashtag trending.

“Tell us about your showstopper, Edward,” Paul says, and Ed’s heart starts beating faster. His snake snacks came out great and he was first in the technical, so he knows he has a shot at Star Baker this week if the judges like this cake. Trying to keep his voice steady, he launches into his prepared spiel about his life as a boatbuilder, and about buying Jane and fixing her up to live on.

Prue examines the cake closely while Ed talks. “It’s all a bit . . . brown, isn’t it?” she observes.

“Is that meant to be you, underneath?” Paul asks, stabbing a finger at fondant Ed. “Looks like the boat’s about to crush you, mate.”

Ed doesn’t know what to say to that.

“The design could perhaps be a bit better thought-out,” Prue says. “But, let’s see how it tastes.”

The judges sample Ed’s cake and make approving noises. “It’s a good bake, Edward,” Prue concludes. “Good texture on the sponge, nice Black Forest flavors.”

Paul nods. “Just the presentation’s let you down a bit.”

“Don’t be afraid to be bolder with your designs, with your colors,” Prue advises. “Let more of your true self shine through.”

Ed bristles at this, because how does Prue Leith know what his true self looks like? Maybe this is all there is: brown on brown. Brown all the way down (with a leathery black coating on the outside?).

Ed carries his boat-cake back to his bench, knowing that he won’t come out on top this week. Not that it’s such a blow—Bake Off’s a long game, and Ed’s at least done well enough to get through to the next round. But he knows that, for a fleeting moment, he had a chance at it. Just fell at the last hurdle.

Well, if it’s color the judges are looking for, boldness and personality and all that, Stede’s gonna do great. Ed watches him totter forward, balancing his enormous cake with all its precarious parts. As disappointed as he’s feeling for himself, Ed also feels a surge of anticipation—excitement, even—for Stede.

Paul and Prue stare at the pirate-ship cake. Prue’s eyes are wide behind her funky glasses. “Well,” she says, her voice breathy. “This . . . is . . . something!”

Stede’s standing there with his hands clasped, and Ed can see some of his face in profile. It lights up at Prue’s astonishment.

Paul ask Stede to tell them about his showstopper, and he talks enthusiastically about a lifelong love of pirate stories and about playing pirates with his kids.

When he’s done, there’s a long pause as both judges stare at the cake from different angles.

Finally, Paul speaks.

“Mate, I’ve got to say, this looks like something out of Willy Wonka’s nightmare.”

Stede’s face falls.

“Paul, come now!” Prue chides, but then she turns to Stede and says, “It is . . . a little much.”

“A little?!” Paul continues, undeterred. “It’s practically the Good Ship Lollipop!”

Now Ed wants to jump over his workbench and punch Paul Hollywood in the face. How dare he? How fucking dare he talk shit about this beautiful, colorful, creative bake, especially after just reaming Ed out over his own boring design? And okay, maybe Stede’s boat-cake is slightly insane, but it’s insane in a good way. Paul’s a hypocrite, he knows nothing about baking, he—

Ed forces himself to take a square breath. The producers warned them about this: that the judges would need to come out with pithy quips for the camera, that they’d say lots of stuff so the editors would have options. That the bakers should try not to take any criticism too personally.

Still, Ed wonders if Stede remembers any of that. The man’s face doesn’t seem to know how to hide a single emotion, and he looks devastated.

Now Ed wants to jump over the bench and go give him a hug.

Alison beats him to it. Well, she doesn’t hug Stede, but she does say, “Oh, shut up, the two of you! Look at this! It’s magnificent! Stede, I love it.”

“Yeah,” Noel chimes in, and there’s only a touch of his usual ironic archness when he speaks again. “Playing pirates makes me happy, too.”

Paul rolls his eyes at Noel—but Stede’s posture unslumps, and his mouth curls back up a little. “Thank you both,” he says.

The judges gouge out a section of the cake to taste. The decorative elements are fine, but Stede’s overbaked his sponge, and Prue isn’t sure she likes how he used marmalade as a filling instead of a more traditional jam. In the end, they declare it all a bit “style over substance,” and counsel Stede to make sure he’s got his baking basics down before adding so many flourishes in the future. When Stede returns to his bench, he carries a ship that looks like it’s been hit with a cannonball—and Ed wouldn’t be surprised if his ego’s taken that hit, too.

So much for Battle of the Kiwis.

Zheng wins Star Baker for Cake Week, and John is the first one to be sent home. (Turns out Ed’s watch-out-for-that-clothing-designer instinct was off.)

The Irishman takes the bad news in stride and they all crowd around to wish him well. “Sorry we won’t be getting to trade more makeup tips,” he says to Ed as Ed gives him a consoling squeeze on the arm. “You’ll be having to carry the Bake Off eyeliner torch on your own now, Edward.” Ed laughs. John smiles through the tears threatening his own eyeliner, and Ed feels a pang that he won’t get a chance to know this guy better in the coming weeks.

But then Jackie’s voice carries over the others as she tells John she wants to commission an outfit from him for her bar’s next drag night—and it turns out John performs drag! Suddenly Jackie’s making plans for him to come back to England to headline a show, and of course all the rest of the bakers are invited. And now the moment of elimination doesn’t seem so sad. Because, no matter how brief their time here is, they’re all part of something, aren’t they? Something that’s already extending beyond the filming schedule, beyond the tent.

Friends.

Archie pulls Zheng and John outside so they can film interviews about their respective triumph and loss, and the rest of the bakers are released to gather their stuff from the green room and head to the coach. Ed’s in the trailer, retrieving his phone and jacket from his bin, when a voice says, “It should’ve been you.”

Ed spins around to find Stede standing there, face looking less crumpled now than it did during his judging. There’s still some sadness in his eyes, probably about John leaving, but there’s also relief there—and, apparently, some umbrage on Ed’s behalf.

“Stede! Oh, uh, thanks. But Zheng more than deserved the win, her stuff looked phenomenal. Speaking of which, your pirate ship! Man—”

“Style over substance, I know.” Stede sighs, and Ed wants to interject, wants to tell him how amazing he thought his bake turned out! But Stede barrels on before Ed has the chance. “Well, at least we both get to sail on into another week. Week two! Team Kiwi makes it to week two!”

Team Kiwi—Ed likes the sound of that a lot better than Battle of the Kiwis. “Yeah.” He grins. “Yeah, we fucking did it.”

Stede grins back. “Maybe next week, though, we should try not to make the same showstopper.”

“You wanna tell me what you’re planning, mate?”

“And ruin the surprise?” Stede’s eyebrows bounce. “Never.”

Fuck, why does he have to be so cute? Mary. Ed repeats the name to himself like a dour mantra. Mary, Mary, Mary.

Then Stede places a hand on Ed’s shoulder and says, “So, should I swing by your room at the hotel?”

Ed lets out a strangled “What?” Because . . . what?

Stede taps a finger lightly in place. “My shirt.”

Ohhh. “Shit, yeah man, of course. The shirt.”

“Should I come pick it up before you go? You’re on floor two, right?”

“Right,” Ed murmurs, though now he’s thinking about how, after two full-on days of baking, the shirt must be utterly disgusting. “Though, uh, look, I can wash it myself, bring it back to you next weekend. If you don’t mind waiting?”

“Oh—do you have laundry on Jane?” Stede asks.

“I’ve got everything on Jane.”

“Everything?”

“Oh, yeah. Full solar system, freshwater hookup, septic hookup.”

“Ooh, a septic hookup!”

“Only the finest. Barely even leaks shit onto the dock when I’m emptying the tank.”

Okay, why does Ed always end up yammering about dicks or shit in front of this guy? Why can’t he be normal?

Luckily, Stede's laughing. “Sounds like you’ve got everything you need, Ed.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve got it all sussed out.”

“Then I’ll leave the shirt to you to launder.”

Ed nods. “Thanks again for it. I’ll do some shopping this week so I don’t end up needing to borrow again.”

“Well, you’re always welcome,” Stede says, “though I might not pack quite as many options for next weekend. I just happened to have pretty much my entire wardrobe in the car with me this time around, since I’m heading from here straight to my rental.”

“Rental?” Ed asks, confused. “Are you not going home?”

Stede shakes his head. “I’m supposed to be in Auckland right now, visiting my cousin, remember? For the next few weeks, at least.”

“Oh, that’s right!” It’s all coming back to Ed. “So, where will you be staying?”

“Ah, Mary found me this lovely little cottage in the Cotswolds on AirBnB. Much more convenient than shuttling back and forth to Norwich each week. And this way I can bake as much as I want without rendering the family kitchen inoperable. The cottage has got a great kitchen, actually—huge counters, double oven. Same brand, even, that they’ve got here in the tent, so I should really be able to get my timings down.”

“Sounds nice,” Ed says. It sounds better than nice, actually—it sounds amazing. Much as Ed loves his houseboat, Jane’s kitchen is necessarily microscopic, the oven a combination microwave-convection thingy that can’t fit anything bigger than a single biscuit tray. The crew had a field day filming him baking in the tiny space when they’d come out to do his behind-the-scenes stuff a few weeks ago.

“Yes,” Stede muses. “Plenty of space to practice. It’ll be a bit lonely, though. I haven’t spent time away from my children . . . well, ever, really. Though they’re getting older now, sixteen and fourteen. Won’t be long before they’re off to uni, living their own lives. So, maybe this’ll be good for me. A kind of trial run at being on my own.”

Ed nods, not sure what to say here. Not sure, also, why Stede hasn’t mentioned Mary in this equation. Because even when his kids fly the coop, he’ll still have her, won’t he? (Her . . . and the dog?)

A lightbulb seems to turn on behind Stede’s eyes. “Ed. You live in Bristol.”

“Yep?”

“Well, that’s not far at all. From where I’ll be staying, near Bourton-on-the-Water. What is that, an hour’s drive?”

Ed shrugs. “Dunno, man. I don’t drive cars. Only boats.”

“Well, surely Google can tell us.” Stede pulls out his phone, types into it, then turns to show the map to Ed. “One hour, three minutes. That’s not far at all.”

It’s not, but . . . “What are you getting at, mate?”

“You should come over!” Stede cries. “You know, for a practice day. There’ll be more than enough space for the two of us.”

Ed’s heart starts pounding, just like it did in Stede’s hotel room the first time Stede called him 'Ed.' “Uh,” he says. “Uh, yeah, I can’t.”

Disappointment flashes across Stede’s features, and oh, that doesn’t suit him at all.

“It’s just, I have work every day that I’m not here,” Ed rushes to explain. “The boatyard. We’re in the middle of a big build. They need me.”

“Right, of course.” Stede shakes his head. “How silly of me. Not everyone can just take a month or two away from their job to practice for Bake Off. I’m sorry, Ed, it was thoughtless of me to assume.”

The thing is, Ed has been planning to take some time off. He hasn’t had a holiday for years. Even before he took over the place himself, he’d never asked Hornigold for more than a day or two away. Because what would he have done with the time? Idle hands, and all that. It’s always been better for Ed to keep busy.

But when he got the call from Bake Off, he’d struck a deal with himself. If he made it to week five—halfway through the competition—then he’d take a full week away from work to shore up his bakes for the second half. Give himself a real, fighting chance at victory.

Now, he finds himself confessing this plan to Stede.

“Week five,” Stede echoes. “Okay, so if you make it to week five, you’ll take some time off, and you’ll come over one day and bake with me?”

“Sure,” Ed says, in part because that kitchen does sound nice, and in part because it sounds so far off into the future. Who knows where things will stand in a month? They could both be eliminated by then, brought low by biscuits or bread or caramel.

But if they’re not. . . well, it’ll be fine. Surely, in a few more weeks, Ed’ll be over whatever this pressure-crucible-forged, crush-shaped thing is that he’s developed on Stede Bonnet. He’ll be ready to hang out with him one-on-one, no big deal. Just a couple of good buddies, baking side by side in a cottage in the Cotswolds.

Mary, Mary, Mary.

Chapter Text

Ed’s grand plan to shut down his attraction to his fellow baker goes great for approximately twelve hours.

Then, Instagram happens.

It starts off innocently enough: just Lucius posting in the new bakers’ Discord group to ask for everyone’s IG handles so they can follow each other. Ed’s mostly lurked on Instagram in the past (he has a work account for Blackbeard’s Boatyard, though Maggie runs it these days). He dutifully started up a new account, though, when he got cast on Bake Off. So far, @bakesbyteach has exactly one post and zero followers. But after Lucius’s message, Ed’s follower count jumps, and he even gets some comments on his weeks-old photo of raspberry macarons.

So he spends breakfast on Monday morning tapping around on his phone, following everyone back and checking out their posts, too. Lucius’s account shows off his art and has a few hundred followers. Most of the others, though, don’t have many followers or much of a “brand” yet. (Well, unless “seagulls” counts as a brand. Buttons’s entire account is photographs of seagulls.)

But then, Ed gets to Stede’s IG.

@BonnetBakes seems like most of the others: new account, focused on baking, not a lot of posts or followers. The bio is simple: Dad and baker. But then, there’s another line: Also, @ZumbaKingofNorwich!

Ed clicks through to this other account as he’s taking his teacup to the sink. @ZumbaKingofNorwich has almost a thousand followers (!) and a grid that’s mostly videos. (Or, Reels, or whatever you call them. Every time Ed opens Instagram, he feels like he’s gotten a year older.) And so, Ed taps on a pinned video, and—

Well, he has to sit back down at his little built-in table.

Because there’s Stede, in a neon tank top and a pair of shorts that would make Richard Simmons blush, standing in front of a huge crowd at what looks like some sort of Glastonbury-esque outdoor Zumba festival. He has a headset on over his blond curls; he shouts “five, six, seven, eight” into it to get everyone ready to dance.

And Jesus Fucking Christ on a SoulCycle, that man can dance.

The music’s some K-Pop number Ed doesn’t know, though a couple of times he thinks he catches the English word “Gentleman.” Doesn’t matter. Stede could be dancing to Mozart, to muzak, to the fucking Bake Off theme song, and you wouldn’t be able to keep your eyes off him. He just commits, so completely, to every move! Knees deep, hips swinging, arms sometimes sharp and sometimes graceful and always right there on the music. Stede jumps, and gravity barely touches him. It’s like he’s dancing on another plane of existence, ecstatic grin on his face and lunatic glint in his eye.

The man is a Zumba lunatic. And fuck, Ed likes it.

He taps on more videos. Stede at a primary school, hyping the kids up to dance to Shakira. Stede in a gym classroom, demonstrating bachata footwork. Stede at a senior center, teaching something called “Chair Zumba” with just as much gusto as he has in the other videos.

At some point, Ed realizes he’s going to be late for work. He drops his phone and bolts for the shower. He’s gotten so distracted he’s forgotten to switch on the boat’s water heater, which means a cold shower for him this morning. But it’s just as well. Because now that he’s actually watched Stede’s muscular thighs flexing, seen his tight, round arse bobbing around in those teeny-tiny shorts . . .

Yeah, Ed might need cold showers every morning for the rest of the week.

Things don’t get much better from there in the crush-on-Stede-Bonnet department. On Wednesday during lunch, Ed hauls himself to TK Maxx and stares at the racks of shirts in the mens’ section. Considers, for a wild moment, texting Stede. Because Stede knows fashion, and . . . that’s a thing friends would do, right? Ping each other for some shopping help? Maybe text over a couple of selfies from the changing room, potential new shirt buttoned only halfway up . . .

Okay, fuck, that’s not happening. Ed grabs a plastic-wrapped three-pack of Hanes t-shirts in primary colors, races out of the store the moment he’s paid, and doesn’t look back.

When he heads down to Bake Off on the train that Friday evening, there’s a delay on the line and what would normally be a 90-minute trip turns into a four-hour slog. By the time Ed arrives at this week’s hotel (a Doubletree in Newbury), the group dinner is over.

Archie, whom he texted about the delay, meets him at his room with a foil-wrapped plate. Ed’s touched that she saved him some grub . . . for about five seconds, until he realizes she’s actually there to vet his wardrobe again.

He pulls the still-in-package shirts out and presents them. Archie, looking pained, says he should go with the blue one, but suggests he try to spice things up next week with a pattern or something. Ed asks if maybe he ought to save the spice for week eight (which is Spice Week! Get it? Get it?), but Archie just rolls her eyes and tells him to get some sleep.

When they kick off filming the next morning, Ed’s wishing he’d thought to wash his new blue t-shirt before wearing it. It’s stiff, and definitely thicker than the comfy purple shirt Stede lent him last weekend. Ed’s leather trousers are also a mistake this time; there’s a heat wave this first weekend of May, and before the cameras even roll, sweat is gathering on Ed in various unmentionable places.

Not helping matters is the fact that Ed’s been assigned a workbench right behind Stede this week. And Stede apparently did think to check the weather forecast, because he’s wearing shorts. Not the tiny Zumba shorts from the videos (thank Christ), but still, Ed has no choice but to stare at Stede’s arse and bare legs for eight hours straight on Saturday. Well, except for the times when Stede turns to chat to Ed. To make a joke. To compliment him on his shortbread technique. To offer him a florentine from his signature challenge, because he’s made a whole extra batch to share with the cast and crew.

Then, on Sunday, Ed’s got his head down working on his showstopper when the energy in the tent shifts. Things get quiet, and he hears a hushed “omigod” from Lucius across the aisle and a no-so-hushed “daaamn, am I seeing double?” from Jackie a row back.

Ed looks up, and there’s Noel standing beside him wearing leather trousers, a blue t-shirt, and an enormous Father Christmas beard.

“See? Twins!” Noel sidles closer now that Ed’s paying attention. And okay, this is a bit, starring Noel and Ed. Ed, who’s been having trouble focusing all weekend, who’s already ten minutes behind where he wants to be on this bake.

He’s about to shake his head, about to whisper to Noel “not now, please,” when he catches Stede turning around in front of him. Catches the grin that spreads across Stede’s face as he clocks what’s going on, the sheer fucking delight that radiates out of him as he looks from Ed, to Noel, to Ed again. As he leans in, waiting to see what happens next.

And that, well. That changes everything.

Ed throws down his offset spatula and turns to stare deep into Noel’s eyes. “Separated at birth, brother!” he cries. “My god, it’s like looking into a mirror!”

“We should swap places,” Noel deadpans. “Parent-Trap style.”

“That’s a great idea,” Ed says of this objectively terrible idea. “I’ll go host, and you finish my bake.”

Noel agrees, and then Ed’s shrugging off his apron, tying it around Noel, and jogging up to the front of the tent to join Alison, his brain screaming what the fuck are you doing? all the while.

What the fuck he’s doing, Ed tells himself, is making good TV. Committing to the bit, doing something all those nebulous future viewers will eat up with a spoon.

He’s definitely not just trying to make Stede laugh.

Still, Ed can’t help but feel a little thrill as he clocks Stede’s eyes following him, even when every other baker in the tent is still oriented toward Noel behind Ed’s bench. To Noel fucking around, doing god knows what with the royal icing Ed finally just got to the right consistency.

Ed’s going to regret this later, big-time. But right now, as a producer feeds him lines so he can film an impromptu time-call with Alison, he’s grinning. He’s grinning, and Stede’s giggling, and it’s the best fucking five minutes of the weekend so far.

Followed, predictably, by the worst forty-five minutes Ed’s had in a long time as he races to get his “self-portrait biscuits ” showstopper done by the end of the challenge. Half the royal icing he made has been turned into weird little snowmen by Father-Christmas-Noel (“Behold, my wintry minions!” he declared before turning the bench and the apron back over to Ed). Ed then ends up mixing his food dyes into the other half so badly that every part of his icing face and beard on the biscuits comes out as blue as his now-very-sweaty shirt. This, of course, prompts Noel to start calling Ed “Bluebeard ” and making comments about his “emo biscuits.”

At the judging, Prue and Paul agree that they look depressing.

Izzy wins Star Baker on the strength of a double-sided, sandwich-biscuit bake called “The Two Faces of Izzy.” The face on one side looks like his everyday self. But the other is a magical drag version of him, all dramatic eyebrows and cherry-red lips and dustings of powdered sugar. There’s a cherry jam holding the two sides together, and based on the judges’ exultations, it tastes divine.

Ed’s seen no signs of this second Izzy in the tent, but he has to admit that the bake intrigues him—maybe makes him want to get to know the kid a little better. Well, if Izzy would allow such a thing. Even when he’s announced as the winner and the other bakers crowd around with congratulations, Izzy shrinks away from them, nodding stoically at their praise. He allows himself only the smallest, most private of smiles before Archie whisks him off for his interview.

Annie, alas, is the loser of the week; she burns the faces off of all her showstopper biscuits in the oven, and is sent home.

On the coach back to the hotel, Ed and Stede sit together and talk through the weekend’s triumphs and mistakes. Stede did poorly in yesterday’s technical, finishing near the bottom. The challenge was chocolate-dipped almond crescents, and Stede decided to drizzle his chocolate on top for decoration instead of dipping the biscuit ends into it, as the recipe instructed. And the thing was, his biscuits had come out looking prettier than almost every other entry! But because he hadn’t followed instructions, the judges put him second from the bottom.

Ed meanwhile, had come third in the technical, a respectable finish, which had probably helped make up for the “emo biscuit” disaster today. Stede’s self-portrait biscuits had been a version of his face in a Louis XIV sunburst, and they had come out gorgeous, all golden and shiny and, well, pretty much the opposite of a blue emo biscuit. They’d tasted good, too, according to the judges—lemony and buttery, with a lovely snap.

Ed estimates that they both finished around the middle of the pack this week, which is fine for now, but won’t cut it later in the competition. Back on Jane that night, he promises himself that this coming week, he will focus and improve. He will not open Instagram again, not even once.

He lasts almost twenty-four hours this time, and then it’s back to the Zumba-video-and-cold-shower routine once more.

Still, week three is Bread Week, and bread is one of Ed’s biggest strengths. His practice bakes go well, and he returns to the tent that Saturday feeling decent, even hopeful. The producers (who seem to have clocked by now that they have a good rapport) place him near Stede again, this time at benches side by side at the back of the tent. Ed likes this spot much better than last week’s. It affords him a peek at what everyone else is up to, without the supremely distracting view of Stede’s arse right in front of his face.

The signature challenge, a non-yeasted bread, goes great for Ed. While most of the other bakers choose bicarb-leavened quick breads, Ed’s gotten permission from the producers to bring in a potato ferment from home. He uses it to make a twist on rēwena parāoa, the traditional Maori bread he grew up baking with his mum and grandma. The judges love the originality and the bread’s sweet-and-sour flavor, and it earns Ed a handshake from Paul—the first of the series. Ed has all kinds of opinions about the Hollywood Handshake (that it’s cheesy, that it’s overused, that it isn’t fair that Prue doesn’t have her own equivalent). But then, when he gets one, Ed’s hypocrite eyes actually tear up a little, and his traitor mouth can’t stop smiling.

Even better, when the entourage walks away, Stede catches Ed’s eye across the aisle, grins his maniac-sunshine grin, and whispers, “Well done, you!”

The technical challenge is Turkish simit, a bagel-like round bread coated in pomegranate molasses and sesame. The twist is that, while the dough is proving, the bakers need to boil down pomegranate juice to make the molasses themselves. It’s not the world’s most exciting task, but it gives the camerapeople something to film during what would otherwise be a long and boring wait.

Ed, still giddy from the first challenge, starts joking across the aisle with Stede as they boil and stir. They end up launching into a kind of improvised play-by-play, with regular updates about the states of their sauces. Stede offers Ed a taste of his, which Ed declares “tangy;” then Stede tastes Ed’s and declares it “zippy.” Somehow, these two words combine into “zangy,” a word that makes them both laugh so hard that Alison comes swooping in to remind them that this is a technical and they’re not supposed to be talking to each other (much less having this much fun without her).

Ed comes in second in the challenge and Stede comes in third. It’s Stede’s best technical result yet, and Ed congratulates him warmly on the coach back to the hotel.

Things feel nice between them now. Friendly, comfortable. So of course that all goes to shit on day two.

The showstopper challenge is a decorative, enriched-dough centerpiece loaf in five hours—and this time, the producers can’t guarantee that everyone will have tasks to complete during their proving times. Which means a lot of bakers end up standing around, drinking cups of tea and yakking with each other for an hour or more.

Downtime like this is rare in the tent, but when it happens, it’s often during bread challenges. Ed thinks back to some of the ways past bakers and presenters have filled the hours. He remembers Saku and Alison playing cricket with an orange in 2023. Noel throwing limes around with the bakers in a different year, and another time accidentally smashing a vase with a lemon. Flying fruit seems to be the theme, and Ed wonders if their cohort will now add to the pantheon. He can already spot Roach three rows up, attempting to juggle several satsumas from his stash for the camera.

Ed’s about to poke Stede and point him toward the possible imminent produce-related disaster when Noel bursts into the tent with a huge, old-school boom box on his shoulder. Music’s playing from it already, though the volume’s low enough that they can still all hear Noel’s voice over the din.

“All right, bakers!” he cries, sauntering down the aisle. “It’s come to Alison’s and my attention that we have a Zumba instructor among our number this year! Come on! Baker dance party, let’s go!”

Noel plunks the boom box onto Stede’s bench and cranks up the volume on some classic Enrique Iglesias. Now Ed knows the producers have been on @ZumbaKingofNorwich’s Instagram, because he’s watched Stede teach a routine to this one.

Maybe multiple times.

Maybe to the point where his body has an automatic response to it.

(Maybe Ed’s super glad right now for his highly restrictive leather pants.)

Noel’s already pulling a surprised-looking Stede into the aisle, while Alison skips around the tent trying to round up more bakers. Izzy gives her an immediate fuck-you-no-way jerk of his head when she comes near his bench. But Jim, to Ed’s surprise, allows Alison to lead them away from their station. Jim, who’s still hardly said a word in the three weeks they’ve been here in the tent, is suddenly standing in a line with Stede and the two presenters, ready to give Zumba a go on international TV.

And now all Ed can do is stare as Stede counts the group down and starts to demo a simple grapevine. (Yes, Ed has picked up some Zumba terminology over the past two weeks. Video-Stede really is a good teacher.)

Noel lumbers through the steps, adding flair with his arms but almost immediately falling off the rhythm. Alison’s already laughing so hard she has almost no chance of keeping up.

Jim, though, is actually good. Their expression’s serious, but their body seems to respond to the music in almost the same way Stede’s does: instinctually, exuberantly. The music crescendos into the chorus—“Baby, I like it!”—and Stede and Jim bounce in unison, hitting every beat together.

The whole tent’s into it now, whooping and clapping along with the music (well, minus Izzy, who still looks like he has a stick up his arse). There’s a lot going on, and Ed’s just glad there doesn’t seem to be a camera directly on him, because he can only imagine what he must look like. Hearts for eyes? Little cartoon birds twittering around his head?

Well, it’s not like he can’t help it. It’s one thing to watch Stede do this on Instagram, but quite another to see him work his magic live, coaxing Jim right out of their tough little shell. Because Jim’s grinning now—laughing, even, right along with Stede as they dance. And it’s so easy to picture this footage going viral when it airs in the autumn. Soon enough, the entire Bake-Off-watching world is going to fall in love with Jim Jimenez and Stede Bonnet.

The Pitbull section of the song comes on, and that’s the moment in the video when Stede prompts everyone to bust out their own moves. He calls out the same instructions here in the tent, and as he and Jim each start doing their own thing, they dance away from each other. Jim grooves over to Zheng, who starts mirroring Jim’s moves as they both laugh. Even Oluwande, who’s manning the nearest camera, and Archie, standing just out of the shot, can’t help but bounce their knees and join in. Alison squeals, and a bunch of the nearest bakers circle up, cheering them all on.

Stede, though, dances off in the opposite direction—right up to Ed.

He holds out his hand. An invitation.

And Ed freezes.

Shit.

“EDDDWARD!”

Noel comes galloping over, looking absolutely fucking thrilled.

Double shit.

“Yessss!” Noel cries. “Come on, Bluebeard, show us those emo moves! Edward! Edward!”

Noel’s raising the roof with his hands and rousing a slew of other bakers to chant along with him.

“Edward! Edward!”

And of course Stede’s still looking at Ed—

like, hopefully—

like, hey come join the party—

like, sure there’s a whole tentful of people I could’ve just danced up to right now, but I chose YOU—

And Ed takes a step back and mumbles, “Sorry, can’t. Bum knee.”

Ed watches Stede’s face fall as he voices the lie. Because he does have a bum knee, yeah, but he can walk. Jog sometimes, even! He could do this if he wanted to. If he just let himself—

“Ah, that’s okay, Stedey-boy,” Noel says, “I’ll dance with ya.” And he grabs the hand Stede’s still holding out, the hand that was meant for Ed. He twirls Stede around like they’re on a wedding dance floor or something, then grabs him by the waist and swoops him into a dip. It’s all a joke now, they’re both laughing, and fuck, Ed could’ve done that. Could’ve dived in, not taken it all so goddamn seriously.

Instead, he turns away and ducks out of the tent. Makes a beeline for the loos. Splashes cold water on his face until he remembers he’s wearing eyeliner and has smeared it; has to get a PA to escort him back to the green room so he can fix his makeup. By the time Ed returns to the tent his dough has proved, and the Zumba interlude is blessedly over.

Ed’s five-strand plaited challah comes out golden and gorgeous, with a perfect springy interior and just the right flavor notes of honey and saffron. He wins Star Baker for Bread Week. But somehow, even as everyone congratulates him—even as Stede gives him the biggest high five—Ed doesn’t feel like he did after yesterday’s Hollywood Handshake. Feels, instead, like he’s let something important slip through his fingers. Like he just had his chance to join this year’s Least Laddy Lads’ Club, but fucked it and ended up on Team Grumpy Asshole instead: population two, him and Izzy.

Like the producers are definitely gonna use that footage of him turning down Stede’s invitation to dance, maybe even overlay it with that interview clip where he said he wasn’t here to make friends.

Why the fuck had he said that?

The bad feelings threaten to overtake him, so Ed hides it all in a big hug for Frenchie, who forgot to put the yeast in his “fairy bread” showstopper and has been eliminated.

Archie swoops in to grab them both. “We need to shoot your interviews,” she says. “Gonna let the rest of the bakers head off in the coach since it’s so late, but someone’ll drive you both back to the hotel for your stuff when you’re done. Okay?”

And maybe that’s the worst of it—that Ed won’t get to sit next to Stede on the way back. Won’t have a chance to explain, face to face, why he’s weird about dancing. How maybe if Noel hadn’t pushed so hard, hadn’t gotten everyone yelling . . .

How if it had just been the two of them, alone, Stede’s hand outstretched . . .

What? You would’ve danced off with him into the fucking sunset?

Get a grip, Teach.

Ed follows Archie outside.

***

Turns out that when you win Star Baker, the producers like for you to ring someone up. Like to film you with your phone on speaker, the tinny and excited voice of your mum or your spouse or your slew of sisters that all have rhyming names (ahem, Crystelle of 2021) screaming on the other end.

Turns out that if you win Star Baker, a PA will run and retrieve your contraband phone from your bin and deliver it to you, already turned back on and ready to go. And the director for your segment will ask who you’re gonna call while she lines up the shot, and she’ll actually laugh when you say “Ghostbusters.” (Finally, someone on the crew with a sense of humor! It’s like pulling teeth with Archie sometimes.) But then she’ll say “No, really, who’re you calling today, Edward?” while she makes sure you’re lit beautifully for your big special moment, and then the jig will be up.

Because Ed doesn’t have anyone to call. His mum and his grandma are both dead, he hasn’t spoken to his father in decades, and he hasn’t told anyone in this country that he’s doing Bake Off. Not the gang at work, not Mary at the library, not a single soul. Because hey, Love Productions discouraged them from telling people, right? Sent out all those NDAs! So why would Ed ask Fang and Maggie and Ivan and Mary to sign something when he could just keep on keeping his private life private? The system had worked for fourteen years so far.

(Fourteen years, eleven months, and one day.)

Yeah, so Ed has no one to ring up, and the director’s thrown for a loop. She ends up bringing Evelyn over to confer and figure out what they can film instead of Ed’s joyful sharing of the good news with a loved one. They end up settling on a straight-up interview instead (“How do you feel about winning Star Baker today, Edward? Make sure to rephrase the question in your answer”) and the whole thing comes out so boring and stilted and clichéd that Ed knows it’s gonna get cut to the bone, if any of it ever airs at all.

Maybe they’ll just drop the Star Baker segment for this week entirely. More time for Zumba.

It’s so late by the time Ed and Frenchie get back to the hotel that the Bristol line trains aren’t running anymore. Luckily, Oluwande lives up his way; he has a car and offers Ed a lift home. Ed slumps against the passenger seat window and conks out almost immediately, relieved that the cameraman doesn’t seem to want to make conversation.

By the time they reach the docks, darkness is falling and it’s spitting rain, all a perfect mirror for Ed’s shitty mood. He dumps his bags at the boat and reboots its battery system (which shorted out again over the weekend—he’s got to make some time to rewire it soon). Then he forces himself to head back out and find food, get a hot meal into his body.

Very little is still open this late on a Sunday, and Ed ends up at a curry joint he’s never tried before. He steps inside, picks up a greasy laminated menu, scans his choices . . . and sees the word “zangy,” printed right there in the description of the channa masala.

Ed starts to laugh. It’s probably the exhaustion, but he suddenly feels punchy, unhinged. For what comes next, he doesn’t really think: just snaps a picture of the menu item, finds the number he saved in his phone three weeks ago, and texts it to Stede.

Stede texts back almost immediately with a string of laugh-cry emojis, then another string of confetti cannons—and then, finally, words.

Well come on, you have to order it! Report back on the level of zanginess!

Ed feels the corners of his mouth quirk, just a little.

Two more texts come through.

And Ed, I’m so thrilled for you!! Star Baker, no one deserves it more.

I hope your bum knee feels better with some rest? This was a loooong weekend on our feet, wasn’t it?

thank you, Ed texts back, smiling for real now—and just like that, the Zumba weirdness from earlier feels washed away.

Ed orders the channa masala, because how can he not with Stede requesting a report on zanginess? He texts with Stede while he waits; texts with Stede while he settles into a rickety chair at a tiny table. Texts a freaking curry-eating selfie, to which Stede responds you have a little in your beard, at which point Ed takes twelve more selfies to try to pinpoint the location of the rogue chickpea. On a lark, he decides to send them all to Stede at once; he gets about a million more laugh-cry emojis in return.

And okay, Ed maybe gets it now—why people walk around so oblivious these days, noses buried in their phones. Because he can practically feel the little spike of dopamine hit his brain every time his phone buzzes now, every time he sees “Stede Bonnet – Bake-Off” pop to the top of his messages list. It’s pretty fucking addictive.

They text through the meal.

I’m jealous of your curry, Ed! I had microwaved popcorn and a bottled green smoothie for dinner since I was too tired to cook

But was the smoothie zangy

🤣💀

They text as Ed walks home.

god I can’t believe I have to get up for work tomorrow, gonna be useless

How long have you worked for Blackbeard’s, Ed?

oh, long enough

They text while Ed brushes his teeth, while he peels himself out of his leather trousers. While he pulls off his dried-sweat-crusted blue t-shirt and contemplates whether it should go in the laundry or just straight into the trash.

so what kind of fabric did you say was good for moisture-wicking? think I need to do more shopping

Oh, fab! Merino and linen blend. There’s a great company I order mine from, hang on I’ll send you the kink

LINK

Oh god 😳

And now it’s Ed’s turn to tap the laugh-cry emoji far too many times.

They finally text each other good night, and Ed turns off his screen and climbs into bed. He’s still smiling as he rolls over to shuts his eyes; realizes that he’s been smiling for almost two hours straight.

Maybe, he reflects in the final moments before he drops off to sleep, he hasn’t completely fucked this friendship thing up after all.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, sixteen days later

Ed stands outside the Sainsbury’s on Queen Road, waiting. He’s got three carrier bags loaded with ingredients: several types of flour, fruit and veg, crabmeat, sacks of shredded coconut. Butter—so much butter!—both dairy and vegan. The show has given all the bakers an allowance for buying practice ingredients, but Ed knows he’s probably blown past the series’s budget already. Entering Bake Off has not been a money-making proposition.

But hey, the filming’s half over, and he’s still in the competition! So, as he promised himself, Ed’s arranged to take this week off work, leaving Fang in charge at the boatyard. Of course, the crew has his number, and Ed’s told them they can ring with any issues, at any time of day or night.

Fang laughed out loud when Ed said that. “We’ve got things covered here, boss!” he cried, eyes crinkling. “Go off now, and enjoy your holiday.”

So the crew thinks Ed’s in the Pennines, touring Peak District National Park. And he would like to get up there, someday. The 2005 movie version of Pride and Prejudice with Keira Knightly was filmed in those parts, and it sure made them look beautiful. (Though of course, as adaptations go, Ed prefers the 1995 miniseries with Colin Firth. He’s not a monster.)

But that’s just his cover story, of course. His real destination, for today at least, is Stede’s cottage in the Cotswolds.

Because yep, Stede’s still in the competition, too. He’s even arranged to pick Ed up in Bristol this morning and drive him back home tonight, so Ed won’t have to deal with lugging all his ingredients on public transit.

Which is why Ed’s waiting outside the shops now. It’s a few minutes before Stede is due, and Ed scans the road. He doesn’t know what kind of car Stede drives. Didn’t bother to look in any of the car parks at the hotels they’ve been staying in, and somehow, in the 968 text messages they’ve exchanged over the past two weeks (not that Ed’s been counting), he never thought to ask.

It’s probably a creaky old Vauxhall Astra, he thinks now, seats coated in dog fur. Or maybe some monstrous, gas-guzzling, American-style SUV. Ed cares about the environment, sure, but part of him really hopes Stede drives the motor vehicle equivalent of a boner-killer. Because Ed really doesn’t need to screw up the first friend-hang he’s had in ages (years? maybe ever?) by thinking with his dick.

Not that Stede would be interested. Sure, they’ve been texting almost nonstop since Bread Week, but the messages themselves have been chaste enough. And Ed’s made sure to ask after Mary and the children regularly, to make it clear that he’s clear about Stede’s family situation. In fact, he’s pretty sure Stede texts him back so quickly every time because he’s just lonely up there in the Cotswolds, stuck with all his extravert energy and no family to talk to. If Lucius or Roach had texted him the “zangy” pic, Stede would probably be having an epic text exchange with one of them instead.

And hey, maybe he is having epic side conversations with a bunch of the other bakers right now. Ed doesn’t know. And definitely doesn’t waste any time wondering about it.

(And definitely isn’t still clicking over to @ZumbaKingofNorwich’s Instagram every morning with one hand down his pants.)

(Not every morning.)

But hey, it’s not like Ed can’t keep control of himself when he and Stede are together. The past two weekends in the tent have actually gone great. They’re still being placed at nearby workbenches so the cameras can easily catch their banter. And Noel’s been playing into the fact that they’ve become friends, too—doing shit like goading them both into a “cinnamon challenge” while their kanelbullar technicals proved during Swedish Week. (Neither ended up being particularly adept at swallowing a full tablespoon of cinnamon. In fact, Ed laughed so hard that his cinnamon came right back up, the reddish-brown liquid streaming into his beard as Noel declared that he’d known since week one that Ed was a blood-drinker.)

Then this past week, the cameras focused in on Ed and Stede dueling with extra caramel shards during the showstopper (a short-lived and rather sticky situation, though raucous for the thirty seconds it lasted before Ed’s shard broke off at the hilt). Izzy’s palpable disgust with their boyish antics only added to the hilarity. And Lucius started calling the two of them “camera sluts” for how much attention they drew from the shooting crew. He said it lovingly, though—Ed thinks.

Anyway, yeah. Ed and Stede text up a storm when they’re apart, they have a great time when they’re together in the tent, and they’ve both managed to survive in the competition this long. They watched Jackie win Swedish Week (apparently, she has a Swedish husband at home and is “intimately familiar” with bakes from that country) and said goodbye to Buttons, who was less at home with Scandinavian bakes than he’d been with sea-themed Scottish ones. Then (“curse of the Star Baker!”) they said goodbye to Jackie when she was eliminated in Caramel Week. Jim won that one, laughingly calling their shards “caramel shivs” and appropriately slaying the competition with them.

Week six will be “Free-From Week,” with the twist that each of the weekend’s challenges will be gluten-, dairy-, or sugar-free. And there’s another twist now as well, which they learned in an e-mail from Evelyn just this morning. Apparently, the higher-ups at Channel Four have reviewed rough cuts of the first few episodes and are concerned that there’s not enough drama in the tent this year. So they’ve requested (read: demanded) that the producers cut down on baking times to produce more tension. Result? The signature challenge for this week now has a 15-minute-shorter baking time than had originally been assigned.

The bakers’ Discord has already been aflurry with complaints, Ed’s phone pinging almost nonstop while he roamed the aisles of Sainsbury’s.

Zheng
This is really messing with my vision for this challenge . . .

Lucius
Yeah, hard times ahead, GF pastry cannot be RUSHED

Izzy
don’t those twats know we’ve been practicing our bakes for weeks??
useless fucking fuckers

Ed’s not quite so fussed. He’s pretty sure he can adjust his timings, and today should definitely help. At Stede’s, he should have time for a run at both his signature and his showstopper, really taking advantage of the cottage’s larger kitchen space and cooler temperatures. The closer to summer they get, the hotter it stays in Ed’s tiny boat kitchen, with its small windows and lack of a cross-breeze. Of course, there’s something to be said for practicing in challenging conditions. But when it comes to pastry-making, Ed’s glad for one day with a fighting chance at his butter not melting before he can even rub it into the flour.

“Kia ora, stranger.”

Ed jumps. His mind had been fixed on his bakes, and his eyes on the road, but there’s Stede on the footpath, walking up to him. And shit, he looks good today. Maybe he’s going to change later once they get baking, but for now he’s in a dapper paisley button-down that looks like it’s been tailored to make him look as broad-shouldered as possible. His hair’s more mussed-up than it usually is for filming, his lower half’s encased in a pair of peacock-blue jeans that might as well be painted on, and—oh, god—he’s wearing matching eyeglasses with thin, bright-blue rims. It comes back to Ed now that Stede had glasses on the first time they met, the day of the purple-shirt exchange, but he hasn’t seen them since. Stede must wear contacts in the tent, which is a fucking crime considering how hot he looks in these.

Not that Ed should be noticing things like that. Shit.

Ed is wearing . . . a black tracksuit. He’s not even sure he brushed his hair this morning, and he could kill his two-hours-ago self who decided that not making an effort with his appearance would be the best way to prove he has nothing but platonically friendly feelings toward his fellow baker.

Turns out it’s not proving anything. (Especially to his cock.)

“Hey, bro!” Ed cries, too bright, too loud. He claps Stede on the arm too hard, but Stede just takes it (because, you know, shoulders) and then even has the audacity to grin, like that thwack’s been the best bit of his day so far. Like Ed’s not already making things weird at 8:45 on a Tuesday morning.

“How was your drive?” Ed asks.

“Oh, fine,” Stede says, “though my phone was blowing up, which got rather distracting. I don’t look at my phone on the road—it’s become a Very Big Family Rule for all of us, ever since we’ve started teaching Alma to drive. So I’ve been quite curious for the last hour about what exactly is going on in Discord! But I’m finally caught up. The young Mr. Hands, especially, doesn’t seem very pleased, does he?”

“He doesn’t,” Ed agrees, and for the first time since he met the kid, he feels grateful for Izzy’s grumping. Because it’s leading them right into safe waters now, isn’t it? Baking, timing, corporate overlords, gluten-free pastry and the challenges particular to it . . . those’ll get them all the way back to the cottage, if Ed’s lucky. No need for his brain to jam up against Stede’s distractingly attractive appearance again.

Stede grabs two of Ed’s carrier bags and, before Ed can protest, inclines his head back the way he came. “Come on. I parked behind the shops.” Ed follows him, nattering about spelt flour vs. sorghum, until Stede stops in front of a vehicle that’s . . .

Well, it’s not a Vauxhall Astra.

Ed stares. And then he says “Did you dress to match your car?” because he’ll never learn to filter himself, will he? Never learn to leave the small stuff observed but unremarked upon; to resist bringing the subtext into text.

Stede, though, just laughs. He glances down at his jeans, over at the shining teal body of the fucking MGB Roadster that apparently belongs to him, and then back at Ed, laughing even harder. “Would you believe me if I told you I didn’t do it on purpose?”

“Not for a second.” Now Ed’s laughing, too. Because Stede really does match the car, almost exactly. Of course it’s a soft-top, and the top is down (which explains the mussed hair). Ed can’t help envisioning Stede driving it, and in his mind driver-Stede looks like one of those children’s figurines where you plug its legs into the toy car and they disappear, the two parts fusing into a sort of merperson, only with a car body instead of a fish tail.

“It’s a little much, I know,” Stede says, rapping on the boot of the Roadster. “An inheritance, actually, from my father. Only thing of his I could stand to keep, really. He kept it locked up in a garage for decades, like a museum piece. And it was beige, before. I figured he’d hate the idea of my repainting it a color I liked and actually driving it around.”

He chuckles at this, and Ed smiles back, though the story feels like it’s the tip of a sad iceberg. Ed’s all too familiar with the kind of father who’d hate the idea of his child actually enjoying themself. It’s not an experience he relishes having in common with anyone.

Stede pops the boot and starts lifting Ed’s groceries into it. “Also,” he continues, “it’s been handy to have an extra car around, even if it is just a two-seater. The old family vehicle’s been getting a bit tight for the five of us.”

Ed does a quick person-count in his head, then realizes that Stede must be including the family dog in that number. Which tracks. Anyway, it doesn’t look like the dog’s been allowed in the Roadster—the interior’s pristine.

Stede slams the boot. “I can put the top up for the drive back,” he says. “It’s such a nice morning that I thought a bit of wind in our hair might be . . . well, I’m just realizing that it might be less nice with your length of hair, Ed.” He walks around to the side of the car and reaches in to grab the fabric top.

But Ed stops him. “Nah, mate, it’s fine. Top down’ll be nice. Let me just pull this up.” He starts twisting his hair into a bun. “You don’t happen to have a cap or something hiding in that glove box, do you?”

“Oh, let me check.” Stede pops the box open, rummages around, and then emits a promising-sounding “ooh!” But what he pulls out isn’t a hat. It’s a large square of red fabric, one of those silky-looking things with a fancy name that he had hanging off his hotel TV set the day he and Ed met.

“Perhaps this could help?” He holds it up.

“Uh—” Ed’s skeptical, but he doesn’t want to be rude. “Could do, I suppose.”

He expects Stede to hand the silky thing over. But instead Stede says “May I?” and apparently Ed nods, because the next thing he knows Stede is draping the silk up over his hair, then stepping around him to tie the ends into a little knot at the base of Ed’s skull.

Ed’s breath catches as one of Stede’s manicured fingertips brushes his neck. “There we go,” Stede says, stepping back around Ed to admire his handiwork. “You wear it well.”

Ed hears the huff of his own breath, feels the smile tease his face at the compliment. Suddenly (tracksuit be damned) he feels classy and graceful, like an old-timey movie star, hair in place under a silk kerchief and ready for a glamorous spin in his co-star’s cabriolet.

The feeling lasts all of ten seconds, until he turns and catches his reflection in the car’s rearview mirror. What Ed actually looks like is Little Red Riding Hood crossed with a washerwoman.

Jesus fuck.

Well, nice of Stede to pretend that Ed looked good, anyway.

Ed climbs into the passenger seat, buckling in while Stede situates himself behind the wheel and starts the engine. “Would you like to pick the music?” Stede asks as he angles them out of the car park. “I’ve got a bunch of playlists on my phone there.”

“Sure,” Ed says. Stede must have updated the Roadster’s console, too, because it’s got a sat-nav screen and a USB port with a cable. Ed plugs the cable into Stede’s phone, swipes at the screen—no password—and clicks open the music app to scroll through his playlists.

Zumba 1
Zumba 2
Zumba 3
Zumba 4
Zumba Kids
Zumba Gold

Okay, so they’re all Zumba lists. Which makes sense—Stede’s an all-in kind of guy, so why wouldn’t he go all in on the Zumba music? Still, the judgy part of Ed’s brain (the part that would argue it has some taste) is starting to suspect that Stede’s musical preferences might kind of suck. Which, hey, could be a good thing! One fucking thing, finally, that’s not perfect about this man.

Ed clicks on the Gold list, assuming Gold means best, and taps the random play button. A Rihanna song from over a decade ago blasts out of the speakers, first the synth, then her voice.

“Yellow diamonds in the light
Now we’re standing side by side . . . ”

Stede starts bopping his head to the music, tapping a little rhythm on the steering wheel as he drives, and yeah, confirmed, the dork is actually into this stuff.

“So you, ah, teach a routine to this song or something?” Ed asks. (Like he doesn’t already know exactly what sequence goes with this one, like he hasn’t watched the video forty-two fucking times.)

“Mostly stretches to this one,” Stede responds, spinning the wheel into a turn. “It’s more of a warm-up song.”

Warms a lot of things up, Ed thinks. He presses his legs together.

“It’s the way I’m feeling I just can’t denyyyyy-ay-ay…”

“Fuck off, Rihanna.”

“What’s that?”

Shit, did Ed say it out loud? “Oh. Nothing!” He casts around for anything else to say about the song. What his brain settles on is “And your students don’t mind warming up to a song that’s about drugs?”

Stede doesn’t take his eyes off the road (he’s apparently quite serious about modeling good driving behavior, even without his kid in the car), but he does reach out and turn the volume knob down a bit. “What, Ed?”

And yeah, okay, Ed’s being weird again, but he can’t fucking help it. He plows on. “Y’know, the lyrics. Yellow diamonds, and all that.”

Stede apparently doesn’t know. “She’s singing about love—isn’t she? About finding love in a hopeless place?”

“Sure, mate, that’s the chorus. But it’s hopeless ’cause she’s addicted. I mean, if you listen to the other lyrics—”

“Who listens to the other lyrics?”

This stops Ed short. Because . . . doesn’t everybody?

He racks his brain. The radio’s always on at work, and Ivan’s always singing along, seems to know the lyrics to pretty much everything. Fang, too. Does that mean Stede’s an outlier if he doesn’t? Or just that Ed’s got an unusually musical work crew?

As for himself, Ed loves music—well, he loves good music. He doesn’t love shit music, which is how he’d classify a whole lot of the popular music from the last twenty years if pressed. He’s got a whole mental rolodex of modern-day genius singer-songwriters whose work will never be as celebrated as it should be. He’s got their lyrics tattooed on his brain and images from their songs tattooed on his body, and—

Look. It’s bad enough that Stede apparently only listens to Zumba songs. But now it turns out that he doesn’t actually even listen to them?

You’re being a dick, says the voice in Ed’s brain that seems reserved solely for letting him know when he’s being a dick. He takes a deep breath, tries to channel his not-an-asshole-about-music side. He knows it’s in there somewhere.

“We found love in a hopeless place!
We found love in a hoooopeless—”

Or, you know what, maybe Ed will just click through to the next song!

He jabs the button, and a man’s voice pours out of the speakers with a whole new set of lyrics.

“And I know she'll be the death of me
At least we'll both be numb
And she'll always get the best of me
The worst is yet to come—”

The laugh bursts from Ed’s mouth before he can even try to hold it back.

“What now?” Stede asks, and his voice is starting to sound peevish, almost Izzy-esque. “What’s wrong with this one?”

“It’s—just—also—about drugs!” Ed manages between laughs.

“What?”

“Come on, everyone knows this one. I can’t feel my face when I’m with you?”

“But I love it,” Stede snaps back. “That’s the next line. See, I do know some lyrics.”

“Yeah, okay,” Ed says. “But it’s still about cocaine.”

Stede’s lips press into a thin line. “Then who’s the you? That he’s with in the song?”

“The you’s the coke.”

“No.” Stede shakes his head. “He said ‘she’ at the beginning. He’s singing about—you know, his girlfriend or whoever. His lover. And she tells him he’ll never be alone, because she loves him.”

“She doesn’t love him. She’s coke.”

“But you just said you is the coke. Not she.”

Ed can’t believe he’s arguing semantics about which pronoun symbolizes street drugs in a fucking Zumba warmup song. And he can’t believe that anyone (much less Stede Bonnet, who he thought had half a brain) would argue that a song that literally revolves around a numb face isn’t about coke.

But they go back and forth about it until the song runs out, and apparently the man is going to stand his ground on this one to the bitter end. Die on this hill, for love.

And Ed finds himself . . . not conceding, exactly, but agreeing to disagree with Stede and leaving it there. Because there are worse things to believe in, he guesses. Worse things than love to defend to the death.

Still, he’s relieved when the next song that comes up on the list is in Spanish, so they can’t debate what the lyrics mean. (Though for a hot second Ed’s tempted to pretend that he’s fluent and, just to mess with Stede, start shouting that this one’s about drugs as well.)

Chapter Text

Twenty-one songs later, Ed has learned three significant things.

First: Zumba Gold does NOT mean the best Zumba. It actually means Zumba for old people. Or, as Stede puts it, “for folks who are looking for a lower-impact workout, often due to age-related joint degeneration.” (He doesn’t go as far as saying, “like your bum knee,” but Ed gets the message. Zumba Gold is Zumba for people like him.)

Second: The Cotswolds are designated one of Britain’s “Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty” for a reason. Massive trees, clear creeks, rolling green hills dotted with old stone buildings—it’s like a fucking fairytale landscape. One that Ed’s been turning his nose up at visiting the whole time he’s lived in Bristol, even though it’s been right on his doorstep. “Leave it to the tourists,” he’s always said, without ever wondering why the tourists might be so interested.

Now, hanging out the side of Stede’s Roadster like a panting dog, he drinks it all in. Wonders what else he’s been hiding himself away from behind a curtain of leather and cynicism.

And Third: Stede Bonnet has money. All those fine fabrics in his hotel room should’ve been a clue, plus the fact that he could apparently fuck off work for over a month just to practice baking. And now there’s this souped-up vintage Roadster. Stede mentioned an inheritance, but Ed still wonders what the whole story is. Whether maybe Stede had a different career before the Zumba thing. Or do they live off of Mary’s income?

Ed’s still thinking about money when they turn into a private lane. Suddenly, he wonders whether Stede’s rental “cottage” might actually be a manor house, or even a castle. (You can rent castles on AirBnB now, right?) Wonders whether he might be about to have an Elizabeth-in-Pride-and-Prejudice moment, realizing she’s in love with Mr. Darcy when she lays eyes on his massive estate.

So Ed’s relieved when the structure that comes into view is actually modest-sized. It’s built of stone, covered with ivy, and surrounded by huge shade trees—in other words, picturesque as fuck—but it is actually a cottage.

“This is perfect, man,” Ed says as he and Stede climb out of the car. He’s already spotted the place between two trees where he’d sling a hammock if he lived here; climb in with a thick book, read and nap through the afternoon. Savor the quiet. He wonders, though, if the quiet has maybe been too much for Stede, because he seems absolutely thrilled to have someone here to talk to now. He’s already yakking about the history of the house, the extent of the grounds, which direction has a garden with the nicest flowers if Ed might like to take a ramble later and pick a few.

“Sounds great,” Ed says as he unties the red silk from his hair. It seems to have helped. The wind hasn’t knotted things up too badly, though he still can’t resist flipping his head over and going at it all with his hands a few times. It’s not until he flips it back up that he realizes Stede has stopped talking about the property. That he’s standing there, Ed’s carrier bags in his hands, staring.

“What?” Ed asks. His hands fly back up to his head. “Shit, did I fuck it up even more doing that? Does it look insane?”

“It . . . no.” Stede shakes his head. “It’s lovely. Ed, you really have the loveliest hair I’ve ever seen on another human.”

As soon as he says this, Stede goes pink. And, okay, what’s Ed supposed to do with that?

Make a joke, apparently. “Yeah, well, fellow humans are hardly competition. Put me up against an angora rabbit. Or—or one of those Scottish cows?”

“Yes,” Stede says with a relieved-sounding chuckle. “Your hair has nothing on a Highland Coo.”

“Right, exactly,” Ed says, and he’s thankful the tension’s broken. Though a part of him is also thinking you couldn’t just take the compliment? Say thank you?

Well, maybe he can compliment back! “Hey, your human hair isn’t so bad, either.”

Stede eyebrows bounce behind his glasses. “This old hair?”

“Dunno what you’re calling old. Hardly see any grays in there.”

“Heh, look closer.”

And wouldn’t Ed like to? But no, shit, that’s not going to lead anywhere good.

He breathes out instead, grabs the last carrier bag. “Okay, you gonna show me this magical practice kitchen, or what?”

***

The outside of the cottage may be old and stoney, but the inside has clearly been redone. The kitchen is, as promised, enormous and state of the art: huge wide counters, double sink, double oven, massive gleaming fridge. And unlike Jane’s dark little galley, it’s flooded with sunlight from the east-facing windows.

Stede heaves Ed’s bags onto a counter, then beckons him through to see the rest of the cottage. The kitchen opens on the other side into a sitting area with a plush-looking red couch and a TV. There are two bedrooms, each with an ensuite, a small laundry room, and—the pièce de résistance—a walk-in pantry stocked to the brim with baking equipment and supplies.

“Please, use whatever you like,” Stede says, indicating the shelves. “I’ll have to have it all cleaned out by Friday anyway. It’s the last week of my rental here. I was lucky to keep it as long as I did, but the landlady has other guests booked in for the rest of the summer.”

Ed takes note of a couple of items he might want to grab for later, then follows Stede back into the kitchen.

“Shall we get started?” Stede asks.

Ed nods and starts to unload his groceries. “So, what’s your plan for Free-From Week?”

“Honestly?” Stede says. “My plan is to accept with grace the very high likelihood that I’ll be eliminated.”

“What?” Ed plunks a tin of Old Bay Seasoning onto the counter. “Mate, don’t talk like that.”

“Like what? Realistically?” Stede shakes his head. “Ed, I suck at technicals. You’ve seen how low I usually finish. And I was feeling okay about my signature plan, but they’ve just cut down our time! Plus, the bakers who are left are all so strong. You, Izzy, Jim, Zheng, Roach! It’ll surely be me or Lucius who goes home next, and based on my track record, I won’t be surprised at all if it’s me.”

“Hey, hey,” Ed says, pushing back. “Come on now. So far, you’ve done—”

He’s about to say “great,” but, maybe the more accurate answer would be “fine.” Stede’s approached greatness a few times, at least in Ed’s opinion. But he’s been inconsistent. Other than his third-place simit in Bread Week, he’s always been in the bottom half in technicals. And while his other bakes often look pretty amazing (hello, pirate ship!), Stede does have a tendency to go for flavors that anyone who’s studied past series of Bake Off should know are not favorites of the judges. He’s done a lot of botanical stuff, like the rosewater-tinted appelkaka he presented in Swedish week, or those “lovely lavender soap” cakes (which Paul did say tasted too much like . . . wait for it . . . soap). And he chose matcha as the hero flavor for his caramel week showstopper flan. Has anyone in the fifteen-year history of Bake Off ever presented a matcha bake that the judges loved? Ed can’t think of one. The point is, Stede’s flavors haven’t done him many favors so far.

But maybe that’s something Ed can help him with. “Well, okay, whether you think you’re gonna get through or not, you’ve still got to bake this week. May as well put in your best effort, no? Let’s hear about your recipes.”

Stede acquiesces. “Well, there’s the gluten-free pithivier signature,” Stede says. “My plan was to do one filled with asparagus and beef rendang—you know, the Indonesian dish? Have you ever had it?”

Ed shakes his head.

“Oh, Ed. It’s so good. Well, I don’t flatter myself that my homemade version is anything near what you’d find in a good Indonesian restaurant, much less Indonesia itself, but—”

“Mate, I’m sure it’s terrific,” Ed says, smiling. “Okay, so beef rendang filling . . . ”

“Yes, and some quick pickles as a condiment to serve it with if I have time to—”

“No!” Ed barks, cutting him off. “Not pickles.”

Stede gives him a funny look. “What? Why? They go perfectly with the rendang.”

“Yeah, but Paul hates pickles. Didn’t you watch the 2020 series? That bao challenge, when Mark put gherkins in his burger bao? Paul wouldn’t eat it, he had to make him a special one without the pickles—it was a whole thing.”

“Um,” Stede says, “I guess I . . . vaguely remember that? Now that you mention it?”

Ed’s pretty sure that Stede has absolutely no memory of this, but he lets it slide. “Okay, so the pickles are out, that should save you a few minutes. What else? What kind of pastry are you going for, flaky or rough puff?”

“Rough puff.”

“You sure? If they’ve cut down on our time, that could—”

“It’s not the pastry that takes me the full three hours,” Stede explains. “It’s the filling. Rendang has to cook down slowly, you can’t rush it. Losing fifteen minutes off that process is the real blow. But Evelyn said we could change our recipes as long as we sent in the new ingredients list by Thursday morning, right? I’ve already got a kilo of stew beef in the fridge. So, I figured I’d give it one good shot today, and if I can’t do it in the time, I’ll have tomorrow to come up with something else.”

That seems like a fair plan, so Ed lets Stede get to it. And Ed, they agree, will tackle his showstopper first, so they’re not fighting over the same equipment. (The cottage kitchen is nice, but it’s not stocked-with-two-KitchenAid-stand-mixers nice.)

The showstopper brief this week is a vegan celebration cake—multi-tiered, highly decorated, yadda yadda yadda—and honestly, Ed’s not super concerned about pulling this one off. Fang’s vegan, and Ed brings a homemade birthday cake in to work for him every year, so he has hands-on experience with the art of vegan cakery. For this challenge he’s pulling from Aotearoa’s “West Island,” doing a twist on that Australian classic, the lamington. His giant version will have three tiers, three different flavors of cake, three jam fillings, and a fuckton of coconut on the outside. Using vegan butter and milk shouldn’t be an issue, but the real challenge will be making sure that even without eggs, the cake still has enough structure to stack.

Ed practiced it once, weeks ago, before filming even started, just to make sure the concept was sound. Now he pulls out his notes from that attempt, smooths them open on the counter, and starts to strategize. Meanwhile, Stede leaves the kitchen and comes back a few minutes later, changed into a t-shirt and shorts. They’re both on the more shapeless/athletic end of the spectrum, but still, for a hot second Ed’s brain sounds the alarm: Legs! Legs! Legs! And apparently Stede’s put his contacts back in, too, because his glasses are regrettably (or, thankfully? fewer distractions?) gone.

Across the kitchen, Stede fiddles with a Bluetooth speaker. “You don’t mind if I put music on while we bake, do you, Ed?”

“Suit yourself,” Ed says, though he’s already mentally preparing to tune it out. Good training, at least, for tuning out the chaos of the tent.

Stede starts up another one of his Zumba playlists, but thankfully keeps the volume low enough that Ed can ignore the insipid lyrics. The beat of the music becomes a kind of energetic buzz in the background, though—and Ed can’t help it, he finds himself chopping fruit for his jam to the rhythm of Katy Perry.

But Stede . . . well, every time Ed glances up between tasks, he spots him low-level dancing his way through the pithivier-making process. He bounces while he purees rendang paste; his feet shuffle while he folds sheets of pastry. In the tent, Stede tends to hold himself much more stiffly, and he’ll get flustered when the judges or presenters break his concentration. So it’s nice to see him relaxed here in private, actually enjoying the baking process.

And his little dance moves remind Ed of something, too. Of someone? Finally, the memory gels: it’s another Bake Off contestant, Val, from 2016. She was some kind of fitness nut, too, and she was always dancing while she baked in the tent.

Though that isn’t the detail Ed usually recalls when he thinks about Val. What’s stuck in his mind about her, for all these years, is her friendship with Selasi. A 66-year-old white lady from Yorkshire and 30-year-old Black man from Ghana via London might not have been the most expected bosom-buddy pairing in the world, but their connection was real. There was even a whole article about them in The Atlantic years later, about how close they’d stayed after doing the show, despite their age gap and their homes being hours apart. It was just another one of those heart-warming things about Bake Off . . . and it was one of the things that made even a loner like Ed believe in the power of the show to forge friendships.

So if Stede’s channeling Val in the kitchen today, does that make Ed Selasi? He’d take that—Selasi seems like a cool guy, and he’s a great fucking baker. Ed’s gotten all kinds of tips from his Instagram. And didn’t Ed tell Stede the day they met that he gave old-lady vibes? He’d been joking, of course, but maybe Ed should make an effort to hang onto this Stede-as-Val concept going forward. Because he’s pretty sure Selasi never wasted any of their time together staring at Val’s arse.

Ed tears his own eyes away from Stede’s swaying hips and focuses in on the next task on his checklist. Whip the aquafaba, let’s go.

An hour later there’s a rich umami flavor rising from the simmering pot of rendang on the stove, and the kitchen smells amazing. Ed’s cakes are out of the oven, cooling on racks and thankfully not looking too dense or collapsed. He heads to the fridge to retrieve his jams; Stede slides past him to pull his pastry out of the freezer, and it’s smooth, like choreography, like they’ve been sharing a kitchen for years. Stede touches Ed on the back as he passes again, just a pat of encouragement, and Ed catches Stede’s eye before he moves away and smiles.

Another hour and a half passes. The giant lamington cake comes together well, and far enough within the showstopper time limit that Ed starts wondering if he should do more, add some decorative vegan meringues or something. He’d ask Stede’s opinion—he’s so good with the visual stuff—but Stede is working frantically now, shoving the whole pot of rendang into the freezer to cool and racing back to roll his pastry dough thinner before it gets too warm on the counter.

The gluten-free pastry looks like it’s proving tricky to work with, cracking when it’s too thick to mold into shape, but tearing when it’s rolled too thin. (Almost like it could use something to hold it together? Like . . . gluten?) Ed’s impulse is to swoop in and offer assistance, but he knows Stede’s trying to run a real time-trial here. Plus, Ed isn’t sure he knows any tricks that would actually help. So he steps back, pulls his phone out, and retreats to the sitting room.

Seems like just about everyone’s at home practicing today, because the Discord chat is on fire.

Jim
can’t get this fucking gf dough to hold together

Zheng
Have you tried adding egg? Helped some w/mine. Though my timing’s crazy tight now. Not sure the 15-m cut was a rational proposition . . .

Izzy
of course it’s not fucking rational!! channel 4 r twats

Lucius
yeah channel 4 can EAT my shit!
or eat this at least

Lucius has posted a picture of what looks like a burnt-to-a-crisp rugby ball.

Lucius
in case any of you were thinking of upping the oven temp up to save time……DON’T.

Roach
They’re clearly doing this to torture us. Just going for the drama.

Ed, brow furrowed, jumps into the chat.

Edward
has anyone reached out to someone at Love Prods about this? told Evelyn the time cut's a real problem?

The replies are almost instantaneous.

Zheng
I pinged her an hour ago. No dice.

Roach
Yeah, no luck, she says it’s not getting changed back.

Izzy
me too they don’t care

Jim
ugggh, pendejos

Ed doesn’t even need to speak Spanish to understand the sentiment in that one.

He hasn’t even made his own attempt yet, but just watching Stede struggle across the kitchen is enough to tell him that whoever’s fucked with the baking times is both a dick and a dumbass. Because Bake Off isn’t supposed to be like this, super-stressful and negative and cutthroat! People can watch American cooking shows if they want that.

Ed’s already envisioning the judging Saturday, every pithivier either underdone because of the time cut or overdone because of tricks people have tried to rush the process. The phrases “soggy bottom” and “tough as old boots” in heavy rotation. No one getting a good outcome, everyone tense and pissy going into the technical. It won’t be pleasant to experience, and it won’t be nice for the viewers to watch at home come autumn, either.

Ed accepts that it’s probably a lost cause, but he fires off an e-mail on these points to Evelyn, anyway.

Just as he’s sending it he hears the oven door slam, and a moment later Stede stumbles into the sitting room and collapses onto the other end of the couch.

“That was so intense. And I’m still”—he checks his watch, then curses—“shit, seven minutes behind the new time limit! If the pastry even bakes through in the time I hope it will. And that wasn’t counting time for interruptions and interviews.” He drops his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. “God, I’m hungry.”

“You could, like, save your energy a little,” Ed teases. “Not dance so much while you’re baking.”

“I don’t dance while I’m baking, Ed.”

Ed snorts. “You absolutely fuckin’ do!”

“What? I—”

“Mate, you never stop moving. I should’ve taken a video, you could put it on your Instagram with all the others.”

Ed realizes what he’s said only after it’s well out of his mouth.

Stede opens his eyes, turns slowly to Ed. “You’ve watched my videos? On my Zumba account?”

Ed feels his face growing hot, though he tells himself he has nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s a public account, and it’s linked to the baking one that Stede shared with the group! Plus, Stede can have no way of knowing how many of those videos Ed’s watched, how many times he’s replayed them, what exactly the hand that’s not holding Ed’s phone gets up to while he’s—

Fuck, Ed should never have brought up the videos.

If Ed’s turning red, though, Stede is turning scarlet; it’s a goddamned blushing contest, right there on the couch, and Stede’s question hangs over them like the world’s most awkward rain cloud.

“Um,” Ed says, desperate to fill the silence, “um. Yeah. Clicked over there once, that day when everyone shared their accounts. Figured I’d see what a Zumba king’s routines looked like.”

He says it lightly—yeah, just clicked over, NBD—but Stede’s staring at him now like the fate of the world just might hang on what Ed says next.

“And?” Stede’s voice sounds a little strangled. “How did they look?”

Ed forces himself to shrug, forces out the next couple of sentences. “Oh, you know. Not really my thing.”

Stede’s face falls, and shit, that wasn’t what Ed intended.

“I mean, you’re great!” he says quickly. “Really, really good. At . . . the Zumba. And you were in the Bake Off tent, too. Bringing Jim out of their shell like that. They’re like a different person now.”

This is true: the shift in Jim over the last couple of weeks has been remarkable. They message in the group chat much more often, and even sit with the other bakers and crew members during lunch breaks. Ed’s seen them talking and laughing with Oluwande in particular—and has seen how his camera zooms in now on Jim a little more than it does on the other bakers.

It’s nice to see Jim making connections, making friends. It’s exactly what Ed had hoped to do in the tent, too. And he’s kind of doing it, he supposes. He enjoys swapping tips and jokes in the group chat; enjoys hanging out with the other bakers when they get downtime on the weekends. He just happens to enjoy the company of one particular baker more than all the others.

But that’s okay, isn’t it? To like one friend of yours better than the rest? “Best friends”—that’s a thing for a reason, right?

Ed’s just not used to having a best friend. That’s why he keeps making it weird.

Stede’s nodding. “That’s my favorite thing about teaching, you know. When I really get to see a shift in a person’s self-confidence.”

“Yeah,” Ed says, grasping onto this new direction in their conversation for dear life. “That sounds really rewarding.”

And then, thank fuck, Ed remembers that Stede said he was hungry, and there’s a giant cake in the kitchen he can slice up. Something they can both stuff into their traps instead of talking around the Zumba video situation any more.

So Ed jumps up and crosses the room. Jangles around in the kitchen drawers until he finds a big knife and a cake server. Slices two pieces of lamington cake and delivers them to the sitting room with a flourish. He forgets to bring forks, but apparently Stede’s hungry enough to go in with his hands.

“Mm!” he grunts with a full mouth as he shoots Ed an overenthusiastic thumbs-up. “So good.”

Ed grins—though when Stede starts licking the coconut and chocolate off his fingers, he has to turn away.

Val and Selasi, he reminds himself. That’s who we are. Friends. Best friends! Friends for life!

And when that doesn’t quite do the trick: Mary, Mary, Mary.

Chapter Text

Stede’s pithivier looks pretty good when it comes out of the oven: crust nice and brown, no holes or tears in sight. He suggests that they eat it for lunch al fresco in the garden, soak up a little vitamin D while their arteries soak up all the coconut cream and animal fat. Sounds nice to Ed, who hunts down dishes and cutlery and a couple of fancy cloth napkins to take outside while the pithivier cools.

Stede, meanwhile, pulls lettuce and carrots out of the fridge to chop, which leaves Ed trying very pointedly not to look at Stede’s arse while thinking about salad getting tossed.

“There are drinks in the fridge door,” Stede says over his shoulder.

Ed pulls the door open, and he must’ve missed earlier that it looks like a supermarket display case in there. There’s a rainbow of Italian sodas, multiple types of mineral water, and several brands of beer and cider—wait. It’s all nonalcoholic beer and cider.

“Mate. Uh, wow.”

Stede glances over shyly. “I wasn’t sure what you’d prefer, Ed.”

“So you bought out the entire shop?” Ed’s teasing, but he grins even as he shakes his head. “Lunatic.”

He paws through the choices, touched that anyone would go to such an effort on his behalf, when behind a green glass bottle of Pellegrino he spots—

It can’t be.

Ed pulls out two shiny brown cans of L&P, the words “world famous in New Zealand” emblazoned across the lemon-shaped logos.

“Stede, where did you find these?”

Stede keeps chopping the carrots, barely looking up this time, but he also clearly can’t stop the grin that’s spreading across his face. “Oh, the internet has everything these days.”

Ed stands there, cold can in each hand, and it’s possible he’s never felt so fucking moved. He thinks about crossing the kitchen to hug Stede, grabbing him from behind and lifting him off his feet to spin him around a little. But then Stede turns, already holding the salad bowl. “Shall we?” he says, and then he’s ducking out the door to the garden before Ed can even say “thank you.”

There’s a picnic table in the garden, green paint peeling off it charmingly in the sun. Ed can’t remember the last time he sat across from just one other person and shared a proper meal with them. Now, as he cracks open the L&Ps and pours them into glasses, it feels simultaneously festive and domestic, celebratory and cozy.

Stede sets the pithivier in the middle of the table. “Do you want to do the honors?” he asks, passing Ed a knife. “Channel the judges a bit for me?”

“Sure, all right.” Ed makes two cuts in the pastry and levers a wedge onto his plate. It hangs together well—no too-wet filling sloshing out, no soggy bottom collapsing during the transfer. Ed scrapes at the pastry bottom with his fork, like he’s seen the judges do on TV a hundred times, to show that it’s solid and flaky. He hears Stede breathe a sigh of relief.

“Pastry looks good,” Ed says. “Nice and thin on top, too. But how does it taste?”

Stede giggles at Ed’s Prue voice. Ed digs in with his fork now, loading it up with a tall bite that contains each element of the dish. He shovels it into his mouth before it can fall apart, chews, and—

“Holy shit, Stede, this is good.”

Stede’s blush returns. “Oh, Ed. You don’t have to—”

“No, I mean it. This is . . . like . . . ” Ed dives in for another bite, for more of the crisp pastry and the bright asparagus and the impossibly tender, wildly flavorful beef. He closes his eyes as it all melds on his tongue, and the groan of appreciation that comes out of his mouth sounds lewd, even to him. “Yeah, confirmed. My mouth is having an orgasm.”

Ed’s eyes are still closed, but he hears Stede’s bark of laughter, and that’s such a nice sound that he wants to make it happen again.

“Yep. Mouthgasm. I’m in love . If it were legal to marry a pastry, I’d get down on my knees and propose right now to this pithivier.” Ed opens his eyes at last and flashes Stede a big grin. “Seriously, mate. It’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.”

“Really?” Stede squeaks.

“Really.” Ed shoves another large bite into his mouth to prove the point. “Look, are you gonna have any? Because I’ll finish the whole damn thing by myself right now, I swear to god.”

Stede laughs again, but he reaches for the knife to cut himself a piece. Ed watches him take his own first bite, watches the smile cross his face. “It did come out rather nice, didn’t it?”

“Fuck yeah, it did!” Ed thumps on the picnic table for emphasis, making the cutlery jump. “Stede, you’ve got to bake this in the tent on Saturday.”

“But the timing—”

Ugh, the fucking timing. “Okay, look—there’s got to be a way. Because this is Star-Baker level shit. The judges have to try it. If Hollywood doesn’t give you a fucking handshake, I’ll chop off his hand and shake yours with it myself.”

“Erm,” Stede says. “That sounds . . . violent?”

“I’d do violence in defense of this pithivier. It’s that good.”

Ed grabs his glass then and raises it. Stede lifts his, too, and they clink. Ed’s first swig of the L&P is cold and lemony and fizzy and perfect on his tongue after the richness of the pithivier. The sun’s warm on his back, too, and Stede’s still smiling across from him, and honestly, this is shaping up to be a damn good day, all told.

“This is fun,” Stede says, almost as if he’s reading Ed’s mind.

“What? Watching me devour your hours of work in two minutes flat?” Ed’s already cutting himself a second slice.

“Hearing you talk like this,” Stede says. “Seeing you get excited about something.”

Ed pauses, knife halfway through the pastry.

“You’re just usually so cool about everything,” Stede continues. “It’s fun to see your love of food come out. Extra fun that’s it’s over something I’ve baked, of course, but—well. It just makes the puzzle pieces fit together a little better.”

Ed feels his eyebrows lift. “I’m a puzzle?”

“Well, a bit.” Stede’s eyes drop briefly to his plate, but then he looks back up at Ed. “I’ve been wondering about certain things, is all. I mean, that day when you won Star Baker. You seemed a little . . . muted about it. If it’d been me, you would’ve had to peel me off the tent ceiling! It just got me wondering why you wanted to do the show. I mean, clearly you have the talent, and you’re doing so well. I just—oh, never mind, Ed. I can see that I’m making you uncomfortable. I forget that not everyone wears their emotions on their sleeves the way I do. I’m sure you were very happy that day you won Star Baker.”

“I wasn’t.” Ed wonders now if there’s truth serum in this pithivier or something. He sets his fork down, swallows. Marvels that he’s sitting across from someone who actually wants to know this kind of stuff about him—who cares enough to ask. And decides that maybe a tiny bit more honesty here won’t kill him.

“It was a weird day,” he continues. “I was feeling—well, this might sound stupid. But I was feeling bad about the dancing. About not jumping in with you when everyone was doing the Zumba party thing.”

“Oh, Ed.” Stede sighs. “I’m so sorry you felt badly about that. They really sprung it on me without warning—sprung it on all of us. And I get that it’s not everyone’s thing.”

“Yeah, well.” Ed reaches for his L&P and takes another swallow. “Wasn’t your fault.”

“TV producers, eh?” Stede says. “All the things they’ll do to keep us hopping.” His face twists then into a sour expression. “Including cutting down our baking times.”

“Motherfuckers,” Ed agrees. “Bagful of dicks.”

“We should fire them all and produce the show ourselves,” Stede says. “Lucius could film us, he’s made video art.”

Ed chuckles. “Roach could be the medic. Zheng could definitely direct.”

“And you could double as host,” Stede says drily, “given that you and Noel are practically twins.”

Ed can’t let that one stand. He grabs his fancy cloth napkin and whacks Stede across the table with it. Stede whacks him back with his own napkin, and soon they’re play-fighting and laughing like a pair of fourteen-year-old boys.

Finally, they settle back down, dig back into their delicious lunch. Ed strongly considers going for a third slice of the pithivier, but then he really is going to need that hammock, that nap. He fills his plate with salad instead.

“I truly am curious, though,” Stede says, spearing lettuce with his fork. “About why you wanted to do Bake Off. If you want to tell me, that is.”

What the hell, Ed thinks. Why not?

“Well, what it boils down to, really, is that I don’t have many friends.”

Stede’s eyebrows furrow. That was clearly not the answer he was expecting.

Ed rushes on before he can lose his nerve. “And, I mean, yeah, like you said, I’m good at baking and I thought I could do well. Been practicing for years, really, before I finally got up the nerve to audition. I wanted to make sure I had all the skills I’d need in the bag, you know? But also . . . in lots of the series, it seems like the bakers come out with these terrific friendships. So I thought maybe it’d be a chance for me to meet some cool new people. Make connections with folks who share my interests.”

Stede is silent for a long beat. Then, softly, he says, “Wow. That’s a lovely reason to be doing this, Ed.”

Ed shrugs. He’s feeling a little bashful right now, a little vulnerable. But not, like, ashamed. Not like the friendless loser he worried he might look like if he ever said any of this out loud.

No. In fact, Stede’s looking at him like he can finally see past the black clothes and the hair and the tattoos—and like maybe he likes what he sees even more than he liked the package.

It’s intense to be looked at that way, though, and Ed can’t stand it for too long. He breaks Stede’s gaze and drains his glass of L&P. “What about you?” he asks. “What brought you to the tent?”

It’s Stede’s turn to look bashful, apparently. “Well, nothing quite so noble as your reasons, Ed.”

“Pure bloodlust, then?”

Stede laughs, but it’s a brief, more melancholy sound this time. “More like . . . well. Like I was hoping for a win at something.”

Ed stays quiet, hoping Stede will go on. After a moment, he does.

“It’s been a tough few years. Pandemic, big life transitions. Baking’s been a bright light, though, something that’s made me happy. Made my kids happy, too, when they joined me in the kitchen or ate stuff I’d whipped up for them. So I thought I’d try to level that up. Figured if they saw me killing it in the kitchen on TV, they might be impressed.”

“I’m sure they’re impressed,” Ed says, because how could they not be? “You’ve already made it more than halfway through the competition! That’s a big accomplishment, Stede.”

“They don’t know.” Stede’s voice is small when he says it.

“Wait. You haven’t told them yet?”

Stede shakes his head. “They think I’m still in Auckland! That the trip just keeps getting extended. That my cousin needs more help with his house renovation—though I’ve never been handy at that sort of thing, honestly. It’s a pretty thin veneer, I’m surprised they haven’t seen through it already. But we do a Zoom call every night at 7, which is 6 in the morning in Auckland, and I’ve just about been able to keep the ruse going.”

“Why don’t you just tell them the truth?” Ed asks. “They’re teenagers, right? Not tiny kids. They can keep the secret for a few months, can’t they?

“They could,” Stede agrees. “It’s just that, at this point . . . oh, it’s silly.”

“What’s silly?”

“I . . . have this fantasy, I guess.” He twists his cloth napkin in his hands. “This vision. Of coming home to the kids in triumph, instead of because I’d just been eliminated. I don’t mean winning the whole thing—I’m not delusional enough to think that’s a real possibility. But, you know, if I could break the news to them with some sort of little victory under my belt—having come first in a technical, or won Star Baker for the week—well, that would be something special, wouldn’t it? Something to be proud of.”

He shakes his head sadly. “Like I said, it’s silly. I’m their parent, it’s my job to be proud of them, not the other way around. But, still. Their mum’s an artist, and a professor. She’s killing it pretty much all the time. Alma’s already following in her footsteps with art, and I see how inspired she is by what Mary’s done.”

“You’re an artist too,” Ed insists. “That pirate ship? Those little soaps? Your work is beautiful. It is art.”

But Stede waves a hand, dismissing that. “I don’t know that they’ll see it that way. Once the show airs. I worry that they’ll only see the flaws, the places I fell down. And now, this week, I’ll likely be sent home, having clung on as long as I could with my limited skills. Having never really been meant to be on the show in the first place.”

Ed hates hearing Stede talk like this. “Mate,” he says, leaning forward on the table. “Listen. You absolutely deserve to be there. You do have what it takes—the artistry and the baking skills. No string of reality TV wins or losses should be able to tell you otherwise. But,” he continues. “If Star Baker is what you want, then let’s do it. Let’s make it happen. This week.”

“This week? Ed, I’ll be lucky just to survive this week.”

“Nuh uh.” Ed shakes his head. “This week, you’re winning. As soon as lunch is over, we’re gonna sit down together and figure out the timings so you can make this again for the signature. Then after that, you’re gonna run your showstopper, and if there are any issues with it, we’ll troubleshoot. As for the technical—well, we’ll figure something out. But, mate, you’ve got the skills to do it! I know you do. I just ate the fucking evidence. Nope, shut up, no protesting, no naysaying. We’re doing this. You’re doing this.”

“But—Ed—” Stede splutters. “This is a competition! I can’t let you help me—”

Ed yanks his phone out and turns the screen to Stede. “Have you been on Discord since this morning? The whole chat is everyone trading tips and ideas to help each other through this week. That’s what Bake Off is about! Whatever the brass at Channel 4 thinks. We all help each other, that’s how this works. Okay?”

Stede still looks unsure, but, finally, he nods. “Okay.”

“Let me hear you say it, then.”

“Say what?”

“Say ‘I’m gonna win Free-From Week.’”

“I’m . . . gonna win Free-From Week.”

Ed snorts. “Come on, you can give it more than that. Use your Star Baker voice!”

Stede clears his throat, sits up straighter in his chair. “I’m gonna win Free-From Week!”

“Yeah you are.” Ed’s grinning now. “All right, let’s pack all this up and get down to tactics.”

Chapter Text

They spend the next hour side by side at the kitchen counter, Stede’s recipe printout and Ed’s open notebook in front of them. Ed sometimes gets weary of this kind of shit at the boatyard: all the strategizing and problem-solving. The making of a plan, the execution of that plan. But doing it here, focused on a baking problem, with Stede, feels entirely different. It’s fresh, new, invigorating.

Ed probes his memory for techniques from past Bake Off series that sped recipes up for other bakers. He asks Stede if maybe a microwave could help, reminding him of the time in 2014 when Nancy nuked her bread dough in the tent to the shock of all, cutting its proving time in half.

And that’s how Ed learns that Stede has never seen the series with Nancy—has in fact never seen more than clips from any of the seven BBC series. That he’s never heard Mary Berry call a bake “scrummy” or “informal,” never witnessed a full episode of Mel and Sue in their chaotically empathetic presenting glory.

“Stede!” Ed cries. He’s trying not to be a dick about it, but it’s really, really hard. “How is this possible? I can accept that some of the Gen Z bakers haven’t watched the BBC years, they were barely even born yet. But you?"

“I only really got into Bake Off during lockdown,” Stede protests.

“Okay, well, we need to fix this.” Ed looks to the TV in the sitting room. “Do you get Prime Video on that, or Apple TV? Maybe we can put Nancy’s series on in the background, so at least you can start to get a little by osmosis?”

Stede laughs. “Maybe I’ll watch tonight,” he says, then he glances at the wall clock. “Oh, Ed, it’s later than I thought! I shouldn’t be taking up your time like this. You haven’t even had a chance to practice your pithivier yet!”

This is true, and yet Ed doesn’t feel any urge to move from his stool that’s been pushed right up next to Stede’s. Or to abandon the cup of tea that Stede fixed for him (with no comment about Ed’s preference for, frankly, an ungodly number of sugars). But if he doesn’t start his signature soon, there’s not going to be time to do it before Stede drives him home. There might not even be time now—maybe Stede was hoping to take him back to Bristol before dinner.

Before Ed can say a word, though, Stede clears his throat. “Look, Ed. Absolutely feel free to say no to this, for whatever reason, but . . . do you want to stay over tonight? I’ve got the extra room. I think I’ve even got an extra toothbrush—oral hygiene is important. And pyjamas you can borrow, of course. That way, you wouldn’t have to rush your bake—you could even do it tomorrow if you preferred. But like I said, no worries if—”

“Yes.” The syllable is so emphatic it stops Stede in his tracks. “I mean,” Ed bumbles, backpedaling just a little, “sure, yeah. Might be nice.”

“Great!” Stede says, and his syllable sounds just as emphatic as Ed’s. “Then we don’t have to hurry through our afternoon, do we? And we’ll have plenty of time to watch those old episodes together tonight. You can show me all the best bits.”

Stede’s eyes are bright and his smile’s wide and Ed’s pretty sure his own face is a mirror of it—or as much of a mirror as his bearded, unsunny disposition can pull off. He feels strangely buoyant about this new plan. A sleepover! Maybe this morning he would have fretted at the idea, but it’s turned into such a nice day here in the Cotswolds that he just doesn’t want it to end. And now, it doesn’t have to. There’ll be leftover pithivier for dinner, a binge of classic Bake Off episodes, and a whole lot more hours together with Stede.

(And apparently, pyjamas, which are not something Ed’s worn since he was a child. He bets Stede’s got some insane pyjamas.)

Ed tears his eyes away from Stede’s to look back at his notebook. “Okay, so microwave—is that a maybe? Or what about using a pressure cooker?”

They strategize a bit longer, come up with some techniques that Stede thinks might save real time. He has enough beef left to make another attempt tomorrow morning, so he decides to practice the first phase of his showstopper now, which will be a multilayer vegan vegetable cake, with carrot, beetroot, and courgette layers.

Ed, meanwhile, decides to put his own pithivier off until tomorrow and take a walk. For once, he feels like he can slow the fuck down for a few hours. Like he’s actually on a holiday. He lets himself wander to the flower garden Stede told him about up the road; he literally stops to smell some roses. He whistles a little as he walks, the tune abstract—or so he thinks, until he realizes it’s the melody of that Katy Perry song they listened to in the kitchen that morning. He laughs himself silly about the whole thing, then meanders back to the cottage.

He feels good, relaxed. And there’s still the rest of the night to look forward to.

In the guest room, Ed finds a set of pyjamas and a robe folded on the bed, with a yellow toothbrush, toothpaste, and bar of soap set on top. He smiles. The pyjamas, it turns out, are nothing too crazy: basically a very, very soft, wide-collared t-shirt and joggers in a neutral sort of taupe color. But the robe is riotous: silky and deep mauve and patterned all over with birds. It’s pretty much the most beautiful thing anyone’s offered Ed to wear, ever. He picks it up, runs his fingers over the patterns—then feels bad about having touched it with unwashed hands. He should probably take a shower before even going near it again. So he does, lathers up with the soap (which is strongly lavender-scented, and, he hates to admit it, but maybe Paul had a point about those cakes?). He even washes and finger-combs his hair and beard out, because so much flour and shit gets into them when he’s baking.

He towels off, puts on the pyjamas, then finally allows himself to slip into the robe. He feels like a new person, light and clean and well-cared-for.

Why didn’t anyone ever tell him pyjamas were so amazing?

Ed wanders back into the kitchen just as Stede is just finishing up. His cakes on their cooling racks look striking—deep orange for the carrot; for the beetroot, a gorgeous purple that almost matches Ed’s robe.

He leans across the counter. “You’re not planning to cover those all up with icing tomorrow, are you?”

Stede jumps. “Ed! Oh!”

“They’re beautiful, mate.”

“You’re—”

Whatever the end of that sentence was meant to be, Stede stops himself short of saying it. “So, er, the pyjamas fit?” he says instead.

“Like a glove,” Ed replies. “Or, no, not like a glove. Like . . . something loose, the opposite of a glove. But not, like, falling off me.” Shut up, Teach. “I mean, they’re great. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Stede says, and then he clears his throat and looks back at his cakes. “So I was going to ice them. Figured the colors would be a nice surprise when the judges cut in. But maybe I should rethink that. Skip the icing entirely? Or I could do just a crumb coat, so the colors peek through?” He looks back up. “What do you think, Ed? Should I leave them semi-naked?”

The word “naked” in Stede Bonnet’s mouth does something to Ed. Something he’s afraid even his not-at-all-glovelike pyjamas won’t be able to hide. He cinches the tie on his robe a little tighter, leans harder into the cool marble of the countertop.

“Ed?”

“Oh, sorry. Yeah, I think just a crumb coat could be nice. Why don’t you try it tomorrow, and if you don’t like it, you can just make some more icing and slop it on?”

“Good idea,” Stede says, and then he’s busying himself around the kitchen, pulling out cake savers and transferring his practice cakes into them for storage.

Ed busies himself, too. Finds the pithivier leftovers in the fridge and puts them in the microwave. Pulls out the Pellegrino and hunts down clean glasses. Carefully avoids brushing past Stede in the kitchen or catching his eye. Takes several square breaths.

Because he’s spiraling now, just a little. Honestly, it’s a fucking miracle his brain forgot to spiral all afternoon, especially after it found out he was sleeping here tonight. It’s like his crush on Stede bottled itself up for a while, let Ed get all soft and comfy, and now, bam! it’s hitting him all at once with a day’s worth of repressed . . .

Thirst is what the kids call it now, right? Ed’s suddenly, desperately thirsty, and the man across the kitchen from him is a cool drink of water, a tall glass of lemonade. A can of the fucking L&P that Ed didn’t realize he’d been missing so badly for the last fourteen years.

“Look, do you mind if I grab a quick shower and change before we eat?” Stede asks. “You just look so comfortable in those pyjamas, Ed, and it’s making me jealous.”

Ed snorts a high laugh that sounds weird even to him, because if he’s managing to look comfortable right now, then someone should give him a fucking BAFTA. He’s grateful, though, when Stede disappears into his room, because it gives Ed a chance to run back to his own ensuite, lock the door behind him, and have a furious wank (no Zumba-video assistance required this time).

He feels better after—calm again, or calm-ish, at least. Reasonably confident he’ll be able to get through dinner and—dear god, Bake Off and Chill? Is that what he’s signed up for?—without popping a visible semi in these thin pyjamas that maybe now he’s coming to hate a little.

(No, scratch that. He could never hate the pyjamas. They’re soooo soft.)

Ed washes up, saunters back into the kitchen. Reheats the pithivier again and pours the Pellegrino. Finds the remote for the TV and navigates through a hundred prompts to get logged into his own streaming account that he knows has all the back series of Bake Off. Even finds a couple of folding tables to set up in front of the couch, so they can eat their dinner while diving right into the 2014 series.

And then Stede comes out in his own red silk sleep set and yellow robe, hair still damp, wearing the fucking glasses again and oh, Ed’s a goner.

Stede says “Hey” softly, as soft as Ed’s pyjamas, and that doesn’t help.

Stede takes a dish and a glass from the counter, transfers them to a folding table, then sits next to Ed almost like they’re on the coach bus again, only a few inches between them when there’s a whole fucking couch to spread out on.

He picks up his fork, glances at the TV, and boops Ed gently with his knee. “I’m ready if you are.”

And Ed starts to wonder—like, seriously, for the first time since he found out Stede was married—if maybe he hasn’t been misreading every single sign. If maybe, possibly, Stede could feel the same way about Ed that Ed feels about Stede.

His brain starts pulling memories off the Stede-shelf it’s been building, considering the evidence. The smiles like sunshine that seem to grow extra bright just for Ed. The little touches. The endless texts. The invitation to dance in the tent. The invitation to come here, and to stay. The two-hour roundtrip drive to pick Ed up. The L&P.

How close they’re sitting, right fucking now.

And then there’s the fact that Stede talks about his kids plenty, but he doesn’t bring Mary up much. Maybe they’re on the outs; maybe their marriage is crumbling.

You could just ask him, Ed thinks. Like a fucking adult.

“Hey, do you and Mary have an arrangement? An open marriage, maybe? Could this ongoing stint in the Cotswolds be a trial separation? How do you feel about men?”

But if he does it . . . if he asks . . . well, then Stede will know. Know that Ed’s interested. And if Ed’s wrong, and Stede’s not interested back, then he will have fucked it all up forever, won’t he? Made things permanently weird. Torpedoed the only real friendship he’s ever had, and he just doesn’t know if he can bring himself to do that.

Not when he could just stay in limbo. In this maddening, but safe-ish space between knowing and not knowing. When he could keep treading water, like he’s done for years in almost every area of his life, rather than risk getting shot down into the depths. The ones he’s not sure he can swim back up from.

And yet, Ed wants to be brave.

So he makes a deal with himself, with the universe. It’s probably the stupidest fucking deal of all time, but it’s what his brain cooks up for him, and Ed, eager for any chance at a life raft, takes it.

The deal is this: They will watch the first episode of Bake Off 2014. Then, when it’s over, Ed will ask Stede which of the dozen bakers he liked best. He imagines that Stede knows who won the series, even if he hasn’t seen it, but that’s okay—the winner’s not always the one everyone prefers, especially at the beginning. So Ed’ll ask Stede who stood out to him, and if he says Chetna or Louie or Martha or Richard (who are all wonderful and perfectly good choices!), then Ed will nod but understand that the universe isn’t on his side. That he should gouge the stupid hearts right out of his eyes and put this whole thing to rest, once and for all.

But if Stede picks Nancy . . . Ed’s favorite baker of all time . . . well, that’ll be it, the sign he needs. The sign from the gods of love and Bake Off that Ed should take the risk, should make his move. Should do it tonight.

Signs, the universe, fate. Ed knows it’s all horseshit. And yet, his brain’s insisting that this is it, this is the answer. And maybe that’s because this kind of thinking worked once for him before.

That night, fourteen years, eleven months, and seventeen days ago, out on the pier with Jack in Wellington. Jack’s hand down Ed’s pants in the low light, remnants of a twelve-pack all around them. Seagulls circling out over the water in the dusk. Jack starting to hurl the empties at them drunkenly, one by one, hooting with laughter, missing every time.

If he actually hits a bird with one of those bottles, Ed thought, I’m leaving. I’m done.

And then, on the ninth bottle-throw, a squawk. Feathers, and the dark outline of a seagull’s body plummeting from the sky.

Jack screaming “Holy SHIT, Eddie, did you see that?”

And Ed knowing that the choice was made. That he’d take the first boatbuilding job he could find overseas. That he’d run as far away as possible from Jack, as soon as he could.

And he had. And here he was now.

Ed grabs the remote and presses play on the episode. The familiar Bake Off theme music starts, and Ed watches Stede out of the corner of his eye.

Pick Nancy, he thinks desperately. Pick Nancy, and pick me.

Chapter Text

Ed watches Stede watch Bake Off, feeling absolutely fucking unhinged the entire time.

He doesn’t trust himself to say a word, lest he influence Stede’s opinions of the twelve bakers on screen. So instead he sits, squirms, seethes. Curses Richard, silently, for being all funny and amiable with his big smile and the pencil behind his ear. Of course Stede is going to love Richard. He curses himself when he remembers that Nancy’s best cheeky joke of the series—where she refers to Paul Hollywood not by his name, but simply as “the male judge”—doesn’t happen until episode six. Was Nancy fun at all in the first episode?

At least Mel and Sue are being their zany selves, and Mary’s exuding her expertise. She was always such a presence in the tent, more than a match for Paul. Ed hopes Stede’s being charmed by them. He sneaks a glance over, and—Stede is yawning.

“Oh, sorry!” he apologizes, sheepish at being caught. “How embarrassing. God, and it’s only 6:40! In my defense, I went to bed a lot later last night than I’d intended to.”

“Did you do a late practice bake?” Ed asks.

Stede shakes his head. “I was . . . uh . . . cleaning.”

Ed frowns. “Not for me, mate?”

Stede makes a noncommittal noise.

“Stede! Do you know why I wanted you to pick me up at the Sainsbury’s instead of at my boat?”

“Because you needed ingredients?”

“Well, yeah, but also because I would’ve been embarrassed for you to see the state of my living space! After all these weeks of practice, it’s a damn mess. Wouldn’t be surprised if there were knives stuck in the ceiling from the way I’ve been pitching shit around! So you didn’t have to scrub this place up for me.”

Stede shrugs. “I just wanted you to feel welcomed, that’s all.” And Ed’s heart flips over.

Do it now! his brain shouts. Fuck this stupid who’s-your-favorite-baker test!

Ed reaches, slowly, for the remote.

“Oh, look, Nancy’s won the technical,” Stede says. “Well, good for her. That cherry cake did look exquisite. I wonder what she’ll make for her showstopper?”

And okay, Ed can’t exactly pause things now, can he?

So they watch the bakers make their showstoppers. Ed gets quiet again, and Stede gets quiet. Ed hopes Stede’s appreciating the little homemade guillotine Nancy brought in to slice her orange sponges. The judging gets underway, Mary and Paul rave about Nancy’s jaffa cakes, and Ed can’t help himself, he dares another little glance over at Stede to try to gauge his reaction.

Stede is asleep.

His head’s lolled back against the couch cushion, but it doesn’t appear to be a very comfortable position. In fact, as Ed shifts to get a better look, Stede starts to tip toward him, and oh god, if Stede’s sleeping head lands on Ed’s shoulder, Ed’s gonna fucking die.

Stede’s sleeping head lands on Ed’s shoulder.

It’s the coach all over again, only Ed’s awake this time. Wide awake. Stede’s floral shampoo is in his nostrils and his soft breath is on Ed’s neck and their shoulders and arms are pressed up against each other. It’s glorious and it’s terrible, and Ed doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He manages to reach the remote with his left hand and pause the show, because there’s no point in letting it play out now, is there? It was an inane idea anyway, giving ten-years-ago-Nancy all this power over them. (Even if you couldn’t ask for a better Bake Off fairy godmother.)

Stede shifts in his sleep and Ed freezes—afraid he’ll wake up, afraid he’ll pull away—but, no. Stede snuggles in closer to Ed, tucking his feet up onto the couch.

Ed breathes and breathes, trying to calm his body, trying to calm his racing brain.

He thinks about Bake Off. About all the interviews he’s read with past contestants—about how so many of them say the experience changed them. Gave them confidence they never knew they had. He thinks of Nadiya’s whole fucking speech at the end of the 2015 series, how she wasn’t going to put boundaries on herself anymore, how she was never going to say maybe again.

Ed’s been all boundaries, for such a long time. He’s so used to playing out every possible scenario in his head before he makes a decision. To holding off on jumping into any interaction until he’s sure he can win it.

Whereas the man asleep on his arm? He throws his whole heart (and body) into his ridiculous Zumba routines. Bakes what he wants to, whether it’s the judges’ favorites or not. Finds something he likes and jumps toward it with both feet; leans all the way in, every time.

Is leaning on Ed, now.

So what if Ed leaned back? What if, just this one time, he jumped, too? Grabbed for something he really wanted, and let the world burn tomorrow?

He takes one more deep, square breath. What he wants more than anything else in the world right now is to kiss Stede Bonnet.

He’ll wake him up first, of course. They may be in a fairy-tale cottage, but Ed’s not gonna pull a Sleeping Beauty on him, not gonna just kiss him while he’s passed out and hope he likes it. If there’s one thing Gen Z’s got right, it’s being big on consent.

So he sets things in motion before he can think about it for one second longer. “Stede,” he murmurs. Stede’s ear is already so close, Ed barely has to incline his chin to speak into it. “Stede.”

Stede shifts again, moving his head, and Ed ends up inadvertently nuzzling Stede’s hair, the soft blonde curls brushing against his mouth and catching in his beard. “Stede,” he says louder, more insistently, because the limbo’s too much now. He needs to be in or out of the water—needs to know if he’s about to get saved or about to drown.

Finally, Stede rouses. He lifts his head off Ed’s shoulder, but he doesn’t immediately pull away. Ed’s hand moves to Stede’s arm, steadying him.

“You fell asleep,” Ed says, and Stede blinks.

“Oh.” He blinks again. Behind the blue-framed glasses, his lovely hazel eyes focus, slowly, on Ed’s. “I’m sorry,” he says, but he still doesn’t pull away.

“I didn’t mind,” Ed whispers, and a smile lights up Stede’s face. Ed’s so used to thinking of Stede as the sun, but right now he’s the moon and Ed is the tide, helpless against the pull.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, and Stede doesn’t answer with words—he just leans in, because he’s Stede Fucking Bonnet and leaning in is what he does best. Their noses brush, and Ed’s hand comes up to Stede’s neck, and oh, they’re so close now. Stede’s eyes are closed again, and Ed lets his drift shut. Their lips skim each other’s, lightly, gently, and—

Stede’s phone rings.

It’s the distinctive ringtone of a video call, and the sound and vibration of it reverberate through the couch like an earthquake.

“Bugger,” Stede breathes, his eyes still closed. “Seven o’clock. It’s the kids.”

Ed leaps back like he’s just touched a hot cooker. Stede’s eyes fly open. “I can call them back later. I can—”

“No, no, you should take it.”

Ed’s heart is pounding so hard, he thinks Stede must be able to hear it even over the ringtone. Ed knows the phrase “reality crashing in,” but he’s never experienced it quite so literally, like it’s just punched him straight in the chest.

“Are you sure?” Stede’s saying. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “Yeah, of course. Uh, say hi for me.”

Ed’s brain is clearly not firing on all cylinders, because why the hell would Stede tell his kids hi from Ed? Stede’s kids think he’s in Auckland. The only person on that call who might have heard something about him is—

Mary.

Mary, Mary, Mary.

“I mean, say hi to Mary,” Ed corrects himself as Stede stands up, and even he can hear the bitter note that’s crept into his voice. “And hey, while you’re at it, say hi to the dog, too.”

Stede shoots Ed a puzzled look, like Ed’s making less sense by the second. And yeah, Ed guesses his brain’s basically couscous at this point, because why would the guy who was just leaning in to kiss him tell his wife that Ed was here?

“Just—just wait there,” Stede says to Ed. “I’ll be back in a few.” Then he ducks off down the hallway to his bedroom. Ed hears him pick up the call along the way, greet his kids brightly. Hears him lie to them about how it’s a beautiful morning in Auckland, and that’s when Ed gets up off the couch, strides into the guest bedroom, and shoves the door shut behind him.

He tears off the silk robe and flings it against a wall. Fucking robe. Fucking pyjamas. Fucking Cotswolds cottage.

It’s all a mirage, the whole fucking thing. Stede has a family—he belongs to them, and Ed belongs back on his little boat, alone. He should never have come here. Because much as it may have felt like it for a single day, this is no fairy tale. Stede is no Prince Charming. If anything, he’s Rapunzel, stuck alone in the woods for weeks on end. So lonely that any warm body would do for company.

And Ed’s a warm body. A warm body who’s everyone’s flavor.

He’s a warm body and a shit human being, too, willing to seduce the only real friend he's ever had just because he’s lonely and horny, too.

Whatever was about to happen on the couch, though—for Stede, it would have just been a dalliance. A whim. A straying, because Stede has something to stray from.

Ed, meanwhile, has nothing to stray from but his own miserable life. He is a stray. A stray cat, desperate for someone to pet him, to feed him a little. To love him, if only for a few hours.

Ed hates himself.

He’d leave this minute if he weren’t in the middle of fucking nowhere with no buses or Ubers or anything nearby. So he does the next best thing, and locks his bedroom door. Shuts the curtain, turns out the lamp, and grabs a spare pillow from the bed to shove against the door crack, blocking any more light from coming through. His phone’s down to 17% and he casts around the room for a charger, but there isn’t one, and he’s certainly not going back into the sitting room to hunt one down. So he powers the phone off and drops it onto the bedside table.

In the ensuite, he brushes his teeth without turning the light on. The goddamn yellow toothbrush Stede gave him glows in the dark, though, an insistent little slice of phosphorescence that Ed’s sorely tempted to snap in half right after he uses it. He shoves it under a towel instead. Finally, furiously, he stumbles back out to the bedroom and into the bed.

Ed’s good at sleeping these days, even without a Jane Austen book at hand. It might be his one great talent in life, really, his ability to fall asleep almost anywhere. No more booze, no more drugs, but there’s always oblivion in sleep, at least. Always an escape.

Ed closes his eyes, breathes, and tumbles into it.

Chapter Text

Ed awakens the next day to birds chirping, because of course he fucking does. Of course the alarm clock at this fairy-tale cottage is birdsong, sung by actual birds as sunbeams sneak around the curtains and a soft breeze rustles through. It’s morning, and Ed feels—

Well, he feels okay, actually.

He’s got a good night’s sleep behind him, and you know what, things always look a little better after a good night’s sleep. A little brighter. The situation, which seemed hopeless the night before, just needed fresh morning eyes. A new plan.

And Ed can make that plan. Because it’s simple, really. It’s a plan Ed’s got plenty of experience with, because he’s been doing it his whole damn life.

Deny.

Last night? The almost-kiss? Never happened! Don’t know what you’re even talking about, mate.

He pops into his ensuite, unearths the yellow toothbrush, and cleans his teeth. It’s early, and based on how silent the cottage sounds he’s guessing Stede’s still asleep. Suddenly, then, he gets another brilliant idea. He’ll use this quiet early-morning time to make his pithivier, the bake he missed out on yesterday—because that’s why he’s here, right? To practice? And what better way for Ed to say “things are perfectly normal” than actually getting some more practice time in? He’ll even keep Stede’s ridiculously soft pyjamas on, to show how much he’s appreciated all the hospitality. To prove that things are the exact opposite of weird right now.

So Ed heads to the kitchen. Starts tea brewing, pulls out his recipe, and gets to work. Thirty minutes passes, then an hour, with Ed blending flours and rubbing in butter and chilling the mound of dough while he melts more butter in a pan to cook onions and crabmeat. He finds the spice blend he bought yesterday, Old Bay Seasoning: a mix of bay leaves, celery salt, paprika, and mustard seed that goes especially well with seafood. He seasons the crab, mixes it with the onions and some gluten-free panko. Swaps it out with the pastry dough so it can chill while he starts rolling.

Ed’s in a rhythm now, his brain mercifully calmed by the familiar actions of baking. The gluten-free pastry texture is different from what he’s used to, but the fact that it requires more of his attention to roll out right is probably a good thing.

He slides into hyperfocus, and the world around him slides away. He preheats the top oven; he crafts a pastry base and a dome; he piles the crabmeat mixture onto the base and covers it up. He carves beach details out of scrap pastry and sticks them on with egg white until the whole thing is mosaicked with conch shells and sharks and sand buckets and tiny crabs. He paints on an egg wash and slides it into the oven, setting the timer for 35 minutes.

Then he launches himself into the task of cleaning up. While that never seems to erase his brain in the same way baking does, it’s just about enough right now to keep him distracted. Just enough to keep him from returning in his mind to the couch, to the face smiling eagerly at him, to the soft lips grazing—

“Ed, can we talk?”

Ed’s head jerks up. He had the sink running and didn’t hear the bedroom door open, didn’t hear Stede pad into the kitchen barefoot, still in his pyjamas. Still wearing the fucking glasses. And behind those glasses, looking—

Looking like shit, actually. Or as shit as Stede Bonnet ever looks, which is still pretty fantastically attractive, but still. He looks drawn this morning; tired. Exhausted, even.

“You sleep okay, mate?” Ed asks, trying to keep it light.

Stede gapes at him like Ed just asked if he’d spent the night on Jupiter.

“No, I didn’t sleep very well, actually,” he huffs, and there’s that hint of bitchiness that Ed was really starting to enjoy on the occasions Stede let it loose. “I had a very confusing night.”

Oh, shit.

Ed drops his gaze to the sink again, avoiding eye contact. Feeling very glad the pithivier prep was so messy, that there’s still plenty left to do with his hands. He starts washing another dish.

“Ed. Please. Would you put that sponge down for a moment and talk to me?”

“Lots of dishes to do, mate. Need to clear things up before you drive me home.”

“Clear things up?” Stede’s voice is shakier now, the bitchiness all but gone. “Yes, that’s what I want to do, too, Ed. I . . . think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Jesus Christ. Stede’s really going to make him do this.

“Last night,” Stede continues, “you—you asked if you could kiss me.”

And there it is: the subtext made text. The thing Ed can never seem to stop himself from doing when it’s only small stuff at stake. Now, though, heat floods his face. He wants to grab a blanket, a bedsheet, a fucking cloth napkin to fling over himself and hide. There’s none of that in sight, of course, but Ed’s never been so grateful before for his beard.

He throws the wet sponge back into the sink, wipes his hands dry, and forces himself to look up. To meet Stede’s eyes. It’s time to brush it all off, to make light—to execute the fucking plan.

“You know what, mate? This is no big deal! Last night, stupid mistake. It was late, I was dr—”

But here, Ed stops short. Because the word at the tip of his tongue, the word that was about to come out of his mouth, was “drunk,” and what the fuck, because Ed hasn’t had a drink in fourteen years, eleven months, and eighteen days.

And yet, there it was, the old excuse, so ready to leap into action.

“Sorry I kissed you, Jack. I was drunk.”
“Sorry I sucked your dick when we were wasted.”
“Sorry I let you do all that weird shit to me, we were both high, we were out of our minds, it won’t happen again.”

Ed pushes off from the sink and whirls away from Stede. He’s shaking. He stares at the fridge, but the fridge gleams back at him, silver and shiny, showing him far too much of his own reflection. He closes his eyes.

“Ed?” Stede’s voice sounds from behind him. “Will you come sit down?”

Ed does come and he does sit down, because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself now. They’re on the couch and Stede sits, too, but leaves a full body’s worth of space between them. It’s like a funhouse mirror version of last night—no touching, everyone looking like shit, feeling like shit, or both.

“Ed,” Stede says again, and how many times has he said Ed’s name this morning already? How many fucking times does he need to call him back into this room, into his presence, when Ed would rather be almost anywhere else?

“Are you okay?” Stede asks.

Ed nods.

“Can I—can I finish saying what I was going to say in the kitchen?”

Ed nods again.

“Okay.” Stede breathes in, then out. “Last night,” he says, “you asked if you could kiss me—and god, Ed, I wanted that so badly. I like you so much.”

Ed’s stomach bottoms out at this. Drops right through the cottage floor as he waits for the “But.”

“But,” Stede says, right on cue, “then my phone rang, and you said that weird thing about a dog, and . . .” Stede pauses, seems to marshal his courage. “Look, I need to ask this. Do you have a problem with my kids?”

“With the kids?” Ed can hardly believe what he’s hearing. “No, mate. My problem’s not with your kids.”

“What, then?” Stede asks, and now his voice is cracked, pleading. He seems genuinely lost, genuinely upset, and—well, this is not what Ed expected.

“What changed? I took the call and when I came back, you were gone, and your door was shut, and I texted you and texted you, but you didn’t respond—”

Stede texted him last night? “I turned my phone off,” Ed says. “The battery was dying, and . . .” And he didn’t want to come back out and look for a charger. Didn’t want to come back out and face Stede—face this. In fact, Ed’s phone is still off, still sitting on his little bedside table.

“You disappeared,” Stede whispers. “And I don’t understand why.”

So now it’s Ed’s turn, apparently, to drag the fucking subtext up out of the depths and let the sunlight burn it to a crisp. “It’s because of Mary, you—” (he almost says twat, thank you very much, Izzy Hands) “—you lunatic,” he murmurs instead, but it’s the wrong choice of words, sticks in his throat and comes out garbled like a sob.

Only one thing left to do now: make a joke!

“And, look, mate, I’m a great kisser, but I’m not worth fucking any of that up for. Think of everything you’ve got! Mary, the kids, the house, the dog. The whole nine yards.”

The joke clearly doesn’t land, because Stede’s face stays deadly serious. “Ed, are you—are you confusing me with someone else?” he asks. “Why do you keep saying that I have a dog?”

Ed stares at him. “Because you told me. That first night on the coach. You said—” He racks his brain now. Okay, maybe he was half-asleep for that conversation. But he’s almost completely sure there was a dog.

It snaps back to him. “You said you took it to France with you! On your family holiday. You even took it to restaurants, took it out eating fuckin’ escargot. You, Mary, Alma, Louis, and the dog.”

Stede’s face, scrunched in absolute confusion, suddenly shifts. His eyes widen, and a new light seems to shine through them. And then, the maniac laughs.

“We didn’t have a dog with us on that trip to France! We had Doug. Mary’s husband.”

“You’re Mary’s husband.”

Stede shakes his head. “No, Ed. We’ve been divorced for four years. Ever since—well, since shortly after I told her I was gay. There isn’t really any coming back from that as far as straight marriages go.”

Ed’s fully gaping at Stede now, mouth hanging open like a nutcracker, waiting for the next walnut to get jammed in. “What?”

“I know, hard to believe.” Stede’s smile is bashful. “The guy who teaches Zumba and loves baking and has a wardrobe three times bigger than his daughter’s is gay?!” He does jazz hands on the last word, but it doesn’t seem like his heart is really in them.

Ed blinks, shuts his mouth, tries to get ahold of himself. “No, not that. It’s that—you live with Mary, don’t you? You’re always talking about your family kitchen, your family car—”

“Oh,” Stede says . “Well, yes, we have a bit of an unconventional arrangement. See, our divorce was very amicable, and we were both committed to co-parenting. And we own quite a large house, thanks to inheritances on both sides. Plus, it was early in the pandemic, and breaking up our little pod didn’t make much sense. So we decided that I would just move into a separate wing, at least at first. It wasn’t exactly meant to be permanent, but it was so convenient for everyone, even after Doug joined the family. He’s a very easygoing guy, a great pal really, sometimes he even comes and takes my Zumba cla—”

“Stede,” Ed growls. “I don’t need to hear more about Doug.”

“Right, right,” Stede says. “Anyway, yeah. I don’t think any of us ever meant for it to go on quite so long. But, well, it works, so we haven’t messed with it. It works for us.”

Ed cannot believe his fucking ears. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“I—well, to be fair, I did mention Doug a few times when I told you about our holiday in France. But I could have been clearer, I suppose.” Stede stares down into his lap. “I guess I just thought that if I talked about it all too much—‘oh, you know I’m divorced, Ed,’ ‘I’m totally single, Ed’—well, then it would all be rather desperately obvious, wouldn’t it? How much I wanted . . . well. How much I wanted what almost happened last night.”

Ed scrubs a hand over his face, his beard. This whole time, Stede could have said just one fucking sentence and it all would have been totally clear. Or, Ed could have asked one fucking question.

They really are a pair of complete idiots, aren’t they?

“Ed?” Stede whispers. “Say something?”

Ed lets out a long, slow breath. “So you don’t have a dog.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

“And . . . ” Ed can barely get the next set of words out. “And you’re not married.”

Stede shakes his head. “I’m not married.”

Something happens to Ed’s body then, something he can’t control. He sinks back into the couch, heart thudding, shoulders shaking. Tears sting his eyes. Waves of something move through him, but it’s not the panic he knows so well from attacks like this in the past. It’s shock, yes, disbelief . . . but, also, maybe . . .

Ed’s favorite of Jane Austen’s novels has always been the first one he read, Sense and Sensibility. And his favorite of all the film versions is the 1995 Emma Thompson one. It’s not the most faithful adaptation; they made all kinds of changes, the biggest of which was aging Elinor up from 19 to 35 so Emma could play the role. But Ed has always thought that change was a rare improvement over the original text. Turning Elinor into a spinster, truly middle-aged for her time, only heightened the stakes when she finally fell in love.

And then, at the end of the movie, when the love of her life returned to reveal that he had not married someone else, the way Emma played the scene was spectacular. All of Elinor’s pent-up emotion poured out, everything she’d held inside for months, as she sat on a hard wooden chair and had what Ed could only ever think of as a joy attack, gasping and weeping as the man she longed for said words she never thought she’d hear.

The man, whose name was actually Edward, which is its own little mindfuck. Edward, played by Hugh Grant, looking like a fancy-suited deer in the headlights as Elinor wheezed and sobbed and just totally fell apart in front of him . . .

And of course, when Ed dares a glance now, that’s almost exactly the way that Stede is looking at him: tenderly, yes, but also a little confused, even a little frightened. Stede-as-Edward, Ed-as-Elinor. They’ve basically just said Edward and Elinor’s lines in real life, it’s the same fucking scene as the movie! And Ed can’t help but start laughing now—laughing like hasn’t laughed in a long, long time.

Stede isn’t married.

Stede wanted Ed to kiss him last night.

Stede maybe even still wants that now.

So Ed sits back up. He takes a breath. And he moves across the couch toward Stede, closing the distance between them.

He lifts Stede’s glasses off his nose and sets them on the end table. Then he reaches a hand up to cup Stede’s lovely, only-slightly-terrified-looking face, and he leans in.

Stede leans in, too, and this time, there’s no almost.

They kiss.

Chapter Text

It’s probably wrong to be thinking about yeast in this moment, but that’s what Ed’s brain is giving him.

Because, well. When you’re making bread, you can measure everything perfectly, mix it all up right, knead it into oblivion . . . but if the yeast’s dead, nothing will happen. The dough won’t rise, won’t develop flavor or texture, won’t become bread. Which is why you have to give it some time, some heat. Why you have to prove it.

And this kiss, Ed’s brain tells him helpfully, is like yeast. It’s got a question to answer: whether this thing between him and Stede is alive.

Well fuck yeah, Ed would say it’s alive. Their kiss is hungry, breathless. Stede’s lips are soft, but his mouth moves against Ed’s eagerly, and his stubble scratches rough along Ed's palm. Their tongues brush, and Ed feels the charge of it move through his whole body like someone’s just plugged him in, turned him on. Suddenly, the phrase “turned on” makes more sense to Ed than it ever has before in his life.

Stede’s leaning in so hard that he’s in danger of toppling them both over, so Ed leans back into the couch cushions and pulls Stede down onto him. It breaks their kiss just long enough for Stede to bring his thumbs to Ed’s cheeks, to wipe the last of his tears away. And if Stede’s body wasn’t already flattening Ed to the couch, this gesture certainly would.

Ed closes his eyes. He slides his hands over the fabric of Stede’s pyjama trousers to grip that arse that’s been teasing him for weeks, fingers digging into the firm muscle. Stede groans, shifts his hips, and Ed’s cock is officially reporting for duty. He buries his face in Stede’s neck, mouth seeking the delicate skin there, sucking into it as Stede gasps, and—

The oven timer goes off.

Ed nuzzles in deeper, ignoring it, but the fucking thing will not take a hint.

“Ed,” Stede pants. “Your bake.”

“Let it burn,” Ed growls.

But Stede places a hand on Ed’s chest, pushes himself back up. “Go on,” he says, laughing. “Take it out of the oven. I’ll wait.”

Ed wants to protest, but Stede’s already off him, moving to the other side of the couch. So Ed forces himself to get up and run into the kitchen, ignoring how comically tented his pyjama pants are already. He grabs a pair of oven mitts, wrenches the door open, yanks the tray out and slams it onto a cooling rack without even looking at his pithivier. Then he punches the off button and races back to the sitting room, flinging his mitts off along the way like some kind of deranged baker-stripper—but something’s shifted, gotten fucked up. Because Stede is staring at the floor now and breathing harder than he was a minute ago, like maybe he’s about to have an attack of the panic variety.

Shit.

“Stede. What’s wrong?”

Stede doesn’t answer, so Ed sits down next to him. Lays a hand very gently on Stede’s back, half expecting him to flinch away. But, thank fuck, he doesn’t. He leans into Ed, and Ed gets his arm around Stede’s shoulder and holds him tighter.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “If this is too much, we can stop. We can—”

“I don’t want to stop.” Stede looks at Ed, finally, but only for a second. “It’s just—I haven’t done this kind of thing before.”

Ed strokes his hair. “You’ve got two kids, mate. So I think you’ve done something like this before.”

Stede laughs. “I mean, I haven’t with . . . you know. A man.”

“Not ever?”

Stede shakes his head. “Turns out the beginning of a worldwide pandemic is possibly not the ideal time to come out. To, you know. Date.”

Ed tries to think of the last time he had anything remotely like a date with another person. He comes up blank. He does remember the last time he swiped right—well before the pandemic started—to meet up with a stranger for a kiss-free, clothes-mostly-still-on, latex-coated sadgasm. The whole thing had been so fucking depressing that he’d deleted the apps for good on the bus ride home. Ordered a few upgrades for his sex-toy drawer online the next day, and that was that.

Ed takes a deep breath. “Look,” he tells Stede, “I’m out of practice myself—”

“But you’re not starting at zero at age forty-seven, Ed!” Stede hides his face in Ed’s shoulder, talking practically into Ed’s armpit. “See, this is what I do. I get a notion about something I want and I just charge forward, even though I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, even though there’s a very good chance I’ll screw it up, make a fool of myself—”

Stede’s absolutely panicking now, his voice and body shaking, so Ed doesn’t think. He moves, grabbing Stede by both shoulders.

“Stede, look at me. You cannot screw this up. I promise you.”

Stede raises his watery gaze to meet Ed’s, and Ed feels a wall inside himself crumble. “Fuck, man,” he says, and now his own voice is shaking a little. “The fact that you dive in like that? That you’re brave when you want something? That’s my favorite fucking thing about you.”

“Really?” Stede asks, like he doesn’t quite believe him.

“Really.” Ed barrels on. “Your pirate-ship cake and your lavender soaps and your Zumba videos—which, by the way, I have been getting myself off to for weeks—well. Let’s just say I could take a page from your book, when it comes to shit like that.” Ed takes another deep breath. “And now you’re here with me, and you actually want to, like, kiss me? To touch me? For real? That’s, just . . . it’s already perfect, okay?”

A tear spills down Stede’s cheek, and now it’s Ed’s turn to wipe it away. Then he takes Stede’s hand and pulls it to his chest, to his heart, like he did on the coach. He feels Stede’s fingers press through the soft fabric of his pyjama shirt as they breathe together.

“I do want to touch you,” Stede whispers.

Ed’s heart beats and beats. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Then, finally, a smile inches back across Stede’s face. “Got a few other ideas, too.”

Stede starts to trace his free hand up along Ed’s right arm, following the pattern of the snake tattoo that wraps around it. Ed closes his eyes and breathes into the touch. Then Stede slides his other hand down from Ed’s chest and under the hem of his pyjama shirt, brushing his stomach.

Suddenly, Ed can’t get the shirt off fast enough. To his mild surprise, Stede mirrors him, pulling off his own shirt—but fuck, that’s Stede to a T, isn’t it, admitting he’s terrified one moment and jumping straight in with both feet anyway the next?

Or both tits, in this case, pink-nippled and dusted with soft golden hair. Both biteable shoulders. Both arms, reaching out, pulling Ed in as they tumble over together onto the couch . . .

This time, Ed lands on top, and that’s good, because if everything leading up to this point has been a question, then he’s ready to provide some fucking answers. To press any lingering worries right out of Stede’s body. To throw words out the window and show him—with his hands, his mouth, his whole self—how perfect they are together, exactly like this.

So he grinds his rapidly-hardening cock against Stede’s: this is what you do to me. He kisses him deeper, coaxing Stede’s tongue out and sucking on it: this is how much I want you. He moves his hands and mouth down Stede’s torso, thrilling at every new shudder and moan his attentions elicit. This, this, this. He buries his face in Stede’s neck again, and Stede wraps his legs around Ed and they start to move together, and it feels so good that Ed could purr.

Maybe he does purr as Stede’s hands stroke his hair, his beard, his neck. Yeah, maybe it’s a real good day to be a cat.

Stede’s saying something now, or more like gasping it out in little pants. Ed wrenches his brain back into human mode to listen.

“Got tested – for the show – all clear – you?”

That’s right—they were all required to have to have full health workups before they started filming Bake Off, including HIV and other STI tests. “Yeah, me too,” Ed says, and right now, he loves Love Productions.

He kisses his way back up to Stede’s ear. “What would you like, darling?”

Stede doesn’t hesitate. “Your mouth. On my cock.”

Okay, so it seems he does have some ideas.

“Only if you want to, of course,” Stede adds quickly.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ want to.”

Ed gets a kiss for that. “I won’t last, though,” Stede murmurs against his lips.

“Mate, I’d be insulted if you did.”

They both laugh, then Ed makes his way back down Stede’s body. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Stede’s pyjama trousers and slides them off, exposing a hard, pink cock in a nest of golden curls. And he has to take a moment just to look then, just to breathe. To sit back a little and take all of Stede in, naked and brave and wanting, laid out for Ed like a goddamn feast.

Once his eyes have their fill, Ed brings his mouth to Stede’s cock. He suckles at the head, tasting salt as he circles it slowly with his tongue, as he pulls at the ridge with his lips.

This, apparently, is quite a good start. Stede’s back arches off the couch as he lets out a wild moan of pleasure. He gets a hand back into Ed’s hair, and Ed wraps a hand around the base of Stede’s cock and takes him in deeper, as deep as he can. As promised, it goes fast—just a few strokes like that and Stede is crying out as he comes in Ed’s mouth, hot and furious and pulsing. His body thrashes as Ed swallows, and he grabs for Ed’s other hand and pulls it tight to his stomach, like if Ed doesn’t help him pin his butterfly-self down right now, he might float away.

“Fuck. Ed.” Stede sinks back into the couch cushions as Ed slowly slides his mouth free and pushes himself back up to sitting.

“Yeah.”

Ed kind of wants to collapse on the couch next to Stede, but part of him also wants to get up and stride across the room, to lean against the cool wall. To get ahold of himself. Because his trousers are still on, his own cock hasn’t been touched, and yet Ed already feels naked, feels shaken up and poured out. He has a crazy notion to go turn on one of Stede’s Zumba playlists, to pull him up and dance around the kitchen with him, baby I like it—

“Ed,” Stede says again. He pushes up to his elbows, then gets to his feet and reaches for Ed’s hand. Ed lets himself be pulled to standing. Has Stede read his mind? Are they going to dance?

But, no. Stede kisses him—slowly, sweetly—then leads him down the hallway and through his bedroom door. He says nothing, but he doesn’t have to. The desire’s there on his face, and the bravery, and Ed won’t dare break that spell.

Stede places his hands on Ed’s bare shoulders and guides him to the four-poster bed. The whole thing feels like a pillow, soft and luxurious, as Stede lays Ed out on his back atop the white duvet. Then Stede crawls up next to him and dips in, kissing Ed’s neck in the sensitive place between his jaw and shoulder. Ed’s cock strains toward Stede through his pyjamas, like a plant seeking sunlight.

Stede pulls back to look Ed in the eye, then runs the pad of one finger along Ed’s collarbone and over his hawk tattoo. The touch is insanely light; Stede traces it down to Ed’s left nipple, and Ed’s whole torso bucks. Into one fucking fingertip. Then Stede replaces the finger with the tip of his tongue, running it slowly, rhythmically over Ed’s nipple, and Ed is gone, like his whole body’s been condensed into a cluster of neurons that only Stede can fire, over and over again.

Turn on, turn on, turn on.

Ed wants more contact, wants to grab Stede and drag him in close, but he forces himself to resist. This diabolical man seems to have a plan of his own this morning, seems to have perhaps put quite a bit of thought into exactly what he wants to do to Ed’s body, and Ed’ll be fucked if he gets in the way of that. Or, won’t be fucked. Something something about getting fucked or not, he’s starting to lose the plot. The stubble of Stede’s chin is scraping over Ed’s stomach, then he darts his tongue into Ed’s navel, and shit, that’s something new and it’s not bad and—

“Ed?” Stede’s voice is quiet, breathy, but it brings Ed back to himself. He opens the eyes he didn’t realize he’d closed to see Stede hovering, grinning, over Ed’s very-much-still-tentpoled pyjama trousers. “Do I have your permission to proceed?”

Ed laughs, he can’t help himself. “Yeah, mate.” And then the laugh dies as Stede nuzzles his shape through the pyjamas, rubbing his nose and cheek against Ed’s fabric-clad cock. Ed hears his own groan, loud and filthy, but he holds himself together as best he can, letting Stede . . . proceed. Which he finally does, equal parts tentative and reverent, easing Ed’s cock out of his trousers to hold in both hands like it’s a—a—

Oh, fuck metaphors, Ed’s got nothing.

Stede caresses his cock, his balls, runs a finger down the crack of Ed’s arse, and Ed is nearly breathless with the half-pleasure, half-torture of it all.

“Stede, please,” he begs, though he hardly knows what he’s begging for. Anything, everything. His cock’s leaking steadily, and he feels it pulse anew as Stede swoops in for a taste. For a tiny fucking lick, like Ed’s a vial of nectar. And then—well, maybe he takes some pointers from what Ed just did to him on the couch and maybe he doesn’t, but the way he starts teasing Ed’s cock, circling the head with his tongue and kissing his way down the shaft, slow, Ed has to dig down extremely fucking deep not to come all over Stede’s pretty face.

Finally Stede puts his whole mouth on him, takes Ed’s cock in, and as hard as Ed tries to hold out, he doesn’t make it any longer than Stede did before a full-body orgasm rockets through him. Stede swallows him down as wave after wild wave of pleasure takes him apart from his toes to his balls to his fucking face.

I can’t feel my face when I’m with you—

Ed gasps through the aftershock like it’s his first ever breath of air. He’s not treading water anymore; he’s been hauled out of the ocean and set on dry land. His eyes fly open and there’s Stede, a little messy, a little spluttery, but grinning so wide that Ed can’t help but do the same, let the smile rip his face in two.

“Come here,” he says, and Stede crawls up the bed, lets Ed gather him in. Lets Ed roll him onto his side so they can stare at each other and giggle and press their bodies together, length to length, not for the friction now but just for the closeness, the warmth. Ed places a kiss on Stede’s forehead and feels Stede relax into him, slide a leg over his and snake an arm across his stomach. In just a few minutes Stede’s sleeping, brow unfurrowed, the gentlest of snores fluttering from lips that Ed scratched pink with his beard.

Ed’s arm starts going numb. Stede’s drooling a little on his chest. And Ed’s never felt so happy in his whole fucking life.

He stays in the bed for a while, drifting, but for once he isn’t tired enough to really nap, and it seems he got more sleep than Stede did last night. Plus, he has an idea. So eventually, taking great care not to wake Stede, Ed disentangles himself and gets up. Gets the duvet over Stede before he leaves, tucking him into it like a notecard into an envelope, a little message to open again later.

Ed slinks off to the ensuite, takes a piss and looks at the shower but decides not to get in, not wanting to wash Stede’s lavender-and-musk scent off his skin just yet. Instead, he retraces his steps to the sitting room, putting his discarded pyjamas back on along the way and grinning so hard his face really does start to feel a little numb.

Goddamn it, maybe Stede’s right. Maybe that stupid song really is about love.

Chapter Text

Love.

The word buzzes around in Ed’s brain as he cleans up the kitchen, making space for his new scheme. As he tastes his crab pithivier, jots a few notes (bottom = soggy, adjust butter %, drier filling?), and sticks the rest in the fridge. As he pokes through cabinets and drawers, pulling out ingredients and implements, arranging them just so on the counter. As he tears a page out of his notebook and, taking care to write legibly, sketches out a recipe.

Ed keeps his hands and the rest of his brain busy so that bumblebee of a word can’t get too loud.

Because it’s objectively insane to even be thinking the word “love” right now—isn’t it? That’s not a word you think about someone you only met a few weeks ago. That you only kissed for the first time an hour ago.

And yet . . .

Ed’s eyes drift to the couch where that kiss finally happened. And all those other good things, once he’d gotten the Jane-Austen-flavored emotional breakdown out of his system.

Which takes his brain back to Auntie Jane and her stories. Because how many of her couples knew each other any longer than he’s known Stede? They’d get a few dances together at balls, maybe a few chaperoned strolls to town. Most of the couples in those books never even kissed—much less did what he and Stede just did—before they got engaged.

Not that Ed’s thinking about marriage now. Not like he can envision Stede standing at the end of an aisle, dapper as fuck in a three-piece linen suit, ascots and cravats galore, semi-naked three-layer cake in the background with a little fondant boatbuilder and a little fondant pirate captain on—

Nope, Ed’s not gonna think about that.

But hey, maybe it’s not so nuts for Ed to hear a buzz in the background. And maybe, instead of panicking about it, he can just . . . sit with the idea? Feel it? Enjoy it, even? Enjoy the fact that he’s able to feel anything, after so many years of numbness?

Ed’s stomach growls, speaking of feeling things. Test-bite of crab pithivier aside, he never had any breakfast. Which means Stede didn’t, either. Well, maybe Ed can have something ready for him when he wakes up. Maybe he can even bring him a tray in bed if he gets his act together fast enough.

He fills the kettle and starts hunting for breakfast foods. Of course, there’s plenty of leftover lamington cake from yesterday. But decadent as a post-coital cake-in-bed breakfast sounds, Ed’s blood is already starting to feel like sludge after all the pastry they ate yesterday, to say nothing of his digestive system. If he’d known he was going to stay over here, he would’ve packed his psyllium powder.

(Yes, psyllium powder. Middle age is so sexy sometimes.)

A thorough search of the kitchen reveals no psyllium, but it does yield a packet of prunes, another packet of something called hemp hearts that claims to be high in fibre, and two bottles of premade green smoothie drink. Ed places the bottles on the tray alongside a short-stemmed crystal goblet, which he fills with the prunes. Then he stares at the hemp hearts for a while, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to do with them. (He didn’t even know you could eat hemp. Thought it was the stuff twine was made of?)

He fills two bowls with muesli he’s found in a cabinet instead, then fixes two cups of tea to place on the tray. Adds a little jug of soya milk. It’s looking pretty full, probably ready to go, but Ed has the feeling that something’s still missing, something that would tie the whole thing together. On a whim, he opens the hemp hearts and pours some of them directly onto the tray in a slim little line. There: a flourish. Then he picks up the tray and marches down the hall with it before he can second-guess all his choices.

Stede’s still fast asleep, though—really conked out, face mashed into the pillow Ed replaced himself with—so Ed decides to give him a few more minutes. He slinks back to the kitchen, bringing the tray, and sets it on the table in the dining nook. Sips his tea, twiddles his thumbs. Tries not to let himself start spiraling.

But it’s a battle. Stede’s so tired because he had a rough night, he told Ed that himself. And that was in no small part due to Ed freaking out and running away without an explanation.

He imagines Stede coming out of his bedroom after the call with his kids, expecting Ed to be waiting. Pictures Stede taking in Ed’s closed bedroom door. Pictures him pulling out his phone and texting Ed, only to receive no response.

The texts!

Now Ed’s on his feet, tearing into his bedroom to retrieve his phone. He’s got it powering up before he’s even back in the kitchen, where luckily the Bluetooth speaker’s charger fits it. He plugs it in just as the phone sings to life, then the texts start coming through, buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz. Ed hunches over the counter to read them.

Stede Bonnet – Bake Off

Ed, hi

It’s probably weird for me to text but I didn’t want to knock

Your door is closed and it looks dark in there

Have you gone to bed?

Sorry if my call went on too long. I understand if you got tired of waiting

OK I’m lying, I don’t understand

I’ve been waiting for

Shit that sent before I meant it to

Anyway

It seems I’ve misread things

Sometimes I wish real life had subtitles, you know?

Or, like, a text transcript, so I could go back and read it

Find my mistake

Take a screenshot, study it for next time

If there ever even is a next time

Ed has to set the phone down here and take a breath. Shit, he really hurt Stede last night. Hurt the one person he’s coming to care about more than anyone else in the world.

Eyes damp, he blinks a few times, then reads the next set of messages.

I’m just going to stay out here for a bit. On the chance you’re still awake and you read these and change your mind and want to come back out

Of course we don’t have to . . . you know

DO anything

But I’d love to watch more of this season with you

Need to see Nancy put that dough in the microwave 🤣

(She’s great, Nancy, I like her a lot)

OK maybe I’ll just finish this ep on my own? Since I know you’ve already seen it and you did say you wanted me to watch

Oh, she’s won! Nancy’s won the first episode! Well done, Nancy

I really like her, did I mention that?

And now Ed’s smiling through tears, because Jesus Fucking Christ, look at how his stupid deal with the universe turned out! All the evidence was right there in his phone all night, just a foot away from his head.

And Stede had been just a few more feet away, waiting up on the other side of the door. Confused, but still hopeful. Still willing to give Ed the benefit of the doubt. How long had he stayed up? At what point did he finally drag himself away and try to sleep?

Suddenly—forcefully—Ed doesn't want Stede to wake up from this sleep alone. To reach across the bed they just shared and find it empty, to have even a moment of panic that Ed's freaked out and ghosted him again.

Ed sets his phone on the counter and hurries back down the hallway. Slips into the bedroom and keeps his pyjamas on this time as he slides under the duvet to snuggle close to Stede, big-spoon-style. He wraps an arm around Stede's chest and feels him breathe rhythmically under it.

That's better.

“Sorry,” Ed whispers into Stede’s hair. “Sorry I was such a dick.”

He doesn't mean for it to wake him. Figures he'll repeat the whole thing later when Stede’s conscious to hear it; he just needs to get it off his chest. Have a little practice run, maybe.

But Stede stirs at the sound of Ed's voice. “Mmm,” he murmurs. “What’s that about dicks?”

Ed tries, but he can’t hold back his laugh. “Mate,” he finally manages, “I'm trying to apologize here.”

Stede responds to this by pressing his naked arse back against Ed’s thinly-clad pelvis, and in a development that seems like it should be against all laws of science and middle-age, Ed's half-hard again already.

He resists the urge to press back—or to nuzzle Stede’s neck—or stroke his chest—or do anything other than make space for the rest of the words that need to be said. In fact, he scoots back a little and tugs on Stede’s shoulder, prompting him to roll over so they can face each other.

Stede blinks at him, questions now in his sleepy hazel eyes, and Ed takes a deep breath. “I read your texts. From last night. And, I'm sorry. I mean, I know now that I was under some false impressions, but I shouldn't have disappeared like that. I should’ve stayed and talked to you. I made you feel shitty, and you don't deserve that, and I just . . . needed to tell you that I can do better. If, you know. If you'll let me.”

Stede’s hands find Ed’s under the duvet and grasp them. He’s smiling. “Yeah, I think I’ll let you.”

Relief floods Ed’s body, and maybe he has to kiss that smile a little. He doesn’t mean for it to lead anywhere—not really—but they are in bed and Stede’s still completely naked, so. Ed lets his hands wander over Stede’s shoulders and back, down to the dip of his waist and the curve of his arse. Stede presses closer, already hard as he seeks friction against Ed’s pyjamas.

Ed can still barely believe they get to do this now, together. His fingers skate back over Stede’s hip. “Do you want—”

“Yes.” Stede doesn’t even let him finish the question. “Please.”

So Ed’s fingers keep moving, down Stede’s thigh then back up over his balls and the velvety length of his cock. Stede whimpers and buries his face in Ed’s shoulder, biting at the pyjama fabric there, which brings Ed’s brain back online just long enough to wonder why the fuck he ever put clothes back on in the first place.

“Stede. Help me out of these?”

Stede doesn’t need to be asked twice; Ed’s pretty sure he would tear right through the fabric with his teeth if he thought it would be a faster way to get Ed naked. As it is, Stede pulls back just enough to get Ed’s shirt over his head, then attacks his pyjama bottoms with the enthusiasm of a magician whipping the cloth off their latest illusion.

It’s a good trick.

Stede shoves the pyjamas aside and, finally, they come back together, skin to skin, mouths and chests and stomachs aligned. Ed slides a leg over Stede’s hip, licks his palm, and gets a hand around both their cocks; he starts working them slowly, spit and precome easing the way as they rub deliciously against each other.

Stede cries out and yeah, fuck, it feels so good like this. Ed gets his mouth on Stede’s shoulder and he sucks and sucks; it’s going to leave a mark, but he hopes Stede doesn’t mind, because he only wants more. He’d fucking fuse them together like this if he could, make them into a perfect eight-limbed creature, writhing and beautiful and whole.

When they come one after another minutes later, it gets everywhere—on both of their stomachs and Ed’s hand, but also on the sheets, the duvet cover, even somehow on Ed’s shoved-aside pyjamas. Ed doesn’t care, and he very much doubts that Stede does, either. They kiss and cling to each other and, finally, laugh and peel themselves apart. There’s talk about sharing a shower, but the ensuite stalls in this cottage are very small, so they agree to go their separate ways. Stede heads to his and Ed, after a quick cleanup with some tissues from the nightstand, strips the bed so he can load everything into the washing machine on the way to his room.

It’s only during his own shower that Ed realizes he doesn’t have anything to wear. He could put the tracksuit back on, but something in him resists that idea. That outfit belonged to yesterday’s Ed, and yesterday’s Ed just feels so completely separate from today’s Ed. It would be nice to wear something else now—something that reflects, in some small way, this buzzing shift that’s happening inside him.

When he steps back out into his room, towel-wrapped, it’s like Stede has once again read his mind. Because there’s an outfit waiting on the bed: a soft magenta shirt, a pair of light linen trousers, and even fresh boxer-briefs that are black, but have a kicky little rainbow waistband. A thrill runs through Ed at the prospect of spending the day dressed up in this outfit, handpicked for him like he’s Stede’s doll. He wonders if he could get Stede to brush his hair, too, complete the Barbie fantasy. He probably could. Though that might lead to the outfit coming right back off, and as much as it pains Ed to admit it, he and Stede really do need to keep their clothes on for at least a few hours today to get some baking in.

He emerges to find Stede (damp hair, tight dark-wash jeans, green polo, glasses back on—yes) in the dining nook. He’s sitting in front of the breakfast tray, trailing a finger through the hemp hearts, but—sweet man—he hasn’t eaten a bite yet, apparently waiting for Ed to begin.

Ed hurries over and grabs the seat opposite him. “Sorry to keep you waiting. You could’ve started without me.”

Stede looks up, smiling softly. “I wouldn’t dream of it! And anyway, I had this lovely, er, powder to keep me occupied. So thank you for that.”

Ed snorts. “Yeah, might’ve panicked a little there. Thought the tray needed a flourish.”

“It was a lovely flourish.” Stede’s smiles widens. “And now it matches your tattoo.”

Ed glances down, and his heart gives a little lurch when he sees that Stede has transformed the line into a wiggly snake.

“Anyway,” Stede continues, “I’ve been a completely derelict host. I should have made you breakfast!”

Ed waggles his eyebrows as he reaches for one of the muesli bowls. “I’ll let ya make it up to me later.”

“Oh?” Stede goes a bit pink at this, which is delightfully ridiculous considering what they’ve already gotten up to that morning. “Is that . . . usual, then?”

“What, trading breakfast for sex?”

Stede almost chokes on a bite of muesli and oh, this is fun.

“I dunno, mate,” Ed continues. “Can’t really say what the going rates are these days on the sex-breakfast exchange. I’ve been out of that particular game for a while. Possibly we’re gonna need to call up an accountant or something, ask for a quote on—”

“You’re teasing me.”

“I am.” Ed can’t help but grin as he reaches for his cup and takes a sip. “Ah, shit, the tea’s gone cold.”

“Going to need to downgrade the trade-in value, then,” Stede says wryly, not missing a beat.

“Nah, not if I can fix it in under three minutes. That’s the grace period, it’s in the rules.” Ed’s on his feet now, both teacups in hand, heading into the kitchen. “Here, if I can manage to get these both back onto the table, piping hot, before you—”

“Ed!” Stede shrieks, just as Ed punches a final button and turns. “You did not just put our tea in the microwave?”

A hearty debate ensues about methods and even the ethics of reheating tea, with Ed voting against waste and Stede claiming that anything but freshly-brewed tea is a crime against nature. When the microwave finally beeps, Ed removes both cups, but lifts Stede’s up over the sink.

“Reckon I’ll have to take that hit on the breakfast trade-in value, then. It’s a shame, Mr. Bonnet, but of course the customer’s always right.” Ed starts to tip the tea into the sink. “Pity, though. We could have made magic.”

Stede’s face starts to fall as he realizes what’s happening. “Ed—wait—”

“No, no.” Ed pours the last of it down the drain. “I didn’t want to have sex again today anyway.”

“Well,” Stede huffs as Ed sits back down, “three times in one day would be quite a lot. For people our age.”

“We’re pushing a hundred,” Ed agrees, shoving a bite of muesli into his mouth. “If you add us both up.”

“Goodness, that’s true. Nearly one hundred years of life experience between us, and yet—” Stede leans forward, then drops his voice into that whispery, secret-sharing tone Ed likes so much. “I feel like a teenager again. Ravenous.”

“It is good muesli,” Ed jokes, chewing, but this time Stede doesn’t take the bait.

“Not for the food, Ed.”

And there Ed goes, blushing in the middle of breakfast. It’s really almost enough to make him stand right back up and haul Stede to the couch to make a proper attempt at round three, middle-age and just-invented-food-for-sex exchange rates be damned. But shit, if they start with that again they’re never going to get around to baking, and they need to practice. Stede especially needs to practice if he’s going to take this week’s Star Baker crown, and if Ed fucks that up for him by, well . . . fucking him too much, he’ll never forgive himself.

So Ed swallows his muesli, washes it down with a glug of reheated tea (which, okay, is not great), and sets his elbows on the table. “All right, look: This is how today’s gonna go. We’re gonna finish breakfast, and then you’re gonna head into the kitchen. I’ve set up a little surprise for you in there.”

Stede’s eyebrows lift at this and a smile quirks his lips, which makes Ed wish it was a better surprise.

“Then you’re gonna finish up your showstopper from yesterday while I have another go at gluten-free pastry. We’ll eat lunch, and then you’re gonna do your pithivier again, using our friend the microwave” (Stede groans) “to cut down your time. We can sample it for dinner—and make another big salad because, you know, health. Then—and only then—” Ed pauses here for dramatic effect. “Your ravenous teenaged self can do whatever he wants with me.”

Stede’s breath catches. “That’s—um—” He’s a little flustered, but he’s also a growing little pouty as he reflects on Ed’s proposed schedule. “That’s a lot to get through, Ed!”

“Which is why I’m dangling a carrot. Or, you know, the other thing. Sorry, mate, but sometimes it’s the only way.”

“Yes, well. I suppose it does sound rather . . . motivating.” A grin crosses Stede’s face. “All right, challenge accepted. But I’m going to need a proper cup of tea first.”

“Brat,” Ed says, but it’s affectionate. He can be affectionate with Stede now—stop filtering what he says, finally tease and flirt as much as he wants. Okay, maybe he shouldn’t turn his filter all the way off, shouldn’t say every stupid word that buzzes into his head. Not yet. But he can say more. Can do more, too; trust his whims when they tell him to do something a little bold.

Like add a hemp flourish to a breakfast tray.

Or set up a fake technical challenge, right there in the cottage kitchen.

Chapter Text

Stede finds the stuff as soon as he gets up to put the kettle back on. “Ed, what’s all this?”

Ed joins him at the counter, where everything Stede will need is covered with a tablecloth he found in a kitchen drawer. “Thought you could use some extra practice at dealing with technicals stress. So . . . I made one up for you.”

“Ed!”

“Recipe’s in there, too, face down, to turn up when you’re ready. It’s a 60-minute one. Hope that’s okay.”

“It’s . . . wow. It’s more than okay. It’s incredibly thoughtful. But, this is supposed to be your practice time as well. Will you do the challenge alongside me?”

“Well, that’d hardly be fair, since I made it up. I’d kind of have an advantage.”

“Yes, but—”

“It’s okay, I’ve got a task for myself that’ll take up the hour.” Ed smirks. “Gonna annoy you.”

Stede looks charmingly confused. “I’m sorry?”

“Y’know, channel Noel and Alison and the camera guys.” Ed leans against the counter. “Interrupt you, ask you questions, taste things I shouldn’t be sticking my fingers in, the whole shebang. Help you build up your tolerance so when it happens in the tent it won’t throw you off your game so much.”

Stede’s expression shifts from confused to skeptical. “Why am I suddenly even more nervous than if we were actually filming?”

Ed just grins. “Go on, make your tea and wash up. Mystery free-from technical starts in five.”

Five minutes later, Stede’s standing behind the kitchen counter, still looking nervous as Ed puts on his best Alison accent. “All right, bakers, today’s challenge is set for you by that brilliant baking tactician, Ed Teach. Ed would like for you to make one dozen wheat-free, sugar-free digestive biscuits. You have sixty minutes. On your marks, get set, baaake!”

Ed hits the button on his timer as Stede pulls back the tablecloth, revealing spelt flour, raising agents, oats, butter, salt, and a can of golden syrup. The syrup is, of course, still a form of sugar, just inverted. But given Ed’s memories of the Free-From Week signature challenge in the 2015 series of Bake Off—where the bakers substituted things like honey, molasses, and agave nectar for white sugar—he wouldn’t it past the producers to set something like this as a “sugar-free” technical.

Stede finds the paper with the recipe and flips it over. He leans on the counter to read, and as he does, Ed sidles up to him.

“Do you know what the trick is?” Ed asks, doing his best Noel impression now. “To making a good digestive biscuit?”

Stede doesn’t glance up from the recipe. “Er—”

“Paper!” Ed-Noel plucks the recipe out of Stede’s hands. “Just a wee bit of shredded paper mixed in with the oats, gives it that extra fibrous texture. Here, I can show you—” Ed makes to tear the recipe in half, but Stede snatches the sheet back, fast.

“Thanks very much, Noel, but I think I’ll stick to—er—Ed Teach’s recipe here. Which doesn’t call for any shredded paper, alas.”

“That Ed Teach doesn’t know what he’s talking about, then,” Ed-Noel says. “He’s really missing out. A wonder he’s ever able to move his bowels at all, really, leaving all that fibre out of his digestive biscuits.”

“Now, Noel, I won’t have you talking shit like that about Ed Teach,” Stede volleys, and Ed’s façade almost cracks. Stede keeps a straight face, though. “Ed’s a baking genius, everyone knows that. So if he says to leave the paper out, then I’m going to trust him.”

“Your loss,” Ed-Noel says, shrugging. “I’m just trying to help you out here, man. You know you’re my favorite, right?”

“Thought Edward was your favorite,” Stede quips.

“Edward? Oh, yeah, that guy. Well, sure, I like to tell him he’s my favorite, seems like he could use the boost. But my real favorite in the Battle of the Kiwis? No contest. I’m Team Stede all the way.” Ed leans in even closer. “I even placed a bet on you to win this whole thing, down at my bookie’s.”

Stede starts sieving spelt flour into a bowl atop the digital scale. “Is that so?”

“Yep, bet my whole life savings on you. If you lose, I’m completely screwed. The wife and the kids and I, we’re all gonna have to move in with you. Start working odd jobs. You got any openings for a Zumba assistant?”

“Oh, I think you assisted me quite enough when you brought in that boom box a few weeks ago,” Stede says. He’s measuring raising agents now into the bowl with a teaspoon. “You might need to turn to highway robbery.”

Ed snorts. “All right, all right, I can tell when I’m not wanted.” He backs away from the counter. “Might go back to the bookie’s and switch my bet to Izzy. That kid seems to know what he’s doing.”

“Yes, excellent idea,” Stede murmurs. “Bye now.”

Ed allows himself one more chuckle as he slinks away. Bitchy Stede is one of his favorite Stedes. Best of all, though, Stede managed to banter with Ed-Noel and get his bake underway at the same time.

Ed gives him a few minutes to rub butter into his dry mixture, then stir in the sweetener to create a dough ball. The basic recipe he wrote out then simply says “chill dough,” without specifying where (fridge or freezer) or for how long. Ed watches as Stede wraps the biscuit dough up, contemplates for a moment, and chooses the freezer—which Ed would say is the correct choice, given the challenge’s limited time.

Still, he can harass Stede about it a little.

“Why’d you do that, then?” he asks in his Alison-voice, swooping back into the kitchen. Paul-voice would probably be better here, more intimidating. But the judges aren’t allowed in the tent during the technical, so Alison asking Stede the question is more realistic. “Why would you put your dough in the freezer like that? Aren’t you afraid that it’ll . . . well . . . freeze?”

“A longer, slower chill would probably be better,” Stede admits. “But given the time limit, I think it’s best to firm it up quickly and move on with the recipe.”

“Good at firming things up quickly now, are you?” Ed-Alison gives Stede the most lascivious once-over he can manage, and now Stede does break, a kind of horrified laugh bursting out of his mouth.

“Ed, please, Alison would never!”

Alison absolutely would, and they both know it, but Ed lets the point slide. “No Ed here,” he says instead. “Just you, and me, and all that nice firm—”

“Right, I’m going to the loo while the dough rests,” Stede declares. “And, um, hoping maybe I’ll meet someone else here in the tent when I get back.”

Ed watches Stede go, shaking a little himself now with laughter. He supposes he should’ve added something to this fake technical for Stede to do during the chilling and baking time, a ganache to make or some other decorative element. But maybe he’d wanted to throw him a bit of a softball. Get his confidence up. These technicals really are at least 50% a mind game, and Ed’s pretty sure that as long as Stede can learn to keep his head on straight, he can do great at one.

When Stede returns, Ed starts channeling cameraman Pete, who mostly bothers Stede by asking not baking questions, but lots of questions about Lucius, on whom pretty much everyone in the tent has noticed he has a crush.

“So what’s Lucius’s sign?” Ed-Pete asks.

“Uh, turquoise?” (Turns out Stede knows nothing about astrology.)

“And what’s Lucius’s favorite swimming stroke?”

“It’s a tie,” Stede answers more confidently as he switches the oven on, “between the sidestroke and the butterfly.”

“Great. And what’s Lucius’s favorite Jane Austen novel?”

“Jane Eyre,” Stede declares, giving Ed a moment of real existential panic. But then he notices Stede’s smirk and realizes he’s being messed with, that Stede’s just grabbing the opportunity to give Ed a taste of what he’s been doling out.

(Still, maybe Ed will ask Stede if he might like to borrow one of his Austen paperbacks? Or might like Ed to read one out loud to him? In a bathtub? Okay, Ed needs to shut down this line of thinking right now.)

Minutes later, Stede pulls his dough from the freezer. He rolls it thin on the floured countertop, then reaches for the round cutter Ed set out. He pauses, though, before using it. He asks for a time check and seems to calculate something in his head. Then he sets the cutter down, picks up a small knife, and starts to cut the biscuits out by hand.

Ed groans. He gave Stede the perfect cutter! This is why he’s been finishing so low on technicals, because he insists on going rogue, on thinking he can improve on things if he gives them his own little spin. Because he does stupid shit like this, cutting digestives that are supposed to be round into the shape of—

Oh.

He's cutting them into hearts.

“Mate,” Ed says quietly, and it’s Ed-voice now—just Ed. “What’re you doing?”

“Almost done,” Stede murmurs, and it’s true, he’s shaping them fast. It’s hardly taking any more time than if he’d used the cutter. He transfers the last heart to his paper-lined baking tray with a spatula, pokes holes in all the biscuits with a fork, and delivers the tray into the hot oven. Only then does he turn back to Ed.

“Just, um. Wanted to put my heart into the bake for the judges today, I suppose. Or for the . . . judge.”

And oh, Stede looks nervous as he says it, like there’s a chance the gesture might not be welcome. Like he’s worried it’s too much. If only he could hear how loud Ed’s brain is buzzing right now, how fat the bumblebee’s growing as it drinks all this nectar up.

Ed tries to quiet the bee by stepping into Stede’s space and walking him back into the refrigerator door. His hands brace against the shiny metal surface as he moves in for a kiss. Because sure, Ed made the rules up, but that just means he’s the one who’s allowed to bend them when he needs to, right? And oh, he needs to, after hearing that. Needs must, as the Brits like to say . . .

“I need to set a timer! Sorry!” Stede ducks out from under Ed’s arm, dashing back to the counter to punch buttons on the kitchen timer as Ed groans. Then, though, he turns around with a mischievous grin. “So, just to clarify, who was it that was going to kiss me just now? Was it Noel, or Alison, or . . . Pete, or Oluwande . . . ”

“Noel,” Ed says immediately. “Definitely Noel.”

“Well, he was very smooth. Mustn’t tell my boyfriend, though, he might get jeal—” Stede pales. “Oh, fuck.”

“Your boyfriend, eh?” Ed can’t keep the grin off his face—or out of his voice, which weirdly now is taking on some kind of Irish or Scottish accent. He leans back against the fridge. “Now, that’s the guy I’m after hearing about. Tell me more.”

“Ed,” Stede implores, his voice barely a whisper. Color’s creeping back into his cheeks, taking them directly from bone-white to scarlet.

“Oh, aye?” Ed asks, and he doesn’t even know what the fuck accent he’s doing now. Maybe it’s Matilda from Sheffield, ghost-baker and easily Ed’s second-favorite person in the whole UK for breaking her arm the day before filming started. “That the boyfriend’s name, then? Ed?”

Stede’s transformation is complete, he’s red as a beetroot. But to his credit, he doesn’t run, or turn away, or melt like a pat of butter right there on the kitchen floor. He steadies his gaze, steels his voice, and says, “Yes. His name is Ed.”

Ed’s mouth is on Stede’s before he’s even conscious of having moved across the kitchen—and, look, the rules didn’t say they couldn’t kiss all day, did they? There are 9 minutes and 47 seconds left on the kitchen timer, and Ed intends to kiss the man who just called him “boyfriend” for every last remaining second of that time.

“It’s okay?” Stede manages to murmur against Ed’s lips. “That I called you that?”

“I love—” Ed says—and shit, there’s the bee, having found a way to fly sideways out of his mouth after all. He course-corrects quickly. “I fuckin’ loved it.”

This must be an acceptable response, because Stede kisses him harder; his hands move to the back of Ed’s neck, reeling him in. And Ed’s torn, because being pressed up against Stede Bonnet like this is, objectively, the best place to be in the entire world . . . But, also, he was serious about not intending to get things started again until Stede completed his baking practice today.

So Ed pulls back a little and—in what’s a stroke of either genius or madness—grabs a spare baking tray off the counter. He slides it between them like a barrier, like a giant rectangular chastity belt, and Stede’s eyes widen as the metal pops and clangs. But he doesn’t resist when Ed moves in for another kiss over it. He just rolls with the weirdness—even grabs the edges of the tray to help hold it in place.

“Boyfriend’s a great word,” Ed whispers, shifting his mouth to kiss up along Stede’s jawline. Stede must have shaved in the shower, because his stubble is gone, and the smoothness of his skin there is a fresh revelation .

Ed switches to kiss his way up the opposite side. “So’s darling.” This time, he hears Stede sigh into the term of endearment, feels the warm exhalation as it floats past his ear. Which makes him want to come up with even more sweet things to call Stede—a long, long list.

“Honey,” he tries, and he’s rewarded with another sigh.

“Sugar.” Another one.

“Baby,” he purrs, trailing kisses down toward Stede’s neck, but this time the reaction is different. It takes Ed a moment to notice—giant metal tray being between them and all—but Stede’s body stiffens, and he bites his own lip before Ed’s mouth can get back on it.

“You don’t like that one.”

“I—no—I—” Stede shakes his head, like he’s trying to shake off a memory. Ed takes a step back, giving him space.

“It’s stupid,” Stede says. “It’s nothing. Really.” But from the way he’s white-knuckling the baking tray now, it doesn’t seem like nothing to Ed.

“You want to talk about it, mate?”

Stede looks unsure, and Ed gets that. Sometimes you want to get into the deep stuff and sometimes you don’t, and maybe the middle of a kitchen with 6 minutes and 12 seconds of baking time left on your fake technical isn’t exactly the place or time for getting into this one.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Ed says. “I can just take that one out of the repertoire, no questions asked.”

Stede cracks a half-smile.

“Should probably just eliminate the letter B from the alphabet to be safe,” Ed continues. “Stupid fucker, that B. Real nob of a letter. ’Course, then you’d have to be Stede Onnet . . . ”

“Stede Artholomew Onnet,” Stede whispers, and then they’re both cracking up.

“Christ, is that really your middle name?”

Stede nods, still laughing. “What about yours, Ed?”

“Haven’t got one.” Ed shrugs. “Though maybe I could borrow a few syllables off yours.”

“Yes, anytime.”

Stede sets the baking tray down onto the counter, then turns back to Ed. He takes a deep breath. “So. The short version is that I was sent to a boarding school when my family first came to England and . . . well, I wasn’t very popular there. These awful twins, the Badmintons, they—well, they came up with a nickname for me, and it used that word, and I just don’t have very happy memories associated with it. So I guess I’d rather not hear it now when—you know—”

“Yeah, I know,” Ed says. He’s got his own stuff he’d prefer not to be called again for the same reasons—well, not because of evil boarding-school twins, because of other shitty memories, but close enough.

He steps back toward Stede and gathers him up in his arms. Stede leans into his chest, and Ed holds him tight.

“You know,” Ed says, “this doesn’t do much to counter my theory.”

“Your theory?”

“About the letter B being a shit. Boarding school. Badminton. Though Jesus, you’d think the last one would’ve already been obvious. They had ‘bad’ right there in their names!”

Stede laughs again, and Ed feels the sound reverberate through his own chest. “You certainly know the way to a man’s heart, Ed,” Stede says. “Making a mockery of his enemies.”

Actually, Ed kind of wants to go back in time and smite all Stede’s enemies, or at least this pair of fuckers who managed to ruin the word “baby” for him for life. But Ed knows there’s not much point in wishing for that. He’s here in the present, where Stede’s warm and laughing against his chest, where Stede’s heart is beating against his own. Where in 4 minutes and 24 seconds a timer’s gonna beep, and an oven door will open, and then there’ll be even more warmth and hearts all around them.

Hearts that Ed’s boyfriend baked for him.

Yeah, the present’s a pretty fucking great place to be.

Chapter Text

The digestive biscuits turn out good.

Well, they’re fine.

They’re . . . whatever?

Ed definitely tells Stede they’re good, really good. Possibly implies they’re incredible. Who knows what comes out of his mouth, why do mouths even eat food or say words at all when they could be kissing?

The bottom line is, Stede finished the challenge, didn’t let Ed’s antics distract him too much, and produced a bake that is very much edible. Which means they can move on to the next items on their baking agendas.

Stede starts setting up a cake decorating station while Ed raids the pantry for more gluten-free pastry ingredients—though before he gets started, he pulls his phone off the charger and checks the rest of his messages. He has a reply from Evelyn to yesterday’s e-mail about the cut in signature timing, and no shock there, she’s registered his concern but there are no changes forthcoming.

I probably shouldn’t even be telling you this, Edward, but the exec at Channel 4 who usually oversees Bake Off is out on family leave, and her replacement has been . . . challenging. We really are doing our best here to shield you all from any more major changes (you wouldn’t believe some of the things this guy has proposed!). But, unfortunately, we’re all just going to have to roll with this one.

Ed appreciates her candor—he really does like Evelyn—and it’s not like he was holding his breath that his e-mail would change things. But still, it’s frustrating. Who is this Channel 4 douchebag rolling in and messing with Bake Off? Got to be some entitled fuck, some nepo hire, some—

TWAT

Izzy puts it that way, repeatedly, in the group chat. Ed scrolls back through Discord, through a morning’s worth of griping from his fellow bakers, all of whom are still struggling to shave minutes off their pithivier recipes. Ed’s and Stede’s voices are conspicuously missing from the discussion, but, well, they were a little busy earlier, weren’t they?

(Busy. Buzzy. Buzz.)

Ed tries to make up for that now by jumping into the chat in earnest, showering everyone’s messages with sympathetic emojis and sharing little time-saving tips wherever he can think of them. Greetings and thanks and emojis stream back to him, and it feels easy, for once: like Ed’s in the group’s flow, instead of struggling to swim to the top.

Still, after some more back and forth, most of the group concludes that they are going to need to drastically alter their pithivier plans by the end of the day. Love Productions needs their final recipes turned in by 7 AM tomorrow. Ed just hopes that Stede’s microwave-assisted bake this afternoon comes out as good as yesterday’s did, and that he won’t need to change his recipe otherwise.

The last couple of hours of the morning fly by as Stede decorates his showstopper and Ed does Old Bay Crab Pithivier, take two. He uses less butter in the pastry this time and more panko in the filling in an attempt to keep a soggy bottom at bay, and it works, definitely an improvement on his earlier attempt. Ed congratulates himself on having focused well enough to pull this off, especially with Stede just a few feet away the whole time, shaking his arse to yet another Zumba playlist. Yes, Ed probably deserves some kind of medal (along with a special commendation for not having swooped in to lick buttercream off Stede’s fingers even once).

“Done with yours?” Stede asks from somewhere behind him.

“Yep, done,” Ed says—and then, to his delighted surprise, Stede’s grabbing him, spinning him around and pushing him back against the refrigerator door.

Rihanna’s up again on the Zumba playlist, though it’s a different song this time, and snatches of the lyrics make it through the oven-heated kitchen air and into Ed’s overheated brain.

“I wanna make you beg for it
Then I'ma make you swallow your pride—”

But Ed can’t swallow, Stede’s tongue is in his mouth, and where the fuck is that baking tray? The chorus starts and okay, Ed was wrong about Zumba music. The songs are very profound, Ed does feel like the only girl in the world, and Rihanna’s clearly a fucking genius.

Still—

Ed breaks the kiss, nudging Stede back. “Save it,” he rasps. “Tonight. I promise. Anything you want.”

Stede’s panting a little, but he nods and takes another step away. Rakes a hand through his curls, and fuck, that could be Ed’s hand—but no, they need to practice, they need to—

“Lunch?”

Ed nods. “Lunch.”

It’s not a euphemism, they actually go eat lunch. Stede suggests packing up a few things and walking to the flower garden, and Ed agrees. He could stand to stretch his legs, and it’s less likely that he’ll be tempted to rip Stede’s clothes off if they’re outdoors in a semi-public place (though he wouldn’t put the odds quite at zero). Stede produces a massive picnic basket, because of course he does, and while he packs it up Ed gets the sheets out of the washer and takes them outside to hang on the line.

It’s another sunny summer day. Ed wonders if he’ll ever truly get used to the seasons being opposite here to what he grew up with, to warm Junes and Julys and cold Christmases. Bake Off, he knows, actually films its Christmas and New Years specials in summer, right after the regular season wraps. They bring in snow machines and make everyone wear jumpers, but the actual holiday baking takes place in a hot summer tent.

That’s a place where it would seem a Kiwi, no stranger to Christmas cooking in summertime, might have an advantage, eh? Ed wonders if Love Productions will ever invite him back to do a holiday special. Maybe he and Stede could get invited to do the same one: Battle of the Kiwis, the Sequel.

It seems like a really nice idea for exactly three seconds, until Ed realizes he’s thinking seriously about the future—like, the far future—and that’s not something he’s let himself do yet. Not when it comes to Stede. His knees go a little jelly-like. Because Stede said “boyfriend” earlier, and Ed enthusiastically agreed, but . . . what does that mean, exactly, for after the show stops filming? What does it mean for after this week, when Stede’s rental term on this cottage runs out and he goes back home to Norwich?

Norwich, on the other side of the goddamn country from Bristol. And Ed doesn’t even have a car.

Norwich, where Stede’s kids are, where his life is already so full.

Where will Ed fit into all of that?

Will Ed fit into all of that?

“Do you need help with that one, darling?”

Stede’s walking over, setting the picnic basket on the ground and reaching out to help with the last damp sheet, which is now hanging limp from Ed’s hands. And Ed could melt, hearing one of his endearments turned back around on him like that. Part of him wants to throw the damn sheet onto the ground, throw Stede down on top of it—to steal all the pleasure they can before the week runs out. Before they have to leave this fairy-tale place and find out whether this thing between them has legs, has any actual fucking chance of surviving in the real world.

He should do it. Why are they wasting their time with lunch, with practice, with—

“Hey. You okay?” Stede reaches up and tucks a strand of Ed’s hair behind his ear. Runs his finger down it slowly before letting go. Ed shivers.

“Come on, let’s get some food into you.” Stede takes the sheet from Ed’s hands and clips it up himself, then lifts the picnic basket with one hand while taking Ed’s with the other.

They start down the road. Stede asks Ed again if he’s all right, giving him another opening to talk. And Ed could tell him what he’s thinking about, what he’s scared of. But, fuck, if Stede’s not worried about all this shit yet, then Ed doesn’t want to be the one to get him started. So he says he’s fine and keeps his mouth shut about the rest.

The garden’s lovely at midday, its air thick with rose scent and dappled with sunlight. Stede lays a blanket down and starts to unpack the basket: plates, cutlery, Ed’s latest crab pithivier already sectioned into neat slices. Thick slices of Stede’s showstopper cake, too, in a container for dessert. “No salad this time, I’m afraid,” Stede says, “but at least there are vegetables in the cake?” Ed laughs.

The pithivier is good (fine? whatever?). Stede says kind things about it, but Ed knows it doesn’t hold a candle to Stede’s from yesterday—not even a cheap, drippy toddler’s-birthday one. But that’s okay. It’s nourishment; it’s filling their bellies and giving them a reason to sit together in this beautiful place.

“So what’ve you been doing with all your extra bakes?” Ed asks around a mouthful of pastry. When he does practice bakes at home, he brings them in to the boatyard or, if it’s the weekend, down to Mary Read’s crew at the library. Out here, though . . .

“I’ve made a few friends in the area,” Stede says. “There’s a woman just up the road—Auntie, she calls herself, she never told me her actual name—and she was appreciative of the odd baked-goods gift for a while. Though I’m afraid now that I’m in her bad books.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Well, one day when I’d been practicing for caramel week, I swung by her house with a bake and she wasn’t home. So I just left it on her porch. I thought I’d wrapped it pretty well, but I guess it wasn’t well enough, because, according to her, this clan of badgers—”

“Oh, no—”

“—thought they’d hit the jackpot and were having a right old feast of it on her porch when she came home! She managed to shoo them off, but they just kept coming back after that, growling and barking and twittering into the wee hours, begging for more. It was my matcha flan that I’d left, you see, and she claims that they got addicted, something about the caffeine in the green tea—”

Ed’s properly doubled over laughing now.

“—so I offered to bake them a different one—maybe chamomile flavored? To help them fall asleep?—but, well, I think she’d had quite enough of me by then. Saw her once more in the village shop after that, but she just hissed at me and called me ‘Badger Boy,’ so, no, I don’t drop extra baked goods by her place anymore.”

“Badger Boy,” Ed chokes.

“Now, don’t you start!”

Ed shakes his head—of course he won’t, not knowing Stede’s history with unwanted nicknames. But at least Stede’s laughing at his own story, too.

“So, anyway, I’ll bring the bakes into the village now if I’m heading in for groceries, fob things off on a nice cashier—but some bakes I’ve just had to throw out. Can’t keep up with it all, you know? Now, if I was home with my family, it’d all be getting vacuumed up as fast as I could make it, but . . . ”

Stede trails off then, seeming to sense—correctly—a shift in the garden’s atmosphere. A shift brought on by Ed’s sudden tenseness, a new shallowness to his breathing. He doesn’t want to do this, to freak out every time Stede brings his family up. But it’s almost a hardwired response at this point, and it’s going to take some work to undo.

Could he start the work now? Ed takes a deep breath. “Tell me more about them? Your family?”

Stede smiles at the question and starts talking about his kids. About Alma, sixteen and brilliant. She’s a burgeoning painter who also loves maths, who heard the word “fractal” one day in a Disney song years ago, dove headfirst into geometric art, and never looked back. And then there’s Louis, his fourteen-year-old foodie, Stede’s best sous-chef and quite possibly a supertaster. Louis had planned out every meal of their France trip a year ago and wrote little reviews of each café and bistro and brasserie they tried in his journal. “He wants to be the restaurant critic for the Sunday Times,” Stede says, “and he could do it, too. Begs us every other week to move to London so he can ‘expand his taste library.’ But, of course, Mary and Doug both teach at the university, so that’s a nonstarter.”

Ed swallows his last bite of crab pithivier and forces himself to ask the next question. “And Mary?” he asks. “How did you two . . . ”

Thankfully, Stede doesn’t make him finish the questions. “Our fathers,” he says simply. “They were business partners, and honestly, they all but forced the two of us together. I’m sure it will sound absolutely ridiculous to you, Ed, the idea of an arranged marriage in this day and age, but—well, that’s pretty much what it was.”

“Doesn’t sound that ridiculous, mate.” Ed’s certainly read enough Jane Austen to understand that love often takes a backseat in marriage when family money’s at stake. And sure, those books might be two hundred years old, but if he’s learned anything in his years living in the UK, building boats for a fair few posh nobs, it’s that the English upper crust can be very slow to change its ways.

Something seems to occur to Stede then. “Speaking of Mary, you must have thought I was such a cad, Ed! Married and flirting shamelessly with you for all those weeks!”

Ed feels the grin break across his face. “So you were flirting with me!”

“Could—could you not tell?” The shade of Stede’s cheeks suddenly approaches that of the roses on the bush behind him. “I was trying to! Probably wasn’t very good at it, though.”

“Hey.” Ed reaches for his hand. “You were plenty good at it. Fuck, I wanted to jump your bones the second you ripped your shirt off in front of me in your hotel room. That was a baller move, mate.”

“And see, there I was just trying to be nice!” Stede ducks his head, looking deeply embarrassed. “The flirting started later, Ed. After—you know. After you sat with me on the bus and were so kind to me during my little panic that first morning of filming. It was like a switch flipped, and I was just . . . well. I was in your thrall after that.”

Stede’s still acting embarrassed, still refusing to meet Ed’s eye, so Ed gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Hey! Same. About the thrall. Though, maybe that really started for me a couple of hours later. I mean, I already thought you were hot as fuck. But when you threw that snail at me—”

“Threw? That snail slipped out of my tongs—”

“Bullshit! I know—fuckin’—snail flirting when I see it! Oldest trick in the book.”

Stede’s laughing now. “All right,” he finally manages between giggles. “Perhaps there was a little . . . snail flirting there, as you’ve so eloquently put it. But I was also trying to help you, Ed. I didn’t want you to get sent home that first week. Not after I’d only just met you. Not after I’d only just started to realize . . . ” He swallows. “Before the snail challenge, after the signature—do you remember? We all went outside for lunch. You were lying in the grass, your eyes closed. Just resting, and I felt like a creep, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. Your purple shirt had ridden up—”

“Your purple shirt,” Ed reminds him. “That you dressed me in.”

“Yes, all right, my purple shirt had ridden up on you, and you had this little strip of skin showing, your—” Stede swallows again “—your navel all exposed, and your hair everywhere, and oh god, Ed, I was jealous of the grass because it got to touch you! But I told myself there was just no way a man this beautiful, this absolutely lovely could ever . . . ”

Stede’s voice fades out into breath. He’s been skating his thumb lightly over Ed’s skin where they’re still holding hands—and speaking of thralls, Ed couldn’t move or make a sound now if he tried.

“See—I’m not—” Stede takes a deep breath, and his thumb stills. “I’m not always the best at reading people, Ed. I don’t trust myself to gauge their responses accurately. All those hard years at school, I think . . . they beat something out of me. My ability to trust not others, necessarily, but myself. My own instincts. For years of my life, it’s just seemed easier to let others make the big decisions for me. My father, about my marriage. Mary, about having children—though I don’t regret that one, not for a moment, please don’t misunderstand me.” Stede shakes his head. “But, see, quitting my job to teach Zumba, initiating my divorce, and applying to be on Bake Off—those are really the only big decisions I’ve ever made for myself, if I’m honest. And then, I met you, and I liked you so much, but I could hardly begin to fathom that you might think of me in the same way. Most people . . . don’t, in my experience.”

“Their fuckin’ loss,” Ed growls, and he moves in closer to Stede, close enough that he can feel as well as hear it when Stede lets out another shaky breath.

“I still can’t totally believe it,” he whispers. “You? This? It’s really real?”

He turns then, looks Ed in the eye. Ed swallows the lump that’s formed in his throat as he nods. “You can be the grass now,” he whispers back. “If you want.”

Ed kind of expects Stede to grab him at this and wrestle him down onto the picnic blanket; to slide hands up his shirt, or get a finger or tongue into his navel. And that would be fine, that would be great—they’re alone in the garden and the plan can surely handle one more brief deviation. But instead, Stede grins, slow and wide, then scoots back from the picnic basket, crossing his legs. “Here,” he says, and he pats his lap. “Lie down, then.”

So Ed does. He stretches out, like he did that day outside the tent, only this time he rests his head in Stede’s lap. Stede’s hands move to his hair, start gliding through the smooth strands and teasing at the snags. Ed closes his eyes and sinks into the sensations: the warmth of the sun on his face, the smell of the roses, the gentle tugs to his scalp. The sounds of birds twittering nearby and of cars on the road farther off. He feels present; he feels safe. And so when Stede asks Ed about his family, about his life before Bake Off, he feels okay, for once, talking about it.

He starts with the broad strokes. His mum, who loved music, who taught him to bake, who taught him to make a lot out of a little. Who died of cancer when Ed was fourteen. His shitty drunk of a dad, made only shittier and drunker by grief. Escaping from home at sixteen and schmoozing his way into a boatbuilding apprenticeship. And then, some years later, Jack. Who’d ended up drunk much of the time, too, never able to admit certain things to himself; never able to give Ed what he needed. From whom Ed had also escaped in the end, after that little wager with the universe.

Stede cards his hands through Ed’s hair the whole time, making little noises to show that he’s listening, but never interjecting. So Ed says more. About starting over in England at Blackbeard’s Boatyard; about saving up to buy his houseboat; about taking over the business when Hornigold retired. About discovering Jane Austen, and rediscovering baking years after his mum’s death. About getting sucked into Bake Off and building his mental library of recipes. Ed even tells Stede about the particular way his brain’s always worked—skittering over so much, but latching onto the stuff that interests him to an almost unholy degree. How memorization comes so easily when it’s a topic Ed cares about, when it’s something he can put on the very short list of Things That Make Ed Happy.

And as Ed talks about his brain, Stede runs his fingertips along Ed’s scalp, tracing each bump and ridge like he’s a fucking phrenologist or something. Like he’s memorizing Ed.

“Thank you,” Stede whispers after Ed finally goes quiet. He bends over to place a kiss on Ed’s forehead. “Thank you for letting me know you more.”

And Ed knows he’s all in then—on whatever this turns out to be, for however long it lasts. That he’s going to lean in so fucking hard he falls over, because Stede’s there to catch him. Because Stede’s got him now, has caught Ed by the hair and doesn’t seem to be in any rush to let him go.

So Ed decides, just like that. All in.

Like he could have chosen any differently.

Chapter Text

“Okay, so.” Ed places the last dish back in the cupboard and turns to Stede, who's wiping his hands by the sink. “What, exactly, does your ravenous teenaged self have in mind for tonight?”

It’s 8 PM. Baking is done, dinner is done, the dishes are done. Stede had his nightly call with his kids while Ed took another walk, watched the sun start to dip behind the hills. Looped back to the cottage to see their sheets on the line, catching the last of the day’s light as they flapped in the breeze. The sight made him think of the brandysnap sails on Stede’s pirate ship cake—wrong color, but right sense of movement, right . . . spirit, somehow. They’d sailed them both into new waters, those sheets. Or sailed Ed out of the water? Maybe the metaphor doesn’t quite hold. Ed just knows that when he looks at them, he feels buoyant. A little giddy, even. He feels, and that’s the point.

Now, across the kitchen, Stede folds his hand towel and hangs it carefully over the oven handle. He straightens its edges. He’s not looking at Ed, and not answering his question. He seems nervous. And now that Ed thinks about it, the vibes have been a little off all afternoon. No casual brushes past in the kitchen, and certainly no more kissing up against the refrigerator door.

Ed assumed Stede was just focused on his bake, on mastering the new version of his pithivier. And it had turned out good! Maybe not quite as mouthgasmically tender as yesterday’s version, but solid, and done within the new time limit. But even with that behind him, Stede seems tense.

Ed wants to swoop in and rub Stede’s shoulders, maybe kiss his neck until he melts into Ed’s chest like wax—but suddenly he’s nervous, too. Like it’s catching. They’ve been moving so fast today. What if Stede wants to hit the brakes?

Shit.

“Hey.” Ed takes a step toward Stede. “You okay? Listen, we don’t have to do anything tonight if you’re not feeling it. We can just hang out. Slow things down. Or I can”—Ed grits his teeth, but he forces himself to say it—“I can head home, if you want.”

Stede turns from the sink, and—thank fuck—closes the space between them, nuzzling his face into Ed’s shoulder. Ed’s arms circle him immediately, and it’s an effort not to cling, not to let the snake on his right arm go all boa constrictor.

“I don’t want you to go,” Stede murmurs. “I’m just . . . tired. And maybe a little overwhelmed. This is all very new for me.”

“For me, too,” Ed says. Stede huffs out a little noise of disbelief, and Ed wishes he could make him understand that all the sex in the world couldn’t have prepared Ed for this, for the absolute thrill and terror of all his new feelings.

“Do you think,” Stede starts, aiming his words more at Ed’s chest than his face, “that maybe we could just watch TV tonight and . . . hold hands? Or cuddle a little?”

“Yeah,” Ed says softly. “That sounds really nice.”

Stede finally pulls back enough to meet Ed’s eye. “You’re not disappointed? That you said we could do anything, and . . . that’s what I want?”

Ed laughs. “I’m pretty tired, too, mate. Like you said, it’s been a long day. And we’ll probably both have a lot more energy in the morning for—” He cuts himself off there, though, not wanting to presume.

Stede, though, enthusiastically finishes the sentence. “For sex? God, yes, please can we have more sex tomorrow?”

Ed laughs again. “Yeah, reckon we can. Since you’ve asked so nicely.”

He pulls Stede back into their hug, and gives him a chaste peck on the cheek for good measure. “All right, so, are you thinking more Bake Off? Maybe we can skip forward—episode six of Nancy’s series has this great little moment . . . ”

They end up on the couch, side by side like last night, only this time with hands held, fingers intertwined. Stede eventually lays his head down on Ed’s shoulder, and this time, it’s perfect.

“This may sound a little weird,” Stede says when they get to a slower part of the episode, “but I’ve actually always wanted to do this.”

Ed reaches for the remote to turn the volume down. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Stede says, “I’ve told you that when I first came to this country, I was sent to a boarding school, right? I was thirteen, and it was an unpleasant experience for . . . well, for reasons I’ve already mentioned. But there was one thing I liked. We had this break room, with a television and an eight-bit Nintendo system. It wasn’t much—there weren’t even chairs in there, you had to sit on the floor to play—but if you finished all your schoolwork and your chores, they let you sign up for slots as a reward, in groups of two. And . . . ” Stede sits up now on the couch, though he keeps hold of Ed’s hand. “Well, I always signed up to play with this one other boy. He was new to the school that year, too, and quiet like me. But in that room, we got to be loud. We’d cheer each other on playing Mario or Zelda, and we’d rib each other a bit when we lost, but there was never any cruelty in it. Not like there would have been with the other boys.”

Stede pauses to take a breath. “And then, one day, while we were playing in there . . . well, it felt like it came over me out of nowhere, but I had this mad urge to take his hand. Just to hold it. But, of course, I couldn’t, because how can you hold hands and play video games at the same time?” Stede lets out a sad little laugh. “You can’t. And, well, that was just that time in a nutshell for me. Feeling like nothing I wanted made sense. Like it wasn’t even physically possible.” He shakes his head. “I’m not making much sense now, am I?”

“You’re making perfect sense,” Ed says, and he gives Stede’s hand a squeeze. “You liked that boy, but you felt like you couldn’t do anything about it.”

“Not at that school, no.”

Stede’s quiet then for a long moment—but just as Ed is wondering if he should turn the Bake Off volume back up, Stede speaks again.

“So, you know—what I said this morning about feeling like a teenager again? It wasn’t quite true. If I’m honest, my teenaged self wasn’t all that ravenous. I don’t think he would have known how to be, really. Mostly what he wanted was just . . . this. Well, maybe video games on the screen instead of baking, but most importantly, another boy’s hand in his.” He squeezes Ed’s back now. “So thanks for this, Ed.”

“No worries, mate.” Ed’s voice is a little shaky—maybe because he feels kind of like Stede’s just squeezed his heart right along with his hand. He reaches for the remote and is about to hit the volume button when, all at once, he gets a brainwave.

“Stede,” he says, turning to him, “have you ever used Twitch? That video game streaming thing?”

“Twitch?” Stede shakes his head. “I think I’ve heard of it, but my kids and I really aren't gamers these days.”

“Yeah, well, me neither. But Maggie and Ivan—they work with me at Blackbeard’s—well, they’re both parents, and they’re always talking about the ridiculous online trends their kids are into. For a while it was those ‘unboxing videos,’ where the kids watched strangers open up new toys instead of, like, playing with the real shit they actually had?”

“Ah, yes,” Stede says with a chuckle. “I remember those.”

“Right, well, apparently the older kids have moved on now to Twitch, where they can watch streams of strangers playing video games instead of doing it themselves. Which, honestly, I thought sounded even more ridiculous than the unboxing. But—” He bounces his eyebrows now. “I think that means there might be a way we can actually do your video game thing!”

Realization dawns slowly on Stede’s face. “Oh!” he cries at last. “Ed, I never would have thought of that!”

“Here,” Ed says, and he points the remote at the TV. It takes a couple of minutes of navigating, but in the end it turns out they don’t even need the Twitch app—the TV has YouTube, where there are already plenty of recorded streams of classic Nintendo games.

Ed slides off the couch onto the floor and pats the spot next to him. “Okay, which one do you want?” he asks. “Looks like there’s Super Mario 1, 2, or 3 . . . just one Zelda, though. ”

Stede’s eyes are shining as he slips down to the floor to join Ed. “You can choose.”

“Well, I never played any of’em growing up,” Ed admits. “No Nintendo at my school, and definitely not at my house. So they’re all the same to me.”

“Mario 2, then,” Stede says. “It’s the weirdest one.”

Ed clicks the remote button. The video starts, and Stede’s hand finds his again. Then they sit there together, listening to some freaky electronic theme music and watching a pink-frocked princess float around in midair and climb beanstalks and sometimes . . . pick vegetables and throw them at the little baddies?

Stede narrates, explaining what the story is and what sequence of buttons you’d have to push on the controllers to get the princess to do her tricks. It’s trippy and fun to watch for about ten minutes, and then, honestly, it gets a little boring, but that’s okay too. Turns out being bored is fine when Stede Bonnet’s sitting next to you, holding your hand, clasping it a little tighter each time the princess clears a pit or lands a vegetable right in the big boss’s mouth.

They end up going back to Bake Off eventually, and moving back up to the couch to watch; there’s only so much floor-time either of their middle-aged arses can take. And once again, Stede doesn’t even make it through the full episode before he’s snoring, head tipped back against the cushions.

Ed smiles as he switches off the TV and pulls out his phone to check in on the Discord chat. Apparently, it’s been going strong all evening.

Roach
Petrified about Saturday. Sig bake still not going well.

Jim
can’t believe we all just have to roll over like this

Izzy
for those fuckin twats at channel 4

Zheng
Got my e-mail to Evelyn drafted with my recipe changes, but can’t bring myself to hit send

Lucius
I’m waiting til the last possible second. 6:59 AM tomorrow. UGH

Ed’s finger hovers over the keypad. He wants to write something that’ll leave his fellow bakers feeling hopeful, but his mind won’t come up with words. Stede’s better at this than he is. He’s always cheerleading in the chat, finding ways to get everyone to look on the bright side. A lot of the other bakers have taken to calling him Captain—because of the pirate ship cake, but also, Ed suspects, because of this. Right now Stede would probably write something like Buck up, friends—at least we’re all in this together! And somehow it wouldn’t sound quite so cheesy, coming from him.

Well, maybe Ed can risk sounding cheesy, just this once. He starts typing it into the chat: we’re all in this tog— when, suddenly, it hits him.

They are all in this together.

Seven bakers. Seven damn good bakers. The best seven home bakers left in the UK this year, if the Bake Off promotional material is to be believed. (In reality, seven of the at-least-halfway-decent-and-most-camera-ready bakers.)

There are seven of them, versus one asshole replacement exec who clearly knows fuck-all about good baking and good TV.

Jim’s right. Why are they just rolling over?

An idea starts taking shape in Ed’s mind. It’s risky. It’s crazy. And it just might work.

He starts typing into the chat, but the words come too fast now and his fingers are too slow, so he hits the microphone button and talks instead. A paragraph takes shape on the screen, its words impassioned. Ed gets to the end, reads it back over, taps in a couple of corrections. Moves his finger to the Send button . . . then stops to look at Stede.

He thinks about all the unexpected turns their day has taken; about how he should probably start expecting the unexpected wherever Stede is concerned. From heart-shaped digestives to coaxing out Ed’s life story in a garden to a ravenous night of hand-holding, Stede Bonnet rarely follows the script.

And now Ed doesn’t want to follow it, either.

He sends the message . . . and the group chat explodes.

Zheng
Ummm, this sounds like mutiny? Or at least mutiny-adjacent?

Roach
Need clarification. Would the crew also be in on this?

Lucius
strong question Roach, love that

Edward
no no no, just us

Roach
Just the brink of mutiny, then.

Jim
well fuck it I’m in
may be mutiny but its brilliant. power to the bakers!!!!

Lucius
but we would ALL need to be in for this to work

Zheng
Kind of a join-me-or-die proposition?

Jim
well I vote JOIN

Roach
Yeah, it’s probably our only real chance at turning out something edible.
All right. I’m in.

Zheng
I kinda of want to know what our Captain thinks about all this before I decide.

Lucius
where IS that man? he’s hardly been online all day

Jim
yeahhhh, zumba king of norwich weigh in please

Zheng
PAGING @STEDE

Jim
@STEDE @STEDE @STEDE

Lucius
@STEDE @STEDE @STEDE @STEDE @STEDE @STEDE @STEDE

Apparently, Stede’s phone is set to buzz whenever he gets a direct Discord notification, because it starts going nuts and wakes him with a jolt. Ed watches as he rubs his eyes open and reaches for his pocket. Pulls his phone out, scrolls up fast, then slowly back down, eyes growing wider by the second.

Finally, he turns to look at Ed. “Wow,” he says. “This is a brave idea.”

Ed nods. “I learned from the best.”

The smile that crosses Stede’s face then is slow and sweet. He nods back, then starts typing into his phone.

Stede
I’m here!

Zheng
Girl, how ARE YOU?

Lucius
and where have you been all day??

Stede
Just . . . busy
But it looks like Edward is being brilliant as usual with this proposal. Of course I’m in, as we all should be.

The messages come then in quick succession.

Zheng
Yeah, okay, then I’m in, too.

Lucius
FIIIIINE, I’m in
I mean, they can’t kick us ALL off, can they
can they???

Jim
wait, where’s Izzy

Jim
@IZZY

Roach
@IZZY @IZZY @IZZY @IZZY

Lucius
jeez don’t wake the kid, it’s probably past his bedtime

Izzy
it’s only 9:02 you twat

Roach
Have you been here the whole time? Spying on us?

Izzy
not spying just thinking

Jim
iz come onnnn
join us
everyone else is doing it

Lucius
don’t peer pressure him, jim!

Edward
all right everyone, give him a sec to breathe
Izzy, when you’re ready, let us know what you think

The dots bounce under Izzy’s name for a long while. Next to each other on the couch, Ed and Stede both stare at their phones. Finally, the answer comes through.

Izzy
yeah
OK
let’s get those fuckery
fuckera
FUCKERS!!!
let’s get those fuckers
mutiny yes sure
let’s do this

Ed and Stede let out a whoop, and at the same time a cheer goes up in the chat, fireworks emojis all around.

Zheng
We need a code name for this!

Jim
fuckery’s good, thx Iz

Izzy
that was a TYPO!

Roach
Stupid name for a mutiny . . . but I love it.

Lucius
yeah me too
fuckery, fuckery, fuckery
rolls off the tongue

Zheng
Fuckery dickory dock, the mice ran out the clock 🤣

And so, just like that, it’s decided: This weekend, the bakers are rising up. Mutinying. Taking back the signature challenge.

The fuckery is on.

Chapter Text

Ed wakes the next morning to the huff of Stede’s breath in his ear, and fuck phones, alarm clocks, and even birdsong—he doesn’t ever want to be woken up any other way again.

He angles his head carefully to check, but Stede—on his side, face tucked in close to Ed’s—is still asleep. They’re in Ed’s bed (well, the guest bed) since they never did end up remaking Stede’s with clean sheets yesterday. And they’re both fully dressed in pyjamas. It didn’t take them long to fall asleep like this last night, cuddled up together . . . but Ed definitely woke up a few times after that, needing to shift around, completely unused to the heat and bulk of another person in his bedspace.

So much for his pride in his incredible ability to sleep soundly anywhere. Stede must be an even deeper sleeper than he is, because if he woke or even moved in the night, Ed can’t tell.

Still, Ed’ll take a little discomfort, a little awkwardness, if that’s the price of being here. Of not only not waking up alone, but of waking up next to his favorite fucking person. His boyfriend. His boyfriend who requested more sex this morning, please.

A warm feeling floods Ed’s chest—and maybe some of his other parts—remembering that.

As much as he’d like to poke Stede awake with one of those parts and get right to it, Ed’s middle-aged body could stand a stretch and a few ablutions first. He slides carefully out of bed and makes his way to the ensuite. Rolls his shoulders out while he brushes his teeth, because a goddamn neck spasm in the middle of whatever they get up to this morning would not be bloody optimal. He bends and flexes his bum knee, too, while he sits on the toilet. Plays around with the bidet for a minute after—it’s one of those fancy ones with twelve spray settings and a heating feature, much nicer than his twist-knob cold-water one at home on Jane.

Finally, he gets his (now frankly pampered) arse back into bed just in time to hear Stede stir, to watch him blink those hazel eyes open up close.

“Morning.” Stede snuggles in closer to Ed. “Mmmm, this is a nice way to start the day.”

“For me, too.”

They lie there together for a few minutes, just breathing. Ed gets an arm around Stede and pets his hair, letting the soft curls slide through his fingers. Stede eventually gets up for his own ensuite trip, and when he returns to bed his pyjama shirt is gone and his mouth tastes like cinnamon and, shit, Ed is absolutely ready to give him whatever the fuck he wants.

Stede seems ready for that, too, if the hard heat pressing into Ed’s hip through their pyjama trousers is any indication. Ed reaches down to get a hand on it, but Stede catches him at the wrist and gently moves it away.

“What do you like, Ed?” Stede brushes his lips down Ed’s carotid as he asks. “I want to make you feel good.”

Ed shivers as Stede drops his wrist to trace fingers up his left arm. “This,” Ed murmurs. “Just . . . the way you touch me. So good.”

Stede hums in assent and snakes his hand back down Ed’s arm and under his pyjama shirt. He drags his fingertips along Ed’s ribcage and up over his nipples. Ed moans softly. Then Stede’s hand is sliding back down over Ed’s stomach and around his waist, nudging him to roll onto his side. Ed does, and his breath hitches as Stede’s fingers skate over the small of his back and duck under his waistband to stroke the length his arse.

“Can I touch you here?” Stede asks, his voice hushed. “If you want . . . I have lube.”

“I want.” Ed’s voice cracks as the words come out, as his hips cant back into Stede’s hand.

“Okay. Hang on.”

Stede pulls his hand away and rolls across the bed toward the side table, and shit, no, Ed didn’t want that! But Stede’s rummaging through a drawer now, scooting even farther away, so Ed takes advantage of the break in contact to divest himself of his pyjamas. He’s flung them to the floor and is just moving back across the bed when Stede pops up, triumphant—holding the smallest bottle of lube Ed has ever seen.

Like, it’s barely the size of a mascara tube, or a budget hotel shampoo; there can’t be more than two fingers’ worth of lube inside. Ed assumes it was some kind of free sample, until he sees that it still has a bright green chemist’s price sticker on it.

“You paid two quid for that?” he bursts out, because, yeah, still no filter.

Stede huffs. “Well, I didn’t nick it!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Ed shakes his head. “I mean, I guess I just didn’t know they sold lube in such . . . cute quantities.”

He’s saved it, right? Said cute—not tiny, or miniscule, or ridiculously, impractically small . . .

“Well,” Stede says again, though now his tone is more subdued. “I did consider purchasing the larger size on Monday. But I didn’t want to get too optimistic.”

“On Monday?” Ed blinks. “Did you buy this, um, very adorable bottle of lube specifically for us?”

Stede’s blushing furiously now. “I just wanted to be prepared. In case your visit went . . . very well.”

Now Ed’s grinning. “Stede Bonnet. You little seductress! Did you buy condoms, too?”

Stede nods, his lips pressed tight.

“Oh, yeah? How many?”

“A three-pack.” Stede blushes deeper.

“Aw, Stede.” Ed reaches out to rub his knee. “Didn’t want to tempt the sex gods too much, did you?”

A shy little grin finally breaks through all of Stede’s blushing. “Just wanted to tempt one of them.”

Ed laughs, even as he shifts to his hands and knees and crawls the last couple of feet across the bed. “Well, consider him tempted.” He kisses Stede then, softly, with just a hint of tongue. “Though maybe,” he murmurs into Stede’s lips, “another shopping trip might be in order now?”

They both laugh then, and kiss again, and soon Stede’s pyjama trousers are on the floor too and his back’s against the headboard, Ed straddling his lap as Stede slicks up his fingers. Turns out the tiny bottle of lube holds just enough to make this work, and Ed moans as Stede reaches between his legs to slide a finger over his hole. To tease and test until Ed’s practically begging for it, grinding his cock against Stede’s belly as the tip of Stede’s finger finally presses up into him.

They pulse together then, Stede’s finger moving deeper inside while his other hand roams Ed’s body, fluttering over muscles and strumming tattoos. Ed’s mind washes over with all the fancy details Stede puts into his bakes: the letters etched in his soaps, the perfect pirate ship decorations. How quicky and precisely he shaped those hearts yesterday. Of course he’s good with his hands. Ed should have clocked that sooner, though it just would have given him something else to fantasize about. Now, he doesn’t have to fantasize; he just has to feel as Stede plays his skin like a harp.

Ed closes his eyes and gives himself over to sensation.

Soon he’s writhing, drowning in the pleasure of it, but it’s a good kind of drowning. Stede’s right there with him, holding Ed steady now with his free arm, kissing Ed’s belly and chest, murmuring words like “gorgeous” and “lovely” and “touch yourself, darling.” And it’s like Ed forgot he could, he got so lost, but he does now when Stede tells him to, gets a hand on himself and strokes hard, fast. When Stede crooks his finger inside him and hits that spot, Ed shudders apart, panting and gasping as he paints Stede’s torso with his spend.

Stede holds him through it, whispering his name and how beautiful he is, his words the light touches now that skate all over Ed’s skin.

“Pretty sure you’re the sex god,” Ed murmurs when he finally regains the ability to speak. “I’m just a mere mortal, along for the ride.”

“A regular dude.” Stede says it in a pretty decent Jackie-voice, which cracks them both up. “Well, I hope it was a good ride.”

“The best.” Ed kisses him, then slowly levers himself up off Stede’s lap. His knee’s gonna give him shit for this later, he’s sure, but he’s also sure it was worth it.

Stede reaches for the tissues and dabs at his stomach. “Showers?”

“Mmm, need to take care of this first.” Ed runs a finger up Stede’s still mostly-hard cock, smiling as it twitches into his hand. “Though we’re all out of lube now, I’m afraid.”

“Pretty sure your mouth’s wet enough.”

Stede says it deadpan, though when Ed looks up, he catches a cheeky grin. And fuck, Ed loves it when Stede gets like this, all confident and playful. “That it is,” he says, mouth watering right on cue. “Don’t move.”

He slides down between Stede’s legs, tries to position himself so he won’t have to put any more weight on his knee. “Actually, move just a little. Here, roll onto your side—like, diagonal across the bed. Yep, there we go.”

Ed gets on his side, too, lining his face up with Stede’s cock and moving a hand to Stede’s hip to hold him in place. He dives in then, and soon Stede’s moaning and clutching at Ed’s hair as Ed tongues his balls, nips at his inner thighs, licks hot stripes up his dick. “Fuck, Ed,” Stede hisses, his words like steam from a kettle that’s already starting to boil. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Ed tries to take it slow, to keep Stede’s pleasure at a simmer. He gives his cock a couple of hard sucks, then listens to Stede whine in protest as he pops off to scrape teeth along his hip bone, to knead his hands into the gorgeous firmness of Stede’s arse. Takes in a new, different whine as he licks into Stede’s navel—a whine that crescendos quickly, just like Ed suspected it might.

Stede grabs a pillow at some point and buries his face in it, but even that doesn’t do much to mute his rising volume. Which Ed doesn’t mind a bit; he wants to coax every sound out of Stede that he can. There must be years’ worth buried in there, and Ed wants to hear them all, carnal and decadent and loud, his own name swirled deliciously into the mix.

Stede’s sobs and pleas finally convince Ed to swallow his cock back down, to relax his throat and grab Stede by the arse, hauling him in as deep as he can go. When he spills into Ed’s mouth, Stede’s whole body spasms, and his shout of pleasure is probably loud enough for Auntie and all the badgers in a two-mile radius to hear.

Ed eventually crawls back up the bed to meet Stede face-to-face. To let Stede stroke his beard and his hair, and stare so soppily into his eyes that Ed’s own threaten to spill over.

“Get dressed after you shower, please,” Stede says at last. “You can take anything from my closet you like—going to have to pack it all up tomorrow anyway. But today, I want to take you somewhere.”

“Stede.” Ed sighs. “We have to practice.”

“We’ve been practicing all week!” Stede protests. “And now, with this fuckery afoot, things shouldn’t be so bad on Saturday. Come on—it’s our last full day here before we have to go back to Bake Off, and you haven’t seen anything in the Cotswolds except for this cottage.”

“I’ve seen the garden up the road,” Ed says, petulant. Honestly, if it’s their last full day here and they’re not going to bake, shouldn’t they spend it in bed? “I don’t want to see more of the Cotswolds. Just want to see more of you.”

“Well, I’ll be there.”

“Yeah, but you’ll be wearing clothes.”

“I can wear my glasses too, if that helps.” Stede grins. “I’ve noticed that you like them.”

Well damn, now Ed’s laughing in spite of himself. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“I do know that. Now, on your feet, we’re having a day.”

Ed chuckles all the way to the shower, wondering what the fuck Stede’s plan is and how it could possibly be worth getting booted out of bed like this. He wonders while he towels off, while he slips the bird robe on, while he pads over to Stede’s room. Stede’s still in his own ensuite with the door cracked open, going through some sort of elaborate skin-and-hair routine, so Ed steps to Stede’s wardrobe to look for something to wear.

He pokes around, considering various options until he finds a short-sleeved button-down and matching shorts printed all over with pineapples. It’s light and colorful and silly and so far away from the type of thing Ed would normally wear that he stands there for a full minute before deciding that yes, he can handle this, he can be brave enough to give pineapples a go.

Stede grins when he comes out of the ensuite to see Ed’s new look. “Good choice with the shorts,” he says. “This way you won’t have to roll anything up later.”

“Where are you taking me?” Ed asks, but Stede just grins some more, revealing nothing. They eat a quick breakfast, and Stede portions and wraps their leftover baked goods and loads them into a cooler. Then they’re back in the Roadster, red silk holding Ed’s hair in place again as they drive down a series of tree- and hedge-lined roads.

It doesn’t take long to get where they’re going, maybe twenty minutes. Stede doesn’t bother with sat-nav; he’s clearly been this way before. Finally, they enter a town and pull into a large pay-and-display parking area.

“Well, here we are!” Stede announces, killing the Roadster’s engine. “Bourton-on-the-Water. Cream of the Cotswolds. By many accounts, the prettiest village in England.”

Ed glances around. Honestly, he’s still thinking they should either be baking or fucking right now, so maybe his impatience comes out a little in his tone. “Looks like a car park, mate.”

“Yes, well, this isn’t the bit they put on the postcards. Come on.”

Ed grabs the cooler at Stede’s request and follows him out of the car park and down a shaded footpath. There’s nothing much to see yet, just some trees and walls and houses, but then the footpath ends and a vista opens up: a glittering river crossed with arched footbridges and lined with quaint, honey-colored buildings.

“Bourton-on-the-Water,” Stede says again. “Famous for its yellow limestone architecture and the five stone bridges that span the River Windrush.”

“The River Windrush,” Ed repeats. “Sounds fuckin’ . . . made up.”

“Well, goodness, all place names are made up, aren’t they?” Stede reaches out to take Ed’s hand. “Come on. Let’s stroll.”

So they do. And okay, the place may be tooth-rottingly picturesque and also absolutely crawling with tourists even though it’s only mid-morning on a Thursday . . . but still, Ed finds that he can’t hang on to his snarky outlook for long. Because fuck it, he’s got about fifty pineapples printed on his clothes and he’s holding hands with his sunshine-in-a-bottle boyfriend, and sometimes it’s nice just to not be a dick for an hour, right?

It probably is. Ed should probably try it.

So he wanders the village with Stede. Accepts three different compliments on his outfit. Offers to take a picture for a tourist family on a bridge who’re struggling to get a selfie. He even plays wingman when Stede starts approaching strangers on picnic blankets to offer them cake or pithivier slices. He backs Stede up, swearing they’re not poisoned, saying things like “oh, you can trust my boyfriend, he’s a Zumba teacher.” Which doesn’t even make sense, but it makes people laugh. They laugh and smile and say “thank you” and take the food. And then Stede takes Ed’s hand again and he smiles, bigger and brighter than all the rest of them, and Ed feels light and fizzy, like a can of L&P come to life.

They ultimately find their own spot at the riverside. It turns out the river is only about a foot deep here in the middle of town, and there are kids splashing around in it, and ducks, and even some adults wading in, long trousers rolled up if they’re wearing them. Now Ed understands Stede’s earlier comment about the shorts.

“Do you want to go in?” Stede asks.

Ed’s not sure—the water’s probably cold and his spot here on the grass is nice and warm. But he’s pretty sure Stede wants to go in, and Ed really just wants to be wherever Stede is, so he says okay and then they’re slipping off their shoes and socks and stepping into the burbling river together.

And it’s nice: more cool than cold, and not too slippery. If there weren’t so many tourists and kids and quacking avians around (Ed can’t just think of them as birds anymore—thanks a lot, Buttons), it’d probably even be romantic.

Eh, fuck it, it’s still a little romantic. And Stede’s been holding his hand all over town already, so he’s probably okay with more PDA, right?

Ed pulls Stede in close for a long, sweet kiss.

“Mmm,” Stede says when they break apart. His eyes stay closed; his smile shines. “What was that for?”

“For dragging me out of the house.” Ed blows out a breath. “You were right, I guess. This is nice, and I’m glad you brought me here.”

“Good,” Stede says. “Then I’m glad, too. Especially since, soon enough, we won’t really be able to do this sort of thing anymore.”

All of a sudden the water does feel cold; Ed’s whole body’s cold, stiffening up in this ridiculous outfit. “What do you mean?” he asks, even though he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer. Must be that Stede’s finally started thinking about the future, too—about how far they live from each other, how logistically difficult it’ll be to see each other post-Bake Off. About how this was nice, but maybe they ought to quit while they’re ahead, just stay friends, no hard feelings, etc., etc.

Ed shoves his hands into his pineapple-pockets and tries to brace for the blow.

“Well,” Stede says, “I just mean that we won’t really be able to walk around in the open like this, anonymously, once the show starts airing. Surely you’ve thought about it, too, Ed? What it’ll be like once we’re—you know, a bit famous?”

Ed lets out a laugh then, because 1) okay, Stede’s not breaking up with him while they stand barefoot in the middle of the fucking River Windrush, and 2) honestly, he hasn’t thought much about that at all. He kind of figured that once Bake Off was over he’d just go back to work, back to his life, hopefully with a few new friends in tow. He figured things would get a little weird around September, when the show started airing and his employees found out what he’d been up to all spring and summer. And he’s been hoping that maybe his being on the telly would be good for the boatyard, kick an extra couple of clients their way. But he’s never really thought about getting recognized in the street.

“Don’t care,” he scoffs. “If people wanna . . . I don’t know, take our pictures or whatever then, let ’em. Certainly not gonna stop me from going out in public with you.”

“Yes, right, sure,” Stede says. “Only, of course, there is what we agreed to in the contract.”

“There’s something in the contract?” Ed asks. “What, about making public appearances?”

Stede gapes at him. “No, Ed. You—you do know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Ed’s about to shrug, because nope, he really has no idea . . . but something in Stede’s face tells him this is no shrugging matter.

He clears his throat instead. “Look, mate. To tell you the truth, I didn’t read a whole lot of the contract. I’ve been wanting to try out for Bake Off for so long that I figured there was no fine print they could throw at me that would make me not want to do it. So, I just kind of x-ed all the boxes.”

“Ed!” Stede’s shaking his head. “Seriously? I showed that contract to two different solicitors before I felt comfortable signing it!”

“Different strokes, I guess.” Now Ed does shrug. “So what’s the part of it that you’re freaking out about, anyway?”

“Well,” Stede says, “there’s a whole, very specific clause that says that we’re not supposed to be doing . . . well, this.”

“Doing what?”

“Becoming . . . ‘romantically entangled.’ With a fellow baker.”

Now Ed lets out a louder laugh. “Really? The contract says that?”

Stede’s not laughing, though. In fact, he kind of has his bitch-face on. “Yes, it does, and you agreed to it, Ed. Legally. We both did. There’s a prohibition on dating a fellow baker both during filming and up to and including the airing of the final episode. So as not to divert media or fan attention from the competition, apparently.”

“Guess we’re both going to jail then.” Ed really doesn’t see what the big deal is here. They surely aren’t the first bakers in the history of the show to hook up! And honestly, why would Love Productions have made them all take STI tests if they didn’t expect ‘entanglements’?

But Stede’s shaking his head. “They can sue us, Ed. For breach of contract. Or kick us off the show! They can do what they like—we’re the ones in the wrong here. Honestly, for a while I wondered whether that might be why you seemed so, er, resistant to giving things a go, but—”

“Mate, we’ve already been through this,” Ed reminds him. “Thought you were married, and the second I found out you weren’t I basically tore your clothes off.”

“Well.” Stede blushes and ducks his head. “I know that now.”

“Didn’t stop you for a minute, anyway,” Ed says, tucking a curl of Stede’s hair behind his reddened ear. “Having signed your life away in the contract.”

Stede snorts. “Well, I figured if anything did happen, we could just be discreet about it. We’re mature adults. We can keep our hands off one another on filming weekends, can’t we? Keep this a secret from those who don’t need to know about it. And then, once the show finishes airing in November . . . ”

“What—shout it from the rooftops?” Ed grins. “Make out in front of everyone on Extra Slice?”

“I was thinking more like ‘pretend we’d only just become a couple well after the show had ended.’” Stede says. “But if you want to get on a roof and do some shouting then, I suppose I won’t stop you.”

He finally grins a little now, finally stops looking so damn serious. Ed gives him another kiss for it.

“We just need to be careful until then,” Stede says when they break apart. “I mean, now, today, no one here knows we’re filming the show, no one’ll remember us. But when we’re back in the tent, we’re going to have to be more prudent. And once the show starts airing in the autumn and we start to be recognized, we’re really going to have to take care not to be seen out like this. I’m sorry, Ed. I thought you knew.”

“Yeah, well . . . ” Ed drawls, “maybe I wouldn’t have x-ed that line in the contract so fast if I’d known they were gonna cast me alongside the fuckin’ Zumba King of Norwich Sex God Stede Bonnet—”

“Ed!”

“What?”

Stede’s eyes dart all around them. “That was . . . loud. People are looking.”

Ed smirks. “Good. Let ’em look. They can look, but they can’t touch.” He reaches around then and pinches Stede on the arse.

“Ed!”

“Hey, you were the one who wanted to take me out in public so badly! See, this is what you get.” He grabs Stede’s arse with his other hand, too, dragging them even closer together. “Maybe should’ve just stayed home after all. Gotten in one more good Bake Off practice. Or . . . ”

Stede’s half laughing, half still-annoyed. But he’s not pulling away, and Ed’s about to go in for mid-river kiss number three when he hears a little “ahem!”

He looks up to see two kids standing very still in the river, very nearby, staring at them both.

“Are you two gonna be on Bake Off?” the smaller kid asks.

“Us? No!” Stede squeaks, and he stumbles back from Ed with a little splash. “No, we’re not bakers!”

The bigger kid frowns, then points at Ed. “But he just said you were practicing for it.”

Well, shit, apparently Ed was talking too loud. And right after Stede gave him a lecture on being discreet! Still, these are just a couple of kids. Surely he can fix this.

“Speak for yourself, mate,” Ed says, clapping Stede on the arm as he turns toward the kids. “I am a baker.”

The smaller kid’s hands move to their hips. “What can you bake?”

Ed huffs. “Bread.”

“Oh yeah?” the bigger kid says. “Prove it.”

“What do you mean, prove it?”

“Give us a tip. Something only a really good bread baker would know.”

Ed thinks on this for a second. Then he crouches, getting closer to the kids’ eye level. “You want a pro tip? Okay. When the time comes to score the dough before you bake, don’t stab it. You want to do these big, deep slashes instead, so the hot air from the oven can really get down into the cracks.”

The kids exchange glances with each other, then the smaller kid turns back to Ed. “That sounds made up.”

“Yeahhh, we don’t believe you’re really a baker,” the older kid says. They both shake their heads and start to splash away.

“Well, joke’s on you!” Ed calls after them, “because I am a baker! And that tip’s actually a really good—”

“Let it go, Ed.” Mirth plays in Stede’s eyes as his hand comes to rest lightly on Ed’s arm.

“It’s this river name that’s made up,” Ed grumbles, but he lets Stede take him by the hand and lead him back to the bank.

Chapter Text

Their day out in Bourton-on-the-Water—or “official first date,” as Stede keeps calling it, melting Ed’s insides like cheap chocolate each time he does—continues with lunch. Stede’s done some research and chosen a restaurant that looks like an old English pub on the outside, but inside is a vegetarian Indian restaurant. The bar’s been ripped out and replaced with buffet steam tables, and Ed loads his plate, thrilled to be finally staring down a meal that’s not some variation on pithivier.

He and Stede spend lunch tasting curries and rating them on zanginess, before taking another stroll through the village. They pop into shops on an aimless sort of treasure hunt, no real intention of buying anything—until, from deep on a dusty shelf at a tiny chemist’s, Ed unearths the biggest bottle of lube he’s ever seen. Grinning, he hauls it (and a slightly pink-faced Stede) up to the cashpoint, where the octogenarian shop owner accepts Ed’s twenty-five quid and bags the enormous bottle for them.

Ed buys it kind of as a joke, but also kind of not. After all, Stede was talking today about them still being together in November, which is five whole months away. Ed can imagine them getting through quite a lot of lube in five months.

Well, assuming they’re actually able to see each other.

That question starts to hang over Ed more heavily as they drive back to the cottage; as he screws around in the kitchen with vegan meringues while Stede starts packing up all his stuff. It hangs there through a dinner cobbled together of leftover bits and bobs; through the walk Ed takes during Stede’s nightly call with his kids; through the all-baker Discord chat they’ve planned afterwards to nail down final plans for the fuckery.

Stede slides into the chat with some great ideas, and at Ed’s urging he ends up taking on a directorial role, making sure each baker knows the part they’ll play and the line they’ll deliver when the time comes.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Stede glances over his phone at Ed, who’s scrolling and typing away on his own. Ed nods enthusiastically. He may have come up with this plan, but he’s really reveling in the freedom of not needing to be the only one to execute it. Turns out having a co-captain on shit like this is pretty fucking nice.

By the time the fuckery planning’s done, it’s nearly 9 o’clock and Ed and Stede are both pretty wiped. They end up sprawled on the couch, Ed’s head resting on Stede’s shoulder as “how to operate your deep-fat fryer” and “compressor ice cream makers, tips and tricks!” instructional videos play on Stede’s phone. Stede, at least, is paying close attention to the videos, pausing regularly to go back ten seconds or to jot something into his notes app. Whereas Ed’s paying more attention to Stede: to the way his mouth turns down when he’s focused, to the way his left eyelid starts twitching behind his glasses when he’s stared at the screen for too long.

Ed’s besotted. Smitten. Fucked. He’s pretty sure the bumblebee’s eaten half his brain at this point, just gobbled it down and moved right into the empty space, converting Ed’s skull into its own personal, buzzing nest. And Ed’s not gonna be able to keep the noise to himself for much longer. So maybe it’s a good thing that, this weekend, he and Stede will have to keep their distance from each other. Will have to keep up the appearance that they’re only friends.

But no, who’s Ed kidding, that’s not gonna be good! Ed’s so used to looking forward to weekends, looking forward to seeing Stede in person in the tent. Now, for the first time, he’s dreading the weekend—dreading their separate rooms, and the long days of filming where they’ll hardly be able to touch each other.

And then what’s it gonna be like on Sunday night, when Stede leaves for Norwich, for the other side of the damn country? Will they even be able to kiss goodbye?

Stede’s free hand is absently petting Ed’s hair, and Ed snuggles closer to him. Stops even pretending to watch the video as he turns his face into Stede’s neck, breathes in his lavender-and-musk scent. It’s not enough, though. Ed’s frustrated with Stede’s collar; frustrated with his own fucking beard for being a barrier between them, for keeping even a millimeter of his skin from rubbing up against Stede’s. He feels like his whole body’s recalibrated itself in two days to need near-constant contact; reoriented itself to only ever want to face in one direction.

How the fuck is he supposed to go back to the way things were before?

“All right, darling?” Stede pauses the video. He wraps his arm a little tighter around Ed and fuck, that’s all it takes, Ed’s sobbing into Stede’s shirt.

“I miss you already,” he whimpers, and he feels pathetic—but it also feels kind of good just to say what he’s feeling out loud. To tell the truth.

Stede holds him even tighter. “Oh, Ed. It’s going to be all right. We’ll be together again soon enough.”

“When?” The word tears out of Ed’s throat. “When? How?” And it all comes pouring out now. “I don’t have a car, I don’t have a license, it’s a fucking four-hour train trip between Bristol and Norwich, I already looked it up, and soon enough we won’t even be able to meet up in public—”

“Ed, you’re panicking.”

“You’re fucking right I’m panicking!” Ed sits bolt upright now, his breath coming in short gasps. “How’s this going to work, Stede?”

Stede sits up too. He lays a hand on Ed’s back. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “But I know that I want it to work. It might be hard for a bit, but you and I aren’t afraid of a little hard work, are we? I don’t think either of us would have gotten onto Bake Off if we were.”

Ed supposes he has to concede that point.

“I mean,” Stede continues, “what were the odds of us getting cast in the first place? Not so good, right? But we went for it anyway. And here we are.” He smiles now. “Let’s just get through this weekend, all right? And then we’ll figure it out. If you can’t get to Norwich easily, then I’ll just have to come to you more. That is, if you have room for a visitor once in a while on Jane.”

“If I have room . . . yeah, of course I have room for you. Stede.” Ed’s voice cracks on his name. “Open fuckin’ invitation. Come whenever you want.”

“How about Sunday night?”

Ed’s brain stutters. “Thought you were going home to your family Sunday night.”

“I’ve been gone for five weeks now, Ed. One more night with me away won’t kill them.”

Ed’s heart feels like it’s cracking—that Stede would offer this, that Stede can see how much Ed needs it from him. But he feels like a dick for even considering it. He’s a grow-ass adult, and Stede’s actual children haven’t seen him for more than a month. “Nah, man,” he says. “You should go home to Alma and Louis. You know, in triumph, just like you planned to.”

“Plans change, Ed.”

“This one shouldn’t.”

“Well, I think I should get to be the one who makes that decision.”

They’re not arguing—or, at least, there’s not much heat to it if they are—but still, Ed doesn’t want to go any farther down this path. Doesn’t want to taint their last hours together here in the cottage with any sort of conflict. “Okay,” he agrees. “You can make the decision.”

“Good,” Stede says. “I will.” Then he reaches for Ed’s hand, takes it in his own, and squeezes it. “Bed?” he asks, yawning.

“Bed,” Ed agrees. They stand up, and Ed follows Stede out of the room. Though he does make a little detour along the way to grab the sack with the giant bottle of lube. They may be tired now, but he has a suspicion that they’ll want it in the morning.

They’re pyjama-clad and snuggled up a short while later when Stede turns to look at Ed. “So,” he says quietly, “what do you think you’ll do after you win the whole thing?”

“What—Bake Off?” Ed scoffs. “I’m not gonna win it, mate.”

Stede pushes himself up onto an elbow, frowning. “Why would you say that?”

“Too many strong bakers in there.” Ed shakes his head against his pillow. “If I’m lucky I’ll make it a couple more rounds, go out as one of the Week 7 elite. Or maaaybe I can squeak through to the quarterfinals.” A lot of Ed’s all-time favorite bakers—Lizzie, Henry, Benjamina, Liam—went out in the quarterfinals. That would be great company to leave in.

But Stede’s voice sounds incredulous now. “Ed, no! Don’t undersell yourself—you absolutely could win it! And speaking of your wanting to make more friends who shared your interests, can you imagine the opportunities? You’d get to tour the country, appear at food festivals, publish a cookbook . . . maybe even get your own show. You could retire from the boatyard and do baking-type stuff all the time. Doesn’t that sound appealing to you?”

“I dunno,” Ed says truthfully. He really hasn’t let himself think about any of this. Retirement from the boatyard—what a concept! Though, of course, Hornigold retired, which was how Ed ended up in charge in the first place. He wonders now how Fang is doing, running things in Ed’s absence all week. Realizes he hasn’t even thought once about checking in on him.

“I mean, maybe,” Ed muses. “Maybe I’d like to do some of that. I guess I like the idea of demoing at food festivals. Or, like, leading small classes or something, on bread or pastry.”

Stede nods vigorously. “Yes, Ed, that’s perfect! You’d be such a good teacher. You’ve already taught me so much. You’ve got the passion for the subject, and the skills, and . . . well, you’d be nice to look at up in the front of a classroom . . . ”

Ed pokes Stede in the ribs for this.

“But really,” Stede continues, laughing, “that should’ve been obvious all along. It’s right there in your name.”

“Ed?”

Stede rolls his eyes. “Teach. See, this is meant to be your next act. Goodbye, Blackbeard's Boatyard, hello Ed Teach’s Academy of Patisserie.”

Ed laughs then, too. “You haven’t even seen my patisserie yet.”

“I have every confidence that it is magnificent.”

And, look, Stede isn’t wrong. Ed makes some excellent patisserie. It’s all down to the tiny sizes of the sweet treats and the fact that Ed’s spent so many years baking just for one. Patisserie’s always been something he could channel a lot of effort and attention into without the end product being a massive, twenty-serving cake.

“Well,” Ed says, scooting back closer to Stede, “patisserie’s always semi-final week. Guess I’ve got to get through to it first before I think about opening a whole school to teach it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Stede crows, squeezing Ed’s arm. “And I’ll be cheering for you when you get there.”

“Then I’ll be cheering right back.”

“Oh, I won’t still be there then!”

“Now who’s underselling himself?”

Stede shrugs. “Well, baby steps. Let’s just see how I do this weekend before I set any more ambitious goals, eh?”

***

On the drive down to Newbury the next day, Ed quizzes Stede on every possible free-from recipe or technique he can think of. He wishes he’d had time to give Stede one more fake technical challenge for practice. He supposes he could have done it today before they checked out of the AirBnB, but they were . . . otherwise occupied.

So long, frottage cottage, Ed thinks with a smirk.

Still, he probably should have put his foot down; put his (well, Stede’s) underwear back on and insisted they get one more bake in before leaving. But he didn’t. Now he can only hope that the fuckery tomorrow will suffice; that Stede’s well-practiced enough to carry off the victory they both want so much for him this weekend.

If Ed’s honest with himself, though, it’s not just Stede’s fate that concerns him. He’s not quite as prepared for this weekend as someone who just took a full week off work to practice baking ought to be. But he tells himself that’s okay. He’s not trying to win Star Baker—that’s gonna be all Stede. Ed just needs to get by, to not fuck anything up so badly that he gets himself eliminated.

It’s less than an hour’s drive to the inn where the bakers will be put up this time, and Ed kind of wishes the Roadster would slow down; that time would slow down. That he and Stede could steal just a few more minutes alone before the Bake Off circus starts up again. But soon enough, they’re pulling off the motorway and onto a little B road, and their destination is in sight.

They have a cover story for why they’re arriving together by car, if anyone asks. Stede will say that he picked Ed up at the train station in Newbury, saving him an Uber ride, since their lodgings are more remote than usual. This weekend, for the first time, the bakers will stay at a country inn close to Welford Park instead of a chain hotel in one of the larger towns. Their numbers are small enough now that the production can just rent out an entire inn for the weekend, so the bakers and staff assigned to stay on-site with them can have run of the place.

The Crab & Boar, just five miles from Welford, is a big step up in charm from the Holiday Inns of the world. Even from the car park, Ed can feel it oozing out of the old building, with its whitewashed walls, leaded windows, and actual thatched roof.

Stede clearly likes it, too. “This place looks lovely,” he murmurs. “Maybe we should come back together when this is all over?” Ed nods, and Stede leans in close to steal a quick, final kiss for the weekend before they get out of the car.

Inside, it’s even quainter. The proprietors, an elderly couple named Felix and Ruthie, greet Ed and Stede warmly, then show them past a stone hearth, a light-filled dining room, and a cozy library. The room Ed’s assigned upstairs has a window seat, a vaulted ceiling, and a huge, cushy bed made up with all sorts of fine fabrics. The attached ensuite has a giant freestanding bathtub, deep and wide, with more than enough room for two.

Ed groans just thinking about all the baths he won’t be taking with Stede this weekend, the fabrics they won’t be rolling around naked on after. It’s almost like the place has been specifically designed to torture him. His room shares a wall with Archie’s, and Stede’s room is at the other end of the corridor, right next to Evelyn’s. There definitely won’t be any sneaking around at night here like might’ve been possible at one of the bigger hotels.

Some of the other bakers are already here, and the rest trickle in by dinnertime. Dinner, too, is quite a step up from the usual buffet. It’s a multi-course elevated pub meal lovingly prepared by Felix and his son, who trained in Paris as a chef, and served by Ruthie. The fresh bread is delicious, especially since it comes with an array of flavored butters and olive oils. Then there are soups, crab cakes, pork belly, and an array of other delicacies so nice that it all almost distracts Ed from the fact that Stede is sitting three seats away from him, all the way down by Roach. He manages to make a little conversation about the food with his neighbor, Zheng, instead.

Evelyn comes in just as dessert is being served (rhubarb and apple turnovers with a ginger-vanilla custard—Ed’s taking mental notes). She plunks herself into an empty seat to give the bakers their briefing on what to expect the next day.

“All right, you lot,” she says, leaning her elbows on the table. She looks tired, Ed thinks, hair a bit disheveled, eyelid drooping. The long shoot must be starting to get to her. “Since our numbers are smaller now and we’re staying closer to Welford, we can start filming a tiny bit later—but still, I’m going to ask you to be ready to leave here in the morning by eight. Breakfast will be served starting at half six. Archie’ll stop by each of your rooms tonight to check on your outfits”—Ed feels like her gaze lingers on him for an extra-long moment as she says this—“so please meet her up there after dinner and have your clothes ready for inspection. Oh, and there’s one more thing.” She pauses to take a deep breath. “I just found out this afternoon that our supervising executive from Channel 4 is going to be dropping in this weekend to observe filming. I’m not sure exactly when he’ll arrive or what his agenda is—”

“We know what his agenda is!” a voice says hotly—and it’s Jim, of all people! “He wants to fuck with Bake Off. He’s already messed with our timings, he—”

“Be that as it may,” Evelyn interrupts back, raising the volume on her formidable alto, “he works for the network that airs this show, which means we need to afford him a certain amount of . . . respect.” She grits her teeth getting that last word out, then shakes her head. “Look, I’m not any happier about the changes he’s forced for this week than you all are. But if we play things smart, I think it can be a one-and-done situation. He’ll poke his head in, see that cutting your baking time hasn’t actually caused all the chaos and drama he was hoping for, get bored with the ins and outs of an actual TV shoot, and leave us alone for the rest of the series.”

“And if he doesn’t get bored?” Zheng asks. “What then?”

“Well . . . ” Evelyn says slowly, “then I suppose the situation could evolve. Which is not what any of us want. So just put your heads down tomorrow and get your bakes done, okay?”

Predictably, the Discord chat lights up the second everyone is back upstairs.

Jim
does she KNOW what we’ve been planning, somehow? did somebody TELL HER?

Roach
I don’t think anyone told her. Maybe she’s just perceptive?

Lucius
I feel like she’s actually on our side
or would be?
if she had to pick sides?

Izzy
don’t be a twat
channel 4 writes her paycheck
she follows the $

Stede
Guys, we’re getting off topic.

Zheng
Yeah, we need to make a decision here. Do we still do the fuckery tomorrow?

Jim
I vote yes. screw that channel 4 guy

Lucius
yes

Roach
Agreed, I’m still pro-fuckery.

Stede then throws his “yes” into the mix, and Zheng follows him, so Ed agrees as well, though he’s starting to feel a little uneasy about it. Sure, his plan seemed brilliant a couple of days ago, but that was before they’d known they’d have to execute it right under the nose of their Channel 4 overlord. Ed holds his breath as they all wait for Izzy to weigh in, which he does at last a few minutes later. Apparently, Archie came to his room to check his wardrobe, and he had to stay off his phone for a while. But he agrees to go forward, too (“fucking fine, we’ll do the fuckery”). So, yeah, it’s still on.

Archie stops by Ed’s room next and, for once, is downright exuberant about the shirt choices he’s laid out on the bed. Probably—no, definitely—because they’re all Stede’s, and Stede’s wardrobe is far more fun than Ed’s. She tells him that as long as he leaves some ink visible he can wear any of the three he likes: the rainbow-striped knit top, the neon orange tie-dye, or the palm-tree printed button-down with the rolled-up sleeves. “Seriously, Edward, these are all great options,” she tells him. “Tattooed Bad Boy Gone Colorful—that can be your new brand.”

She leaves, whistling, and Ed heads to the ensuite to brush his teeth with his yellow toothbrush. He then strips down to his underwear and goes to hang Stede’s three shirts in his closet. He decides that he’ll go with the rainbow stripes for the shoot—it’s that merino-linen blend Stede’s always talking about, and it might be nice for Ed to have some moisture wicked away during what seems likely to be the most stressful weekend in the tent yet.

Ed’s phone buzzes as he stands by the closet: it’s Stede texting good night, along with a heart emoji. Ed’s real heart flutters as he sends a few emojis back. Then, on a whim, he pulls the two shirts he’s not going to wear this weekend back off their hangers and takes them with him to bed. Turns out the lights and curls up around them, breathing in the scent of Stede’s detergent. Thinking, probably wishfully, that he can catch a trace of Stede’s own scent underneath.

Sunday is Ed’s last thought before he drops off to sleep. He’ll be sleeping again next to the actual Stede—in his actual bed, on Jane, a bed he’s never shared with anyone else before—on Sunday. They just have to get through the weekend’s shoot first.

Chapter Text

“Bakers, you have two hours and forty-five minutes to complete your gluten-free pithiviers. On your marks, get set, bake!”

Ed’s reaching for the flour before Noel even finishes saying his line for the cameras. It’s a little after 9 the next morning, and Ed’s so full of nervous energy that he can’t wait to get started, to finally have something to do with his brain and hands.

Stede’s stationed across from him, as usual, and they have the front row of benches this week in the tent. Jim and Zheng are in the second row, Lucius and Roach in the third, and Izzy’s got the back to himself, which probably suits him just fine. Though he’s been more active lately in the Discord chat, he’s still standoffish in person, rarely choosing to interact with the other bakers unless absolutely necessary.

Still, he's agreed to be in on the fuckery today. They all have. Ed can only hope that no one baking behind him is starting to lose their nerve.

He glances at Stede, just a quick check, and is glad to see him moving fast. His rendang paste’s already heating in a pot on the little hob while he weighs flour. Good. Ed zeroes out his own scale and starts to cube his butter. It’s rainy today, and he takes the damp into account as he constructs his pastry, tweaking the butter-flour-ice water ratio ever so slightly to account for the extra humidity in the air.

The tent’s quieter than usual—everyone must have their head down, working hard. Ed wonders whether Evelyn thought it was strange that no one ended up sending in recipe changes after the time cut got announced.

Ed definitely feels bad about what Evelyn and the rest of the production staff are going to have to deal with later, considering the time cut isn’t their fault. But there’s nothing he can do about that now. And at least the Channel 4 exec hasn’t shown up yet to complicate matters. Maybe he’ll pop by later for the technical, or tomorrow to watch the showstopper. But if they can pull off the fuckery without that actual fucker sticking his nose in, Ed feels like there’s a much greater chance that they’ll succeed.

Okay, focus, Teach. Ed takes a deep breath and pulls his racing mind back on track as best he can. Stede’s already rushing his pastry dough to the fridge; Ed should get a move on with his own.

The entourage comes around in the second hour: Prue, Paul, and Alison this time. They visit Stede’s bench first, and Ed can hear them all exclaiming about the incredible aroma of the beef rendang that’s stewing on his hob. Paul says something about a recent holiday in Bali, implying that that makes him an expert on Indonesian food. Stede replies that rendang actually hails from Sumatra, which has a cuisine that’s quite distinct from Bali’s. Ed can’t help but grin to himself at hearing Stede’s polite but firm correction of Paul’s mistake—even while he wonders whether that might lose Stede a handshake later.

“Are you sure you can get all of this done in the time?” Prue asks, and Ed expects that line will be getting used a lot today. Stede replies in the affirmative, and Ed can only hope he’s right.

The tour moves to Ed’s bench next, and he finds himself being grilled about using a store-bought spice blend to flavor his crab filling instead of making his own. Ed assures the judges that it’ll all taste great in the end. Privately, though, he agrees that they have a point—he could have put in more effort in the flavor department this week. Could’ve done his own twist on Old Bay, changed it just enough to get away with calling it a family recipe, maybe . . . the judges and producers eat that shit up. Ah, well, too late now.

At the two-hour and thirty minute mark, the tent is quiet again; everyone’s pithivier is in the oven. Some, though, have only just gone in, including Stede’s—he really used every last minute he could stewing the rendang filling down to its ultimate tenderness. There’s a little extra left in the pot now, and Stede lets Ed pop across the aisle for a bite. Of course, Ed has to pretend for the camera that he’s never tried it before, but he doesn’t have to pretend about it being delicious. Yeah—thankfully, the rendang tastes just as incredible as Ed remembers from their cottage garden lunch on Tuesday.

So he walks himself around to the front of Stede’s bench and, mugging for Pete’s camera, sticks his hand out across the counter. “Incredible work, mate,” he says, doing his best Paul Hollywood impression, and Stede laughs and accepts the faux-handshake with a demure little curtsy. Ed keeps the handshake going for far too long, drawing out the bit, but also just reveling in the chance to hold Stede’s hand again, to touch him for the first time in almost 24 hours. Stede squeezes back and Ed wishes he could do so much more, that he could loop around the bench and gather him close. That he could let Stede lean against him for a minute after all the frenetic effort he’s put into this dish over the last couple of hours.

All the effort he’s put in at Ed’s insistence that he go forward with it, that he not alter his recipe one bit.

This fuckery had better work.

Around the tent, the other bakers applaud like they would for a real handshake (well, all the other bakers but Izzy, who scowls at Ed’s and Stede’s antics as usual). And Ed grins as he and Stede finally let each other’s hands go. He’s glad he could give Stede this little moment, even if it’s a joke, even if everything goes to shit later in the actual judging.

Something Ed didn’t know for years, watching Bake Off at home, is that a lot of the presenters’ time calls are not filmed while the bakers are baking. At least half are recorded separately, in an empty tent while everyone else is off eating lunch or in the green room. So it’s often a PA who shouts out the real time calls during baking. Then, through the magic of TV editing, everything’s cut together later to make it look like it happened at the same time.

All of which is to say that, this time, it’s not Noel or Alison who shouts the five-minute warning at the two-hour-and-forty-minute mark today. It’s Abshir, one of the PAs. And at the sound of his voice, the camerapeople scurry into place to capture all the last-minute mayhem as everyone pulls their bakes out of the oven and gets them plated for judging.

Only . . . that doesn’t happen. Well, the camerapeople scurry as usual, but Ed turns around to watch and—as planned—none of his fellow bakers move. They just sit there on their stools, or keep cleaning their benches, or fiddle around with their serving platters. Because their bakes aren’t ready yet. And, communally, they’re taking action.

When Abshir calls out that there are four, three, two minutes remaining and still no one moves to get their bakes out, the atmosphere in the tent starts to shift. The camerapeople look at each other, eyebrows lifting, shoulders shrugging, clearly wondering what the fuck is going on. The other PAs, too, start to murmur to each other. Ed hears someone say something about getting Evelyn, who’s outside the tent helping direct an exterior shot.

At the one-minute mark, a timer goes off. It’s Izzy’s, and he hops off his stool to open his oven door. Ed wishes Izzy had timed things a little better—they’d all agreed that no one’s bake should actually finish before two hours forty-five. That even if they could get their bake out in the truncated time, they shouldn’t do it, in solidarity with the others. Ed definitely could have had his done by now if he’d hustled a little harder, but instead he’d timed it so his would be ready in five more minutes.

He hears Izzy’s oven door slam and watches as the kid stands up holding his baking tray, a beautifully domed and browned pastry rising from it. Izzy sets it onto a prepared wire rack with gloved hands, then grabs a spare baking tray and starts fanning to cool it down.

Several cameras have swooped in on Izzy now, because finally there’s something to film, someone who seems like they’re at least trying to get the challenge done before the time is called.

None of the other bakers, though, move a muscle.

“And, that’s time! Please step away from your bakes!” Abshir shouts the words, though he’s already shaking his head. “All right, I can see what you all are doing,” he continues. “This is a . . . group scheme of some sort?”

“It’s a mutiny, actually,” Zheng responds, because that’s her line, the one Stede gave her to say.

“Wow,” says another PA named Geraldo. “You bakers have some balls pulling a stunt like this right under Evelyn’s nose!”

And then, as if his words summoned her, Evelyn is there in the tent. “Stop rolling!” she commands, and the camerapeople stop filming. “Okay, what the hell is going on here?”

Stede stands up to his fullest height, ready to deliver his line. “We’re not accepting the time cut, Evelyn. We’ve come together as bakers to take collective action, and—”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Evelyn’s hand moves up to the bridge of her nose, into her now-familiar you’re-giving-me-a-migraine pinch. “Jesus Christ.” She stares at Stede through a narrowed eye. “And what are your demands?”

“Well,” Stede continues, “we were thinking of more of a compromise.”

Evelyn sighs. “Go on.”

“Look, amiga, it’s pretty simple,” Jim says, delivering their line now. “You give us our fifteen minutes back, and we finish the bake properly, no harm, no foul.”

“Or,” Lucius chimes in, “you don’t, and we all just walk out right now.”

“Without even taking our bakes out of the oven,” Roach adds in.

And then it’s Ed’s turn to deliver the closing line. “Give us our time back, or we let it all burn.”

Evelyn looks like she can’t believe what she’s just heard. Before she can say anything, though, another timer beeps: Ed’s. The whole tent’s focus shifts to him. Slowly, he reaches for his gloves and steps toward his oven.

It’s a game of chicken, though. Ed raises an eyebrow at Evelyn. “Shall I . . . ?”

Her brow furrows—and then she lets out a huge, forceful exhale. “Fine. Fine! Oluwande, turn your camera back on and film him taking his damn bake out.”

Another two timers sound, then—Jim’s and Lucius’s—and they do the same thing, picking up their gloves and moving very slowly toward their oven doors. Evelyn concedes again with a splutter. “All right—just—carry on filming as usual, I guess! We’ll cut it all together later and make it work. Abshir, run and tell the judges that we’re going to need a few extra minutes before we’re ready for them to come in. Geraldo, go tell the presenters the same.

“And as for you lot,” she says, turning back to the bakers. She’s shaking her head now—but she’s also kind of smiling. “You’re very lucky that exec wasn’t actually in the tent to see this. But as long as no one breathes a word about it when he does show up . . . I guess I don’t see why anyone needs to know that you took this extra time.”

A cheer rises up from the bakers as Evelyn marches back out of the tent, clear of the shots that are zooming in now as even more timers sound. Ed lifts his bake out of his oven and sets it on his bench; it looks fine, but even if it had been a collapsed mess, he doubts he would feel any less good than he feels right now. Because they did it! They fucking did it—they protested, they mutinied, the fuckery worked and now they’re going to get judged fairly, on their best efforts, just the way it should have been all along.

Ed grins across the aisle at Stede, who grins right back. His own bake is still in his oven—it’ll probably be the last to come out, it really needs every minute in there—but still, Stede knows it, too. Knows that they’ve won.

Twenty minutes later at the judging, Stede wins again; his perfect gluten-free beef-rendang-and-asparagus pithiver gets that handshake from Paul—plus an arm pat from Prue and a fist bump from Noel for good measure. He maybe cries about it a little. And Ed maybe cries just a little, too, though thankfully no cameras are on him during Stede’s big moment.

Ed’s so thrilled for him. He tries to relay this across the aisle to Stede, to show it with his eyes, his face. Stede’s face is so wonderfully expressive, telegraphing every feeling, and Ed finds himself wishing, for the second time in as many days, that his beard would get out of the way, that it didn’t obscure quite so much.

Ed’s own evaluation is mediocre; the judges call his crab filling underseasoned and say his pastry is overcooked. Maybe it didn’t need those extra five minutes in the oven after all.

But Stede’s good fortune carries right over into the technical challenge announcement: it’s graham crackers, sweetened with honey instead of refined sugar, which is so similar to the sugar-free digestive biscuit challenge Ed made up for Stede the other day that Ed almost laughs out loud when it’s announced. The technique is almost identical, too, right down to the punching of the crackers with the tines of a fork to let steam escape and keep their surfaces flat. The only thing Ed worries about is Stede cutting these biscuits into hearts—but thankfully, he follows instructions this time, scoring the dough into rectangles and baking them perfectly.

Ed spends so much time monitoring Stede’s progress across the aisle that he neglects his own bake a bit—lets the dough get too soft on his workbench after rolling, then leaves it in the oven for just a minute too long. It’s not a disaster, but in the judging, Ed comes fifth out of seven, his worst technical result yet. He barely reacts, though, when they say his name. He’s only listening for Stede’s.

Zheng finishes fourth, and Izzy is in third. Ed sits with bated breath as Paul points to the second-place bake and asks who it belongs to. It’s Jim’s. Which means that holy shit, Stede’s done it: he’s won his first technical.

Stede is two seats down in the row of stools, but Ed’s there almost the instant the judges say his name, lifting him bodily up off the stool and swinging him around in a full circle. It’s way too big a reaction on Ed’s part, but luckily everyone else seems to just take it as a cue to mob the two of them, clapping Stede on the back with congratulations and whooping and cheering in general. Even Izzy gets roped in by Lucius and Jim, their arms slung around each of his shoulders as they practically dance him into the joyful circle. This would be a great moment for some Zumba music, actually.

“I knew you could do it,” Ed whispers into Stede’s ear right before they break apart. Then a PA sweeps Stede outside for a quick “you just won your first technical!” interview, and the rest of them head to the green room to gather their stuff for the trip back to the Crab & Boar.

They have a minibus to drive them around now instead of a luxury coach, and Stede catches up with it just before it leaves, grabbing the seat that Ed’s saved him in the back. He’s still grinning, and Ed loves how giddy his accomplishments have made him. Normally now they’d talk back through the day, through the high and low points of the competition, but for this short lift back to the inn they just sit quietly, breathing, happy. Well, Ed probably shouldn’t be feeling so happy—he’s certainly had better days of baking in the tent—but he can’t focus on that right now. Stede’s in line for Star Baker for the first time ever, way out ahead of the rest of the group already with his handshake and first-place technical finish. If he does a halfway decent job on his showstopper cake tomorrow, Ed’s pretty sure he’ll get it.

They’re pulling into the car park at the Crab & Boar when Stede’s hand finds Ed’s. Their fingers interlace, and then Stede pulls Ed’s hand over to his own knee, starts sliding it slowly up his thigh. A question. A risky question, with Lucius sitting right across the aisle, everything in plain sight. Though, when Ed glances over to check, he's relieved to see that Lucius has earbuds in and eyes closed.

So Ed moves his hand farther up Stede’s thigh—an answer—and Stede’s breath catches as Ed’s fingers brush the bulge that’s already forming in the confines of Stede’s tight jeans.

“My room?” Stede whispers as the minibus pulls to a stop. “Skip out of dinner early?”

Ed remembers, vaguely, that they made an agreement not to do this: said they wouldn’t take risks on filming weekends. Seems to remember Stede specifically saying that they were mature adults who could absolutely keep their hands off each other for a measly two-day stretch. But that’s all clearly gone out the window for Stede on the heels of his great day.

So Ed nods, his mouth gone dry, his own cock suddenly twitching to attention in his trousers. Stede releases Ed’s hand then, places it back in Ed’s lap, and Ed has to take a deep, ragged breath to get ahold of himself before he stands to move off the bus.

It's another gorgeous pub dinner, but this time Ed barely tastes it. There’s only one thing he wants in his mouth, and every fucking minute he has to wait for it is torment. Even as he watches the other bakers celebrate Stede’s triumph, toasting him (well, Izzy grumbling more than toasting, but still trying to sneak a glass of Bordeaux), all he can do is resent the delay, fidgeting in his ornately-carved wooden chair.

Finally, the man of the hour claims exhaustion—understandable, as everyone’s looking pretty beat after their long day of filming—and he heads up to his room before dessert is served. Barely a minute later, Ed gets up too. (“Headache,” he mutters, not even caring that it’s the oldest excuse in the book.) Then he’s taking the stairs two at a time, charging down the corridor, and being yanked into Stede’s room before he’s even had a chance to knock.

The door clicks shut behind them and Stede’s mouth is already on Ed’s, hungry and feral. His hands clutch at Ed’s shoulders, and Ed can feel the want radiating off him, the heat, the need. Ed lets his back be shoved up against a wall, lets his mouth be devoured. He lets his knees go weak with it, and then he’s whirling Stede around and shoving him against the wall so he has room to let them buckle, to sink down to exactly where he wants to be.

Ed makes quick work of the button and zipper on Stede’s jeans, yanking them and his underwear down so he can get his mouth onto Stede’s cock. Stede lets out a guttural moan as Ed sucks and laves and coaxes him to full hardness, and maybe it’s the room’s vaulted ceiling, but the sound seems to echo all around them. It’s loud, and Ed would love it under pretty much any other circumstances.

Tonight, though, no. He pulls off Stede’s cock and flicks his eyes up at him. “Shhh.”

Stede bites his lip, nods, then closes his eyes and drops his head back against the wall as Ed swallows him down again. As Ed takes him in deep, feeling the head of Stede’s cock press against the back of his throat; as he inhales Stede’s musky scent and tastes the tang of his precome as it trails along his tongue.

Ed grips Stede’s arse and pulls him in, encouraging him to thrust. Stede still follows Ed’s lead at first, but finally he gets bolder, starts to let himself go and follow his own rhythm. It’s not slow this time, not gentle, but Ed feels a different kind of pleasure in giving himself over like this, in letting Stede fuck his face with abandon. Ed wants to feel Stede slamming into his throat—maybe wants to know that he’ll feel it tomorrow, too, during all the long filming hours when they’ll be just a few feet away from each other, but apart.

Stede’s body rocks against Ed’s mouth, and Ed takes it and takes it, eyes streaming, saliva soaking down into his beard. It’s messy, but fuck, it’s hot—this silent, secret thing they’re doing. This thing they signed a contract saying they wouldn’t do at all, much less against a wall Stede shares with the show’s top producer.

When Stede comes, it is, miraculously, a near-soundless act. But his entire body shakes with it like Ed’s never felt it do before, as if the sounds Stede couldn’t make with his mouth need to vibrate out through his bones instead.

Stede folds at the waist—nearly tumbles over, really, his hands scrabbling at Ed’s hair as Ed slides his mouth off Stede’s cock and gasps for breath. Ed just manages to catch Stede and ease him down to the floor, to where Ed can hold him against his chest and pet him as his muscles quake, sending vibrations through them both.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Ed whispers. Stede nods against his shoulder, but he doesn’t move. And Ed knows the feeling, when all the effort and adrenaline of the day is gone in in an instant, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. So, bad knee protesting, he helps Stede to his feet and walks him to his bed. Strips off most of his clothes, pulls his boxer-briefs back up over him, and tucks him in under the duvet.

“Stay,” Stede murmurs, even though he can barely keep his eyes open. He wraps his arms around Ed’s waist and pulls him in closer. “Need to take care of you.”

Ed chuckles. “You can owe me one, mate. Get some rest.”

“Stay anyway,” Stede pleads. “Just—just for a few minutes.”

Of course, there’s nothing Ed wants to do more; he’d stay the whole night if he could. “All right,” he acquiesces. “Guess I can’t say no to a soon-to-be Star Baker.”

He walks to the other side of the bed and climbs in, though he stays on top of the duvet. Stede rolls toward him, takes both of Ed’s hands in his, and brings them to his lips.

They lie like that for a few minutes, facing each other, Stede’s eyelashes fluttering as he fights sleep. And Ed could do it now. He could run a finger down Stede’s cheek and whisper it, finally let those bumblebee words out.

But it’s not the right time. Stede did so well in the tent today, as well as either of them could have hoped. He has a real chance to win it all this weekend, and Ed doesn’t want to distract him from that. Ed may want to think about Stede every time he swallows tomorrow, but he wants Stede’s mind to be on nothing but his showstopper, at least until the judging’s done.

After that, though . . . well, Ed’s starting to get a few ideas.

Ideas that involve firing up Jane’s engines and taking Stede on a little trip up the River Avon. Through Bristol and out into the quiet, wilder stretches outside the city. Ideas that involve dropping anchor and spending the night on the river, in one of Ed’s favorite places to get away from it all.

Tomorrow night, of course, they'll probably just sleep, they'll be so tired from the weekend. But the next morning, before they sail back . . . well, Ed’s shower's barely bigger than the cottage ones, but he thinks they could squeeze into it together. Can imagine the water running down his neck, and Stede's lips chasing it. Imagine their soapy hands all over each other; Stede's nimble fingers finding Ed’s arse again, sliding in, opening him up. Imagine them stumbling out to the bed, damp limbs tangling, towels flung to the floor. The lube open on Ed’s bedside table; Stede’s fingers slipping back inside, then slicking up his own cock. Ed's wet hair soaking the pillow as Stede presses into him—slow, gentle, perfect. Stede's mouth on Ed’s jaw, murmuring sweet words into his ear as he fucks him, nothing at all between them now . . .

But, wait. Ed's missed something. He rewinds the fantasy to that morning, before the shower—no, farther back, to the night before. Sees them lying out on the boat’s deck, side by side, looking up at the stars. Clothes on but bare feet brushing, fingers intertwined. Ed turns his head to look at Stede, and Stede turns at the same moment. Their eyes meet, gazes soft, sleepy, fond.

“I love you,” Ed says, because this, finally, is the right moment—the stress of competition fading, the vibe sweet and celebratory and fucking . . . romantic. Everything Stede deserves. And Stede smiles, a starlight smile this time, and maybe he says it back and maybe he doesn't, but the point is, now he knows.

So when the words buzz again in Ed’s brain the next day, he won’t have to filter them. He’ll be able to let them tear loose from his throat; to gasp them; to murmur them into Stede's ear. To let them out as their bodies rock together, as the river rocks the boat, as Ed shudders apart in Stede's arms. As he lets the man he loves into his home, his bed, his body, he’ll be able to say it—to let Stede know how deep he’s already burrowed into Ed’s heart.

Yeah. He’s got a few ideas like that.

Stede’s asleep, and Ed rolls carefully off the duvet. He stops by the room’s ensuite to dig Stede’s toothbrush out of his toiletries bag and squeeze a stripe of toothpaste onto it, leaving it ready for him in case he wakes in the night. (Oral hygiene is important!)

Then Ed listens at the door, and once he’s sure things are quiet, he slips into the empty corridor. Makes his way five doors down to his own room and heads straight into his own ensuite. Flicks on the overhead light, squeezes toothpaste onto his own toothbrush, and looks his face over in the mirror. A section of his beard has dried funny after getting so matted with saliva, and—ugh—it looks like there’s some dried come in there, too.

Ed opens the tap and is leaning down start washing his beard out when the realization hits him. He stands back up and turns the tap off. Looks at himself in the mirror for another long moment.

In that whole scene he just envisioned on Jane . . . the shower water running down his neck, Stede’s mouth on his jaw, nothing between them . . . Ed didn’t have a beard.

He hasn’t seen himself that way—hasn’t even imagined himself that way—in almost fifteen years.

But now, he can picture it: his face, without anything to hide behind. Because, he realizes, he doesn’t actually want to keep hiding. The more time he spends with Stede, the more he wants to be a raw nerve—open everywhere, feeling everything.

And now that the image is so clear in his head, he can’t unsee it. Can’t unfeel the urge to make it real. So he spends the next few minutes, stomach giddy and jumping, digging through the nightstand and the bathroom drawers until he finds what he needs. It takes almost an hour using the small scissors from the complimentary sewing kit and the disposable plastic razor the inn has provided, but when Ed is done, his beard is gone.

He looks back in the mirror. A grin sneaks across his face, and now he can really see it. Which makes him think about Stede stepping into the breakfast room tomorrow morning, or onto the minibus, and seeing him like this for the first time. He thinks about them together on Jane tomorrow night, out under the stars. About kissing Stede like this, the sensation of his skin finally full on against Ed’s face.

Ed scrapes stray hairs off the washbasin and into the bin. Brushes his teeth, spits, and catches his reflection in the mirror over the sink one more time.

There he is. And tomorrow Stede will see him, fully, too.

He can’t fucking wait.

Chapter Text

Two sharp raps on his door pull Ed from sleep the next morning. The glowing numbers on his bedside clock read 5:07, and for an instant he’s pissed at whoever’s waking him almost two full hours before his alarm. But, then, he thinks it might be Stede.

Yeah, it must be Stede, wanting to slip into bed with Ed; maybe wanting to return the favor from last night before anyone else wakes up. They could turn Ed’s shower on to mask the noise, squeeze in a quick, wet, something . . .

Ed’s out of bed in an instant, bounding for the door. He’s about to fling it open when he changes his mind and leans his body against the doorframe instead. Tucks a thumb into the waistband of his boxer-briefs, shakes his hair loose and wild around his face, and lowers his lashes all sultry-like. Then, and only then, does he open it.

It’s . . . not Stede.

“Morning, Edward.” Archie’s standing in the dim corridor, clipboard in hand, clearly trying not to bust out laughing at the tableau she’s just been presented with. Ed, meanwhile, scrabbles for the complimentary terry-cloth robe that is, thankfully, hanging right on the back of his door.

“Shit! Sorry, Archie.” He shrugs the robe on. He smooths his hair down, too, feeling completely ridiculous. “What’s up?”

Now, though—even though Ed’s just gotten a whole lot less naked—Archie’s eyes are widening in shock. “The fuck happened to your face?”

“My face?” Ed’s hands fly up to his chin and oh, yeah, he did that last night. He grins. “You like it?”

“Edward,” Archie groans. “It’s day two of the weekend shoot. You’re supposed to look exactly the same both days, for continuity!”

Fuuuuuck. Ed had absolutely not been thinking about that last night.

“Evelyn might murder you. She really actually might,” Archie says, shaking her head. “This, on top of everything else with Channel 4 . . . ”

“I’m sorry, mate,” Ed says, and he really is. “Guess I didn’t think this through.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Archie sighs. “Look, just get dressed, okay? I’m supposed to take you downstairs. That exec’s here now, and he wants to talk to you.”

“To me?” Ed feels his brow crease. “Why?”

“Not sure—he just requested a meeting this morning before breakfast with you and Stede. So Evelyn’s gone to round Stede up, and lucky me, I got sent to wrangle your undressed arse.” She rolls her eyes. “Bet Stede had the decency to answer his door in pyjamas.”

“Yeah,” Ed murmurs, because Stede would have the decency to do that—but really, he can barely spare a thought for it now. He’s spiraling already, wondering what the fuck is going on, why the visiting Channel 4 exec wants to see him and Stede specifically.

Could this guy have somehow found out about their contract-violating relationship? It’s not like they were particularly discreet yesterday. Or maybe someone from the production even saw them out this week, canoodling all over Bourton-on-the-Water?

Shit, shit, shit.

Ed’s got no idea how long this meeting’s going to take, so he throws his filming outfit back on. He gives his hair and teeth a quick brush, then heads back out to meet Archie in the corridor.

She moves toward the stairs at a quick clip, and Ed follows. The inn is dead quiet this early in the morning, the sun only just coming up outside. Without any caffeine in him Ed’s head feels swimmy, but he doesn’t dare ask if there’s time for a cup of tea.

Archie leads him to the library he passed yesterday, pausing outside the closed French doors. Ed can see a man through the glass, sitting behind an ornate wooden desk with folders and a laptop spread out on it. He’s white and middle-aged, with slick, dirty-blond hair pulled back into a douchey sort of ponytail. When Archie knocks and he calls out, “Come iiiin!” Ed clocks a decidedly douchey-sounding, posh-nob voice as well.

They step into the library, and Archie closes the door behind them. “I’ve brought Edward Teach down to see you, sir.”

The man rises from the desk. “Ah, Mr. Teach.” He gives Ed a once-over, because, yeah, everyone does—but then he frowns and turns back to Archie. “I thought this one was supposed to have a beard.”

“He did have a beard, sir,” Archie replies, cutting her eyes over to Ed with a fresh look of annoyance. “Right up until this morning.”

“Well, my, my,” the exec intones, still addressing Archie, “this is a whole new wrinkle. Do any of the remaining bakers have beards?”

“Um, no, I don’t think so.” Archie’s brow scrunches. “Well, I guess Izzy’s got this goatee situation going on, sort of ’90’s-esque—”

“Izzy, ah, good, yes.” The exec finally turns back to Ed, steepling his fingers. “You see, Mr. Teach, our research shows that, on Bake Off, the viewership likes it when each contestant has a defining physical characteristic. Helps them tell everyone apart. That way, when they’re talking about you after an episode airs, you’re easy to identify. ‘Edward won Star Baker last night.’ ‘Oh, which one’s Edward?’ ‘The one with the beard.’ ‘Ah, I like beards, me,’ etcetera, etcetera.”

Ed stares at the exec, having no idea how he’s supposed to respond to this—but apparently he doesn’t need to, because the exec just keeps talking.

“So, now I suppose you’ll have to be someone else. No longer the one with the beard. The one with the hair, maybe?”

“Pardon me, sir,” Archie interjects, “but Zheng’s definitely the one with the hair. It’s kind of her whole thing.”

The exec lets out a pained sigh. “The one in the leather, then?” He opens a folder on his desk and shuffles through what Ed can see are blown-up versions of all the bakers’ application photos. He finds Ed’s, looks down at the picture of him in his leather jacket and trousers (and eyeliner and beard), and back up at the Ed in front of him. “Where’s all your leather now?”

“It’s . . . uh . . . ”

“Oh, never mind,” the exec says, rolling his eyes. “Just sit down. Now where’s Bonnet? I need to have both of them here before we can begin.”

“He must still be getting dressed, sir,” Archie says. “He can be a little particular about his appearance.”

The exec scoffs. “Yes, of course he can. That I remember well.”

He . . . remembers? Ed’s feeling more lost by the second. Surely this guy doesn’t already know Stede? Maybe there’s something in Stede’s official bio about his love of clothes?

“Evelyn’s going to bring him just down as soon as he’s ready,” Archie says, and the exec takes a seat behind the wooden desk again.

“Just like Baby Bonnet,” he grumbles, “keeping everyone waiting while he picks the perfect outfit, brushes his perfect hair. Still the perfect little rich boy.”

Wait. Baby Bonnet?

Ed flashes back to the cottage kitchen, heart biscuits in the oven, Stede opening up to him about the boarding-school assholes who’d given him a nickname he despised.

This guy—he can’t be—

The library door opens, and Ed’s head whirls around.

“Sorry we’re late, Mr. Badminton,” Evelyn says, striding into the room ahead of Stede. “I said that you wouldn’t want to be kept waiting, but—”

“Nigel.”

The word comes out of Stede’s mouth like he’s vomiting it, and Ed watches as Stede’s hand moves to his stomach like he might actually get sick. And Ed’s on his feet then, ready to go to him, to grab his hand or even just to turn him around and walk him right back out of the room.

But then Stede clocks Ed, and his hand drops from his stomach. His eyes widen, his expression almost one of horror now, and Ed feels his own stomach lurch. Had Evelyn not told Stede that Ed was going to be here, too? Is Stede only just realizing what kind of trouble the two of them might be in?

“Edward!” Evelyn cries then, staring goggle-eyed at him. “Your beard!” And that’s when Ed realizes that’s what Stede’s reacting to. Not his presence in this room, but his appearance. And oh, fuck, this was not how Ed meant for Stede to see him like this for the first time! Not in a room where they can’t even talk to each other, where forty-two other stressful things are already going on. It hits him, hard, that all that effort he’s put into not distracting Stede this weekend has literally gone down the drain now. Shaving last night was an enormous mistake. What the fuck was he thinking?

“Sit down, Bonnet,” commands the exec—Nigel Badminton, apparently. “You too, Mr. Teach. We have a lot to discuss.”

Stede finally tears his eyes away from Ed’s naked chin. He takes the seat next to him, staring resolutely forward, so Ed sits back down, too.

“I’m sorry,” Evelyn says, looking between Stede and Badminton now. “But do you two . . . know each other?”

“Oh, yes,” Badminton replies. “We go way back! He attended boarding school with me and my brother. Of course, we haven’t spoken in years—different circles, and all that. I truly didn’t think our paths would ever cross again! But then, of course, just last week I sat down to watch raw footage from the first few episodes of this series, and who did I spot but Baby Bonnet, all grown up and baking on the telly, of all things!” He turns to focus his gaze on Stede now. “You can only imagine my utter delight.”

Stede says nothing.

“Although,” Badminton continues, “when I arrived here last night, I was brought up to speed about some shenanigans that took place in the tent yesterday . . . ”

Ah, so this is about the fuckery. Ed feels relief for a very brief moment, but it’s quickly washed away by a fresh wave of fury. Because who went and told this guy what went down yesterday? And after they’d all actually gotten away with it??

Badminton is still talking. “My first thought was ‘oh, what a ridiculous rumor. Baby Bonnet can’t be involved in all this! But then I received some documentation about said shenanigans—”

“Wasn’t shenanigans,” Ed says suddenly. “It was a fuckery.”

Badminton’s focus snaps to Ed. “What did you say?”

Shut up, Teach.

But Ed’s heard quite enough from this puffed-up blowhard—this horrible childhood bully of Stede’s—and he can’t keep his filters in place any longer. “Shenanigans means, like, random chaos. What we did was planned. Intentional.”

Next to him, Stede groans.

A nasty smile crosses Badminton’s face. “Oh, I’m well aware that it was all planned out. Masterminded, I’d even say. The only question is, by whom?” He leers at Ed and Stede in turn. “I spoke to several bakers last night after dinner after first getting wind of the day’s happenings in the tent. Most were extremely unhelpful, but I was able to read between the lines a bit and narrow things down to the two of you. So then I took the liberty of reviewing both of your audition notes.” He shuffles through his folder now and pulls out a sheet of paper. “The notes on Edward Teach say that he appears to be an extremely competent baker, very tactical in his use of time and techniques—”

“Mr. Badminton,” Evelyn interrupts, “the casting notes are meant to stay private. We don’t share them with the bakers.”

But Badminton ignores her. “Whereas here we have the notes on Stede Bonnet: nervous, highly excitable, easily flapped.” He slaps the folder shut. “So, you tell me, which of you two seems more likely to have planned this . . . ‘fuckery,’ as you call it?”

“I did it,” Ed says immediately, because he can see where this is going. “I planned the fuckery. Stede had nothing to do with it, so just leave him out of all this, okay?”

Stede is already making noises of protest, already standing halfway out of his seat, but Badminton talks over him.

“See, that’s what I would have assumed as well. However, and much to my surprise, an e-mail I received early this morning showed something quite different.” Now Nigel is firing up his computer screen and turning it around to face Ed, Stede, Evelyn, and Archie. And . . . oh, fuck. It’s screenshots from the Discord chat, from their planning meeting the other night.

The one where Ed let Stede take charge and assign all the roles and the lines to deliver.

Ed feels his blood start to boil. “Which baker sent you that?”

“Doesn’t matter who sent it,” Badminton says smugly. “What matters is what it shows. Which is Stede Bonnet, rousing the bakers to participate in a contestant uprising the likes of which the Great British Bake Off has never experienced in fifteen years of production!”

“Yeah, well, it’s never experienced a last-minute time cut on a challenge before, either,” Ed spits.

“Ed, stop,” Stede begs, but Ed can’t. He knows he’s probably digging his own grave here—but hey, better his grave than Stede’s. Maybe if he pisses this Badminton off enough, Ed can pull his attention away from Stede entirely.

No such luck yet, though. Badminton pokes the computer display. “These screenshots,” he says, “are evidence of Stede Bonnet’s blatant attempt to defile this competition. To bring the greatest baking show in the history of television to ruin.”

Ed’s chair teeters behind in him the wake of the volcanic force with which he’s just stood up. “You take that back.”

“Ed, stop,” Stede pleads again, and now he’s on his feet, too. “You’re right,” he says to Badminton. “I take full responsibility.”

“Actually, we co-captained it,” Ed blurts. He can sense that Stede’s not going to back down here, so at least he can try to mitigate the damage. “The initial idea was mine, but then I asked Stede to execute it. So, uh, I guess we’re both at fault, or whatever. Just, don’t punish him alone. He never would have done any of the stuff he did if it weren’t for me.”

Badminton’s greasy ponytail swings as he shakes his head. “Sit down, the both of you. Good god, you bakers are a troublesome bunch. Mr. Teach, I especially would have expected better from you, of all people.”

“Of all people?” Ed grudgingly retakes his seat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Badminton taps his folder again. “Well, according to my notes, you were an early favorite to win this competition. You performed exceptionally throughout the auditions process. You were always in the top three in technical challenges once filming started. And you won Star Baker in Bread Week. Do you know what percentage of Bread Week winners make it to the finale of the Great British Bake Off?”

Well, of course Ed knows. “Sixty-three percent.”

“Why—yes,” Badminton says. He sounds surprised, and maybe a little impressed. “Exactly. Excellent odds. And even better if you include the semi-final in those calculations. Which means that you should still be out there with the best of them, charging hard, challenging for the top spot every week. Keeping the competition dramatic and exciting. However, in the more recent raw footage, do you know what I’ve seen?”

Badminton leans across the desk now, focusing in on Ed. “I’ve seen you and Baby Bonnet here, joking around. Clowning for each other. Swordfighting with caramel. Treating the Bake Off tent like it’s your own little playground—and letting the quality of your bakes slide all the while. And now I have it on very good authority that this has been your poorest week so far, and you’re in real danger of elimination.” Badminton slaps his laptop screen shut and gestures toward Stede. “You’ve let this ponce distract you from your purpose here—”

“Don’t call him that!”

“—and the whole show is suffering for it.”

“No.” Ed says the word forcefully. “You’re wrong. Stede’s the best thing that’s ever happened to—”

“He’s right.”

Stede’s voice is small—painfully so—but that’s nothing compared to his expression, his body language, when Ed turns to look at him. He’s crumpled now; shrunken. A browbeaten, chastised little boy in a man’s body.

“Stede,” Ed starts, but Stede shakes his head, still refusing to meet Ed’s eye.

“He’s right, about all of it. I’ve . . . been distracting you. You’re a great baker, Edward, the best I’ve ever met, and—”

Edward?? This isn’t good.

“—and Nigel’s right, you should be hurtling straight through to the final while I shouldn’t even be here. Should never have been here in the first place.”

Evelyn swoops in now on Stede’s other side. “Stede,” she says, and her voice has a kinder timbre to it than Ed’s ever heard before. “That’s not true. We thought you were great in auditions—it’s just that there were only twelve spots. And Bake Off has a long tradition of alternates slotting in at the last minute and doing very, very well. Winning, even! So please take Mr. Badminton’s words here with a huge grain of salt. We’re very happy to have you in the tent this year.”

Stede’s face uncrumples just the tiniest bit at this, and Ed could kiss Evelyn for standing up for him like that.

It’s a short-lived victory, though. “I could kick you both off the show for what you’ve done,” Badminton snarls. “I could kick all of the bakers off for participating in this so-called ‘fuckery’! I could shut this whole season down right now, can all the existing footage. Poof! Never was.”

Ed stares at Stede, who’s still staring straight ahead at Badminton’s desk. Ed can see that he’s trembling. Fuck, Ed’s trembling a little now, too. He never imagined the fuckery getting them into this much trouble! Sure, he figured a slap on the wrist was possible if the higher-ups figured out that he’d been the ringleader. But getting bakers kicked off the show? Getting the whole series eighty-sixed?

Ed wants desperately to reach for Stede’s hand, but with Evelyn and Archie and Badminton all watching, it’s not a smart idea. Still, for both their sakes, he wants—needs—to do something.

No one, he realizes, is looking at their feet. So, even as he shifts his gaze to stare back across the desk at Badminton, Ed slides his foot along the carpet until he feels his shoe press up against Stede’s. Thank goodness, Stede’s foot and ankle press right back.

In this moment, at least, it’s all Ed needs.

“So what’s your move, then?” he asks Badminton in a low voice. “Are you really going to fuck over an entire series of Bake Off because a handful of bakers finagled an extra few minutes for one bake? An extra few minutes we were supposed to have all along?”

Badminton stares Ed down—but then finally, he shakes his head.

“By rights, and according to the contract you both signed,” he says, “I should remove you from the show for instigating this business. However—in the interest of trying to salvage this series of Bake Off—and against my better judgment—I’m going to let the two of you off with a warning.”

Relief floods Ed’s body for real now, and he presses up against Stede again with a kind of foot-and-ankle high five, the world’s tiniest lower-limb-based celebration. This time, though, Stede doesn’t press back. He pulls his foot away, tucking it under his chair. And sure, maybe even that small amount of contact was starting to feel risky given the hot water they’ve just gotten out of. Best to be cautious. So Ed follows Stede’s lead and tucks his foot back under his chair, too.

Badminton turns to Evelyn. “I want them kept separated in the tent from now on. No more swordfights or cinnamon challenges or tasting each other’s bakes or any of it. And I want someone from Love Productions to be present in that Discord group, monitoring the chat at all times. There should have been someone in there from the beginning.”

“Right,” Evelyn says, and her relief at the show not getting canceled outright is clear in her voice. “Absolutely.”

“Also,” Badminton continues, “why don’t we have Bonnet’s behind-the-scenes footage yet?”

“We haven’t had a chance to send a crew out,” Evelyn says. “He only joined the cast the day before the shoot started, and he hasn’t been back home with his family in Norwich since.”

“Well, that needs to be rectified immediately,” Badminton barks. “It’s far too late in the shoot not to have all the at-home scenes filmed and edited.”

“I’ll get right on that,” Evelyn promises.

“Very well then.” Badminton grabs his folder again and raps its spine against the desk. “Dismissed.”

Ed stands up, feeling dazed. He certainly doesn’t like the idea of being separated from Stede in the tent for the rest of Bake Off. And he really wants to know who told Badminton about the fuckery and shared those screenshots.

But on the other hand, this could have turned out so much worse! They’re both still in the competition. None of the other bakers are going to be punished. And—most importantly—their relationship’s still a secret.

Yeah. All told, things don’t really seem that bad.

So Ed doesn’t worry when Stede marches out of the library without glancing back. He figures Stede’s just playing his part for Badminton, keeping the promised distance between them.

He doesn’t worry when Stede ignores him through breakfast, then sits at the opposite end of the minibus for the ride to Welford Park. Surely, it’s just more of the same.

He doesn’t worry when, during the four-hour vegan cake showstopper challenge, Stede never turns around to look at Ed, not even once. Ed tells himself that it’s because Stede’s concentrating on his bake, really going for Star Baker. Which is a good thing—right?

So Ed just focuses on his own bake, given that he’s on the chopping block. He’s been moved to the back row, next to Izzy, who ignores him thoroughly. The new position’s going to mess with continuity when it comes to editing, but Ed supposes that with his beard shaved off, continuity’s gonna be fucked for this weekend no matter what.

Ed manages to pull off the best version of his lamington cake yet, the layers and fillings tasting just how he wants them to, the stacking precise and the edges sharp. He even has time to pull off a set of decorative color-swirled vegan meringues. So when time is called on the challenge, Ed’s feeling cautiously optimistic. Not hurting matters is the fact that, at the bench just in front of him, Roach has had a ’mare with his pomelo cake, the acid in the fruit reacting badly with the raising agent and causing his sponge to collapse.

At the showstopper judging, Ed’s cake gets raves, as do Izzy’s and Stede’s. At the other end of the spectrum, Roach’s cake has not only collapsed, but tastes bitter to boot. And given that Roach finished lower than Ed in the technical, it must make the decision about who to send home pretty straightforward. Ed survives for another week, and Roach is eliminated.

And Stede wins Star Baker.

Ed’s heart feels like it might actually burst when Stede’s name is called out. He is so unbelievably proud. And that Stede could pull this off after the way his day started—after coming face to face with his childhood bully and almost getting thrown off the show—has Ed even more in awe. He’s known all along that Stede was strong, determined, resilient. He can only hope that this victory finally convinces Stede of all that, too.

The bakers all crowd in to congratulate Stede, and as much as Ed wants to swoop in close like yesterday, he forces himself to keep his distance. And when Stede hurries outside for his interview with barely a nod of acknowledgment at Ed’s hearty “congratulations, mate!” Ed tries to take it in stride. It stings, sure, but Stede’s playing this whole situation very cautiously. So far it seems to be working, so Ed has to respect that.

When Stede, once again, sits next to Archie at the front of the minibus instead of with Ed in the back, Ed tells himself the same thing.

It’s only when they arrive back at the Crab & Boar that Ed really starts to worry. Because Stede dashes off the bus and into the inn, and he’s back out again with his bag before Ed’s even had a chance to get out of his minibus seat. He can only watch through his window as Stede climbs into the Roadster and sticks his key in the ignition.

Stede pauses then, though, to pull out his phone. Since the soft top of the car is down, Ed can see Stede swipe and tap.

Then, Ed’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He lurches for it, even as he watches Stede set his own phone down on the console and start the car’s engine. Because, okay, he’s realizing now that Stede probably has some new strategy for how they should leave the inn separately, so no production staff sees them driving off together. He’s surely just sent Ed instructions, like:

Meet me at the train station in Newbury

or

What’s your boat slip number in Bristol? I’ll meet you there

Ed swipes at his screen to get to the text, to the fresh little getaway plan that’ll see them happily ensconced on Jane tonight, celebrating how they survived the weekend’s close calls.

But the message doesn’t have any instructions. In fact, it only has two words.

I’m sorry

Ed looks up just in time to see the Roadster pull out of the car park and onto the road.

To see Stede drive away, without even looking back.

Chapter Text

“Shit, Edward! Didn’t realize anyone was still on here. You ready to get going, bro?”

Ed’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there, how long he’s been staring out the minibus window. Probably too long, if Archie’s asking. His brain’s feeling like jam again, but this time it’s jam that won’t set. Jam that’s threatening to drip out his ears.

Because what the fuck just happened?

“Um,” he says to Archie. His phone’s hot in his hand where he’s been squeezing it. “Yeah, sorry. Just . . . zoned out a little.”

“Long day, I know,” she says sympathetically. “Look, do you need a lift to the station in Newbury? I already sent some of the others there in an Uber, but I can call you your own car.”

Ed doesn’t know how to answer this. He wants to think that maybe Stede’s just . . . taking a loop around the village? That he’ll swoop back to pick Ed up once everyone else clears out of the inn?

But deep down, Ed knows that’s not what’s happening. Stede is gone.

“Uh, yeah,” Ed tells Archie. “Yeah, I could use a lift to Newbury, I guess. Thanks.”

“No worries,” she says. “And, hey. Glad you’ll be back with us for another week. Just keep up the good fashion choices”—she grins at Ed’s rainbow shirt—“and you’ll be breezing right through to the final, eh?”

She turns then and heads back off the minibus. Leaves Ed looking down at—no, not his rainbow shirt. Stede’s shirt. And the bag that’s waiting for him behind the desk at the inn? Stede’s bag. Stuffed with two more of Stede’s shirts; with the toothbrush Stede gave him; with a spare pair of Stede’s underwear.

“Edward,” Archie calls back into the bus, “you coming?”

Ed gets to his feet. Shuffles off the bus like an automaton and crosses into the inn. Nods at Archie as she says his car will be here in fifteen minutes. Or maybe it’s fifty? The brain’s not processing all inputs right now. He somehow gets his (Stede’s) bag from the kid who’s working behind the front desk and collapses into an overstuffed chair near the stone hearth.

He stares into his lap. He’s not crying. His stomach may hurt, and his stupid face may be freezing, but he’s not crying.

“Aw, did you get eliminated today, love?”

Ed looks up to find Ruthie, one of the innkeepers, standing a couple of feet away. She’s old and tiny and wrinkled, barely taller standing than he is sitting, and she’s looking at him with grave concern.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to know about that stuff,” Ed manages to say.

“Oh, we know all about your shoot, Felix and me. We had to sign the NDA!” Ruthie’s voice, which has an Irish accent, is cheerful now, almost jolly. “Though I’m probably not supposed to be going around asking which of you got sent home this week. Sorry about that, dearie.”

“S’okay,” Ed says. “Anyway, wasn’t me.”

“So you get to go back to the tent next week?” She claps her hands together. “Marvelous!”

“Thanks,” Ed says, though he can hear how flat his voice sounds.

“Why the long face, then, love?”

Honestly, Ed wishes she would just go away. “No long face,” he mutters—though, god, maybe without his beard, his face actually does look longer than average? How pointy is a typical chin?

He knows that’s not what Ruthie’s asking about, though. “M’fine,” he lies. “Just waiting for my car to the train station.”

“You’re not leaving with your boyfriend, then?”

Ed hiccups. “What?”

“That nice-looking blond fella you arrived with on Friday. Saw him snog ya in the car park in that blue cabriolet of his. You make a lovely pair.”

“We’re not—”

Ed starts to say it because that’d been the plan, to deny to anyone even marginally involved with Bake Off that they were anything more than friends. But he finds he can’t even bring himself to finish the sentence. Because, is it true now? Are they not boyfriends anymore?

Is that what Stede’s “I’m sorry” meant?

Ruthie’s talking again. “Saw the way you two were looking at each other at the dinner on Friday night as well. Reminded me a bit of me and Felix when we were youths.”

“Youths.” Ed snorts. “I’m forty-eight.”

“And I’m eighty-three,” Ruthie rejoins. “You’re certainly young enough, compared to me.” She chuckles. “I didn’t even meet Felix until I was fifty-two. We weren’t each other’s first rodeos, not by a long shot. But we knew, almost as soon as we did meet, that things felt right. And here we are now, thirty years married, and twenty-seven living our dream together, running this inn.”

“Congrats.” Ed wishes Ruthie would just get the hint. He doesn’t want to be rude to an old lady, but he’s really ready for this conversation to be over.

Ruthie does not get the hint. “So where’s he gone now, then? Your blond fella?” she prods. “Oh—was he the one that got eliminated? Is that why you’re looking so blue?”

Ed thinks of his blue emo biscuits. Of Noel calling him “Bluebeard.” Of how nice it felt to not be that guy for a few days.

“Nah,” he mumbles. “Stede won this week, actually.”

“Well, good for him,” Ruthie says. “So what’s got you down, then? Is it that he’s gone off home without ya?”

Ed’s throat feels tight; he doesn’t trust himself to say any more. He nods instead.

“Ah, that’s hard.” Ruthie shakes her head. “Early in our courtship, when I was still living in Dublin, I got so down every time Felix and I had to be apart. That’s how I knew, though, wasn’t it? That we ought never be apart for too long.”

Ed sniffles. He knows he’s starting to crack, knows he’s not going to be able to hold it together much longer.

“But you’ll see him next week, won’t you?” Ruthie continues. “And a week’s not all that long, in the grand scheme of things. Young as you are, you’ve got your whole lives ahead—”

“He left,” Ed whispers, and that’s it, the floodgates open. Tears stream down his face and drip right onto the rainbow shirt, since there’s not a single whisker left on his face to catch them. “He texted ‘I’m sorry,’ then he drove off, and I don’t know what’s going through his head right now. I don’t know if we . . . ” He loses the rest of the sentence to a sob.

“Oh, dearie.” Ruthie reaches out a gnarled hand and pats Ed’s shoulder gently. “And, goodness, have you no way of reaching him to get it all sorted?”

Ed looks up at her through swimming eyes. “Well—I mean—I have his number—”

“Then use it, you fool!” Suddenly, Ruthie doesn’t look so gentle and comforting. In fact, she kind of looks like she wants to swat Ed upside the head.

“But—but—” Ed splutters, “he just left. And he doesn’t look at his phone when he’s driving, it’s a Very Big Family Rule, so even if I texted him now—”

“Then ring him when he gets home!” Ruthie’s eyes are blazing. “Good god, you youths these days! All this technology at your disposal, and you use it for what? To send half-naked pictures of yourselves to each other? Back in Felix’s and my day, if you wanted to do that, you had to go get the photos printed and put them in the post.”

Ruthie speaks like an expert here, like she definitely did go get those photos printed and put them in the post.

“Must’ve been rough,” Ed mumbles.

“It was.” Ruthie’s words have a bite to them now. “What I wouldn’t have given for a bit of mobile phone technology when Felix and I lived in different countries. For video chat—can you imagine? Anyway, ring that boyfriend of yours tonight.” She takes a step back from Ed and straightens her spine. “Trust me on this. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years with Felix, it’s that you can’t let things go on for too long without talking to each other. Especially if one of ya’s hurting.”

“We talk plenty,” Ed says. “Or, we did. I’m not the one who—”

This time, she does swat him—just lightly, on the arm, but still. “Don’t be letting your pride get in the way here. So he clammed up, and he left you hanging. Sounds like he made a mistake. Do you want to have the kind of relationship where no one’s ever allowed to make a mistake?”

Ed’s not sure when he signed up for Relationships 101: Ruthie Edition—but, with a sigh, he forces himself to try to hear what she’s saying. Because, shit, it’s not like he’s any sort of expert at this. And Stede’s probably no better. Neither one of them knows what the fuck they’re doing here, really, do they?

“All right,” he agrees.

“All right what?”

“All right, I’ll . . . ring him.”

“Do you promise?”

Christ, who is this woman? “All right, yeah, I fuckin’ promise!”

“Good,” Ruthie snaps. “And don’t you be putting it off ’til tomorrow, neither. Ring him before you sleep tonight. You’re too old to be stringing this out any longer.”

“Thought you said I was a youth.”

“You’re not that young,” she says, nodding at his hair now and smirking. “Got more grays than me.”

Ruthie’s hair is a tawny reddish-brown that absolutely comes from a bottle, and Ed has to laugh.

“Edward Teach?” someone says then from the inn door. “Your car is here.”

Ed heaves himself to his feet. He still feels like shit about all of this, but now, at least, he’s . . . shit oozing in a direction, or something? A direction that’s opposite from the one Stede’s moving in, but, well, he promised Ruthie he’d ring him tonight. And Ed keeps his promises.

It takes more than two hours to get back to Bristol by train on the Sunday schedule—and when Ed finally steps foot onto Jane, he hears the awful, familiar beep that means the boat’s battery system has died.

Ed’s been putting off fixing it for weeks, because he’s usually home when things short out, or gets home within a few hours and can just press the button to reboot it all. But this time—well, he knows where he’s been. And things must have shorted early in the week, based on the smell. Ed’s freezer has melted, and everything in it and the fridge has gone bad. It reeks of ruined cheese, and the bunch of fresh greens he’d left behind has now decomposed into a mostly-brown puddle spreading over two shelves. The bag of frozen shrimp he’d been keeping for pastry week practice has melted into a putrid soup that’s leaking out the freezer door and all the way down to the floor.

He should clean it up. He should run to the shops before they close and restock for the week.

He pulls out his phone instead. Contemplates taking a picture of the trail of shrimp juice and texting it to Stede with some sort of joke.

good thing you didn’t come over after all, smells like actual death in here

But he stares down at the last text in their chain—the I’m sorry—and he doesn’t do it.

All day long, he’d been so sure Stede was ignoring him just to put on a show for Badminton and the production staff. He couldn’t imagine Stede actually believed the crap Badminton spewed in the library that morning—about him defiling Bake Off, and being a bad influence on Ed. Or, at least, Ed hadn’t thought that Stede would continue to believe it. Not after Evelyn stuck up for him. And not after the day they’d both had in the tent.

Because Stede won today! He proved, once and for all, that he deserved his spot on the show. And okay, Ed’s weekend was a little more touch-and-go, but he made it through just fine in the end.

Although, if Stede thought Ed did better today because he’d been moved far away to bake his showstopper . . .

If he was still thinking that Ed would have done better all along without him near . . .

Shit.

Ruthie’s right, they need to talk things through. Though Stede’s not even home yet; it’s almost a four-hour drive from Welford Park to Norwich.

Would he pull over if Ed’s text notification popped up on his sat-nav? Or if his phone rang? If it did, and he saw the name of the caller, would he pick it up? Ed doesn’t want to think too hard about the answer to that last question.

He looks out Jane’s window instead. Dusk is falling, and the closest pub, right on the quayside, has its lights on. They blink like a beacon, and for the first time in a very, very long time, Ed feels tempted.

Just one pint, he thinks, would take the edge off. Would numb the queasiness in his stomach. Would fill his veins with something other than the liquid dread that feels like it’s replaced half his blood.

Maybe two pints. Maybe a shot of vodka, too, to chase the scent of rot out of his nostrils.

Maybe even a bump of coke in the toilets, because it sure would be nice if Ed’s naked face would just stop feeling everything for two fucking minutes.

He takes a step toward the door. Then another. Then he walks the rest of the way outside to the boat’s deck, unplugs its shore hookups, and unties its mooring ropes.

Ed knows the pub’s not a beacon. It’s a lighthouse, and the only message he should be getting from it is avoid. Which is exactly why Ed’s lived on a boat for so many years: so he can haul out at a moment’s notice, whenever he needs to. So that whenever the going gets really tough, he can run.

Ed runs.

Well, he has to be a bit careful maneuvering Jane out of Bristol Marina—there’s lots of other boat traffic in the floating harbour. But once he’s out past Netham Lock, he guns Jane’s engine, cranking the throttle up as high as it’ll go. The old girl can’t move that fast, but it’s enough to get a little spray over the deck, to get a little wind in Ed’s hair. To sting his eyes enough that he can blame the tears that sneak down his face on the wind, too.

Ed sails up the River Avon. He maneuvers past Crew’s Hole and out of the city. It’s the same fucking route he’d planned to take with Stede tonight, and maybe that’s stupid, but going in the other direction, out toward the sea, would have been even stupider in a boat this small. So at least Ed can pat himself on the back for making two mature, adult decisions tonight: he didn’t get drunk, and he didn’t sail his home out on a suicide mission.

Which, honestly, is not nothing. Because there’s an ache expanding in Ed’s chest, pressing on his ribs from the inside. “Heartbreak” is apparently another word that Ed never knew wasn’t just a metaphor; never knew was an actual, physical thing a person could feel.

Ed’s feeling it.

It’s been six hours now since they left the tent. Stede is surely home, and he hasn’t gotten back in touch. “Ring him,” Ruthie said, but can Ed really do it?

Ed drops anchor somewhere out past Conham River Park. He’s not even sure where the fuck he is; it’s dark enough now that he can’t really see landmarks. He kind of wishes he was somewhere remote enough that he didn’t have mobile reception, but no such luck. 5G, no chance of a missed call or message.

The boat pitches slightly as Ed walks out onto the deck. As he leans against the railing and swipes at his phone screen. As he presses the button.

The ringtone sounds twice, and then the call goes to voicemail.

Ed’s never heard Stede’s voicemail message before—he’s never actually rung Stede before—and fuck, here come the tears again just at the sound of his recorded voice. There’s something about having reached the Zumba King of Norwich, about Stede’s current class schedule being somewhere online, and Ed can’t even make it through the whole thing. He punches the screen to hang up the call, shaking through his adrenaline crash.

He wants to shout out at the river, at the trees and the sky now. To shout all the way back to Ruthie at the Crab & Boar. “I did it! I rang him and he didn’t even pick up! What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

“Be patient,” he imagines Ruthie counseling. “Give him a bit more time, then try again.”

Ed starts to scoff at the made-up advice—but then, he thinks about Tuesday night back at the cottage. About Stede texting Ed when he had his phone turned off. About Stede waiting in the next room. About Stede hunting him down in the morning and making him talk things through. It’s not like he broke Ed’s door down or anything, but still, Stede refused to give up on him, even when Ed freaked out and ran away.

Ed tells himself that he can do the same. He really can.

He just needs to let Stede know one thing first. So he lifts his phone back up and types out a text.

Stede. I won’t call again tonight. but I’m also not going anywhere. and Badminton can go straight to hell. you’re the BEST thing that’s happened to Bake Off this year and the best thing that’s happened to me. ever.

I don’t care what we agreed to in the contract. a contract can’t tell a baker who to love.

I love you.

Well, he wanted to do it on the boat deck, right? Out here like this, tonight, under the stars?

Ed presses Send.

Chapter Text

Ed presses Send, then he freaks the fuck out.

Because who tells someone they love them for the first time over text?

And—AND—what if Stede’s running away wasn’t because of what Badminton said at all? What if he just felt like this thing with Ed was getting too intense? Like he needed space? And now Ed’s just gone and sent him . . . that?

Shit, shit, shit!

Why isn’t there an undo button or something for texting? Really, how is it that Ed’s phone actually let him send that text in the first place? There should be safeguards against this kind of thing! What’s the point of living in the AI Age, of Big Tech listening in on all your conversations and reading everything you write, if it doesn’t STOP YOU from doing shit like THIS?

BotGPT is reading your text drafts and has detected possible highly regrettable content. Are you sure you want to proceed with sending? Click yes or no.

How hard would that be to fucking program?

Ed leans on Jane’s railing and tries to catch his breath. If things weren’t already fucked between him and Stede, Ed may well have just done it now.

He squeezes his phone almost hard enough to crush the casing. Treacherous technology. Enabler of confusion, eraser of context. Not at all the miracle Ruthie thinks it—

BUZZ

Holy fucking shit. Stede has texted back.

Stede Bonnet – Bake Off

Oh, Ed! I feel the same. I really do.

Which is why I won’t stand in your way any longer. Badminton wasn’t wrong, not about this. I’ve been a distraction. But I won’t let myself keep ruining your chances to win Bake Off.

I believe in you, Ed. I’m rooting for you. Which is why we need to keep our distance for now. Please don’t try to change my mind. Please, don’t even text me back about it.

But ring me when this is all over, okay? Maybe we can meet back at the Crab & Boar.

Ed stares down at Stede’s words.

Stede feels the same way Ed does.

Stede doesn’t think they should see each other right now.

Stede texted him.

Stede doesn’t want to hear back.

Is it possible to have every feeling in the world simultaneously? Ed’s elated and crushed, wrapped up in soft fabric and run through with a sharp blade, all at once.

And, of course, he’d like nothing more than to tell Stede all about it. His finger hovers over the green call icon, aching to press the button.

But he tried ringing Stede already, and Stede didn’t pick up. He texted, laying out his boundaries. And while Ed doesn’t agree with the logic behind them—not one bit—he tells himself that, if this is what Stede wants, he can do it.

He can be patient, and wait.

It’s just a few weeks. Like Ruthie said, not all that much time in the grand scheme of things.

Though she also told Ed that she’d known, from the very beginning, that she and Felix ought never to be apart for too long. And deep down, that’s how Ed feels about himself and Stede. Like this break Stede’s asking for is a mistake.

But at least, Ed reminds himself, he’ll see Stede next weekend in the tent. And who knows what might happen when they’re back in the same room? Maybe they’ll find a moment to touch hands in passing. To touch feet under a table. To whisper “I love you” in each other’s direction.

Ed moves his finger from the call button to the power button on his phone’s side. Everything inside him screams in protest, but he gives the power button a long press, and turns the phone off.

***

It’s a rough night. The wind picks up as a storm blows through, and the boat pitches so hard that Ed gives up trying to stay in his bed. He decamps to the floor, rolling as the boat rocks, completely unable to fall asleep or to turn off his spiraling brain. He even almost vomits once. Has he ever felt this bad without being drunk? At least, Ed reminds himself, he’s not drunk.

By 3 AM, though, he’s kind of wishing again that he was. Because his brain’s giving him all the worst of it now: telling him Stede’s just letting him down easy. That Stede’s fucked off because he already got everything he wanted. Got time back on his pithivier challenge; got free private lessons with the best technical baker in the tent. Got his handshake and his Star Baker win, and got his cock sucked a few times to boot. He doesn’t need Ed anymore. Ed may have thought they were Elinor and Edward from Sense and Sensibility, but really Ed was naïve Marianne and Stede was Willoughby, playing Ed like a fucking pianoforte before he disappeared right back into high society.

Sleep finally finds Ed sometime around dawn. When he wakes after 10 AM, dry-mouthed on the hard floor with the air around him still reeking of rotten shrimp, he feels like he’s been keelhauled.

He’s also starving. He never ate dinner last night, and of course everything in the fridge and freezer is ruined. Ed hauls himself up, gulps down almost a liter of water, and checks the cupboard. There’s precious little in there: one tin of gravy, and another of soup. He pops the top off the soup and eats it cold, straight out of the tin, because he’s not plugged in and the solar array’s not yet recharged the battery enough to run the microwave. The soup is slimy, disgusting as fuck, but Ed chokes it down anyway.

Then he turns his phone back on briefly to ring Blackbeard’s Boatyard. He gets Fang on the line and tells him that that, actually, he’s extending his trip in the Pennines and is going to take another week off work. Fang sounds delighted for Ed, encouraging him to enjoy himself and promising that everything’s well under control at the yard. Ed powers the phone right back off after they hang up, without checking Discord or Instagram; without letting himself be tempted to re-engage with Stede’s text from last night.

Ed’s going to have to go find groceries somewhere, but first he needs to clean up. He spends the next hour double-bagging all the rotten food in his fridge and freezer, then rage-scrubbing. And it’s not baking, but it finally centers Ed a little. Gets him thinking rational thoughts again.

Ed knows none of the stuff his brain came up with at 3 AM is true. Even if Stede hadn’t texted last night, saying he felt the way Ed did . . . he called Ed “boyfriend” first. He talked about them being together months from now. He trusted Ed with stories from his past, with his anxieties and desires. And there was the way he touched Ed—like he was precious, like he was worth keeping. Those weren’t the actions of someone who only wanted to use him for, like, baking tips and blow jobs. There’s just no way.

So Ed scrubs, and he breathes, and he tells himself to have a little faith in Stede. To give them both space to make mistakes, like Ruthie said—especially now, when things are so new and scary.

Space for now. Ed can do that. And to fill that space this week, he’ll bake.

He pulls up anchor, fires up Jane’s engine, and starts to sail even farther upriver, toward Bath. Ed knows a guy at one of the private marinas there who’ll rent him a mooring spot at mate’s rates. Ed could go back to Bristol, but he feels like he needs fresh surroundings for a while, and Bath’s always been a happy place for him. It takes him several hours to get there, but he arrives before nightfall, strikes a deal with Bill, and finds a place to dump his rubbish bags once he’s moored. Then he gets directions to the nearest Tesco, where he stocks up on all the ingredients he’ll need for his week of practice.

It’s pastry week, and Ed’s got some pretty big fuckin’ plans for it. Bread may be his favorite thing to bake, but pastry’s a close second. He likes the technical aspects of laminating and layering, likes the engineering challenge of making a hand-raised pie stand up, or a pasty stay sealed. He likes the variety of shapes and sizes and decorative styles and the endless options for fillings, savory and sweet. Pastry is versatile, complex, and rich, and it can be made to look very beautiful. It’s also finicky and temperamental; there are lots of ways to fuck it up.

Ed’s not going to fuck it up.

Ed’s going to charge into the tent this weekend, guns blazing. Or some less violent metaphor. The point is, he’s not scared of pastry the way some bakers are, and he’s excited to show the judges what he can do with it.

Badminton thinks Ed should be challenging for Star Baker every week? Well, this week Ed’ll put himself right in the mix. He’s going to bake his arse off—and, fuck it, maybe even still find a way to chat and banter with Stede while they work. To prove to everyone at Love Productions and Channel 4 that he can do both. Maybe even prove it to Stede, that he’s not a distraction. That, actually, Stede makes Ed a better baker. That they make each other better.

He wonders if maybe, two hundred miles away in Norwich, there’s a chance Stede is thinking the same thing.

That night on Jane, Ed sets up his first practice bake. The signature challenge is a fruit strudel in two and a half hours.

Strudel can be on the bland side, so Ed’s planning a raspberry-and-rhubarb filling to really punch the judges in the face with some flavor. The challenge, though, will be to keep the filling from getting so wet that it bleeds through the very thin strudel pastry. A traditional apple strudel has bread crumbs mixed in to soak up excess moisture, but Ed finds that he doesn’t love the texture that creates. So he’s planning to experiment with different thickeners and techniques this week to get his filling how he wants it. Plus, of course, he’ll practice making strudel dough. It has to be stretched so long and thin that he’ll probably just lay all his silicone mats end-to-end on the floor and get down there to pull it off.

It's a decent challenge. The stretching of the pastry will look great on TV, and it’s a good test for the bakers, too, to get all these elements working together. It’ll certainly keep Ed’s brain occupied for long hours as he practices this week. It’ll pass the time.

Ed would rather be passing the time with Stede.

Not even in bed, or on a date, necessarily. They wouldn’t even have to talk. They could just be . . . baking, side by side. Ed imagines them working on their strudels in the Cotswolds kitchen: double ovens warming up, plenty of counter space for them both. Another Zumba playlist on low in the background, Stede bopping to it unconsciously, Ed sneaking glances at him and grinning to himself.

Stede stealing a taste of Ed’s filling, pronouncing it zangy. Their bakes sliding into the ovens, and, okay, maybe time then for a little break, hands and lips meeting. Or maybe, this time, Stede would turn the music up, pull Ed close, and sweep him around the kitchen to whatever Zumba song came up next. Without even realizing it, without even planning to, Ed would be dancing again, after all these years.

He closes his eyes. He pretty much always bakes in trainers or boots, needing the support for the hours on his feet. But in this little fantasy, his feet are bare. So Ed can feel the flour dust and dried bits of pastry under his soles on the kitchen floor as he and Stede dance, because no one’s hoovered in a couple of days. Because they can’t be bothered; they’re too happy together to give a shit about a little mess.

Please, Ed begs the universe as he opens his eyes again. He can still feel the crumbs between his toes. Please, please let us get back to that.

He returns to his strudel in silence. Or, well, not silence exactly. Jane’s windows are open, and the marina’s got plenty of ambient sound. But there’s certainly no Zumba music playing—and for all that Ed made fun of it last week, he finds he’s actually missing it now.

He imagines telling Stede this on Friday, and the two of them laughing about it together. Which only makes Ed want it to happen more. And while he’s never been much of a music-app guy, Ed’s got a nice vintage stereo system installed here on Jane. Speakers bolted to the wall, a turntable and a stash of records secured in a nearby cabinet.

His dough needs time to rest anyway, so Ed washes his hands and heads over. His collection’s carefully curated. There’s the older stuff: Joni Mitchell, the Smiths, the requisite Crowded House. The nineties ladies: Fiona and Tori and Dar. Every record Leonard Cohen ever made. And there’s some newer stuff, too: Florence and the Machine, Hozier, Frank Turner, Son Lux. Not every musician or band Ed likes presses vinyl these days, but he appreciates the ones that do.

But, of course, there’s nothing in his cabinet that even comes close to Zumba music. Nothing dance-y like that. Until Ed gets to the end of his alphabetized collection and—oh, he’d forgotten about this one.

He bought it in a record shop a few years ago because it made him think of his mum. They’d had the album on cassette when he was a kid; she hadn’t been sick yet when it first came out in ’87, and it had quickly become her favorite. She’d still been baking then, still roping Ed in whenever she could catch him and teach him what she knew. She’d pop the tape into the kitchen boom box while they worked, but they’d stop baking when her favorite song cycled on, the big single from that album. She’d grab Ed then and swing him around the kitchen, laughing and singing the lyrics off-key right into his face.

“I wanna dance with somebody,
With somebody who loves me…”

And Ed would wriggle and groan and fuss, but he’d hold her hands and keep dancing with her, because he knew that he was the somebody who loved her. And she was the somebody who loved him.

And then, less than two years later, she was gone.

Ed picked the record up because it reminded him of her. He bought it, and he brought it home . . . and then, he never listened to it. Not once. It’s still in the damn shrink wrap.

Ed waits until he’s got his strudel in the oven. Then, he slits the plastic open with a paring knife and slides it off the record. Puts it on the turntable and moves the needle into place.

The song starts up right away, it’s the first track. And sure, he’s heard it here and there over the years, playing in shops, and on the soundtracks of TV shows and movies. But he’s never played it alone, on purpose.

It only takes a few notes to hit him. Whitney’s barely said her first “woo!” and “hey yeah!” before Ed’s . . . well, he’s definitely not dancing. He’s sitting on the floor, back pressed against the record cabinet door, crying his eyes out. Missing his mum. Wishing mobile phone technology really was the magic Ruthie made it out to be and he could use it to reach not only across oceans, but across time and space. Wishing Mum could see him on Bake Off, winning Star Baker with her rēwena parāoa recipe. Wishing she could meet Stede.

Because it’s all wrapped up together now, isn’t it? Feeling the way he does about Stede—letting himself feel that way—is also, somehow, finally letting Ed feel this.

So Ed listens to Whitney sing, and he lets himself cry for the full four minutes and fifty-two seconds of the song. Lets himself want to dance with somebody who loves him. Lets his lonely heart call.

The strudel looks good when it comes out of the oven forty minutes later. But when Ed slices into it, the filling falls apart, bleeding out all over the cutting board.

Not quite right then, yet. Ed nods, rolls his sleeves up, and begins the recipe again.

Chapter Text

The week rolls by for Ed in a mess of pastry and fruit and shrimp and edible paint. In addition to his signature strudel, Ed makes and remakes his showstopper, the brief for which is “a highly-decorated, hand-raised savory pie in the shape of your favorite mythological creature.”

Ed can imagine the Discord chat about this one (Jim: who even comes UP with this loco shit? Izzy: a bunch of fucking twats). But he continues to steer clear of Discord, of Instagram, of his phone in general. Tries to keep Stede—and the fact that they’re not communicating—out of sight and out of mind.

So it’s good that the Pastry Week challenges are intense. When Ed first got the list of briefs before filming started, he headed to Bristol Central Library and pulled books on mythology to try to come up with an idea for this week’s showstopper. He spent an afternoon reading myths from around the world before settling on Te Wheke-a-Muturangi, the kraken-like octopus of Maori legend.

Inspired in part by a massive floating sculpture of the creature exhibited this year in Barangaroo, Australia, Ed’s shrimp-filled pastry monster is going to have bulging eyes, eight long tentacles, and geometric patterns painted all over its yellow skin. It’s a big, complicated bake, since Ed needs to make sure the legs don’t burn before the filled body bakes through. So he experiments with pastry thickness and foil covers, trying to get the bake perfect before he cools and paints the octopus to look as frightening as possible.

Bake Off has a grand tradition of octopus bakes—Rob’s bread in 2013, Manon’s pie in 2018, Helena’s custard tarts in 2019—but they’ve come off with varying degrees of success. Ed wants to make sure his showstopper really stops the show, so he practices and practices, spending nearly £200 on shrimp and butter in the process.

Of course, he’s practicing his strudel, too, plus choux pastry when he can. The bakers haven’t encountered it in a challenge yet, so Ed thinks the odds are good that the technical this week will feature choux.

By Thursday morning, Ed never wants to see another shrimp again in his life, and he’s pretty sure he could whip up a batch of perfect choux eclairs in his sleep. The filling for his signature has held fast for his last three attempts, and even Bill’s massive buddy Steak Knife, who’s been demolishing Ed’s practice bakes all week, says he just can’t take another strudel off Ed’s hands.

So Ed packs Jane up and starts the voyage back to Bristol. The few days in Bath have been good for him, though. He always likes visiting Bath, mostly thanks to the city’s strong Jane Austen connections. On baking breaks this week, Ed strolled through streets frequented by characters from her books, and now he thinks about the walk through Bath that Anne and Captain Wentworth took at the end of Persuasion. Thinks about the letter Wentworth wrote Anne in the scene before that, where he described his feelings as “half agony, half hope.”

And, well, maybe it’s silly, but Ed feels like he really gets that letter now, for the first time. Because it’s kind of how he’s feeling about seeing Stede tomorrow. What’s it going to be like? Will Stede melt back into Ed’s arms, his own request for distance (and Badminton’s stupid baker-restraining order thing) falling by the wayside the moment they see each other? Or will he stay away, keeping a mask of indifference pulled tight over his features?

Ed’s kept himself busy practicing—but now, with nothing to do but steer Jane downriver, the feelings he’s held at bay all week come crashing in. He just misses Stede so much, even after only a few days apart. He wants to kiss him, to touch him. To just fucking talk to him for five minutes. But he doesn’t know if any of that will be possible when they reconvene this weekend.

So, yeah, maybe agony’s winning out just a little over hope the next day as Ed packs his bag. As he folds the new shirts he forced himself to shop for in Bath, not wanting to get stuck in packaged tees or in Stede’s borrowed things again. As he plays with his hair in front of the bathroom mirror, contemplating full updo versus half-up, and how many strands to leave hanging.

He wants to look good when he sees Stede again. No nonchalant tracksuit and unbrushed hair this time. No more pretending to play it cool. Stede may think they need to keep their distance from each other, but that doesn’t mean Ed has to make it easy for him, does it?

Still, as departure time draws nearer, Ed grows nervous. He imagines Stede catching his eye at the bakers’ dinner tonight at the inn . . . then choosing to sit far away down the table. Choosing to ignore him.

Honestly, Ed doesn’t know if he can handle that.

He's meant to be on the 4 PM train out of Bristol, arriving in plenty of time to make the bakers’ dinner at 6. But 4 o’clock comes and goes, and Ed’s still sitting on Jane. He’s still there at 5 o’clock. At 6, he opens another can of soup, dumps it into a bowl, and heats it in the microwave.

By now, Archie’s texting him, wondering why he hasn’t shown up at the inn. Ed replies, lying that something came up at work and delayed him. Apparently she then goes hunting for train schedules, because she texts him back that the last train with a connection to Newbury leaves Bristol at 7, and that she and Evelyn really hope he’ll be on it.

That train plus an Uber would get Ed to the inn around 9 o’clock—a time when he could realistically check in and go straight to bed. Avoid seeing any of the other bakers before morning. Which, okay, is a bit of a cop out, but also might be the only thing that could save Ed’s sanity tonight. So he rouses himself, grabs his weekend bag, and heads to the train station.

It'll be better, Ed tells himself, to see Stede for the first time tomorrow. At breakfast, or on the minibus. That way, if Stede does ignore him, does keep his distance, at least Ed’ll have his upcoming bakes to focus on. Somewhere to channel all that frustrated, pent-up energy.

So Ed executes the new plan. Gets his arse to the inn (not the Crab & Boar this time, but a less quaint, more modern property a few miles away) and goes straight to his assigned room. Meets quickly with Archie, who approves a silky lilac button-down shirt Ed bought this week for the shoot, and who drops him a sticky toffee pudding she saved from the group dinner. Ed wolfs the dessert down the moment she leaves, then takes a long, hot shower (no bathtub at this inn, alas).

He's getting ready to slip into bed when his phone buzzes.

Stede Bonnet – Bake Off

Good luck tomorrow, Ed ❤️

Ed feels the grin slide across his own face like butter on toast, warm and slow and melty. He runs a finger over the phone screen, over this proof of life, this proof of . . . everything, really. Because Stede’s here, he’s somewhere behind one of those closed doors in the hallway, and he’s thinking about Ed right now. Rooting for him, even as he’s got his own competition to prepare for. And that? Well, it makes Ed want to win this whole weekend even more. Makes him think he can really do it, too, because Stede believes in him.

good luck to you too, mate ❤️ Ed texts back.

He could write so much more—what room are you in or i can’t wait to see you in the morning—or send a selfie, shirtless (he imagines Ruthie’s eyes rolling right out of her head at that). But, instead, he powers the phone down before he can let himself get carried away.

Because it’s enough, for now. This little morsel. An amuse bouche, or a petit four, he thinks as he turns out the light and rolls over. One perfect little bite to keep him going.

***

The next morning, Ed’s the first baker down to breakfast. He’s got a couple of buttons open on his new shirt, and his hair’s up in an artfully loose bun. He parks himself at a table for two facing the doorway and runs his finger slowly around the rim of his teacup, shamelessly playing the sexy card.

And it works . . . on Lucius.

“Edward!” Lucius stops in his tracks in the doorway and executes the old, familiar once-over. “Now how is it that the rest of us—most of whom are at least twenty years your junior—are all in our haggard, burnt-out baker eras while you can show up at six in the morning looking like sex on a stick?”

“Um . . . thank you?” Ed replies.

“Seriously.” Lucius grabs the seat Ed was saving for Stede and plunks himself into it. “What is your secret? You must tell me. Do you have anti-aging potion in that teacup? Or is it collagen peptides?”

Ed laughs. “Just seven sugars, mate.”

Lucius scoffs, and Ed can tell that he totally thinks Ed’s joking about the sugars. But Ed lets it lie. “So, how was the dinner last night?” he asks instead, fishing just a little. “You said everyone’s looking haggard?”

“Oh, we’re all exhausted,” Lucius drawls. “Pastry week practice, my god, it’s the absolute worst. I never want to rub anything that feels even vaguely like butter between my fingers again—which is an absolute tragedy because, well, I’ve got a hot date on the horizon and—”

“Ugh, Lucius, he doesn’t want to hear about your date with Pete.” Jim’s here now and they grab a chair, pulling it close to the tiny table and straddling it backwards. “Seriously,” they say, poking a thumb in Lucius’s direction, “this one can’t wait to get eliminated so he can get down and dirty with that camera guy without, like, violating twelve contract terms.”

“You’re one to talk,” Lucius retorts saucily, “speaking of camera guys.”

“He’s just my friend,” Jim mumbles. Suddenly, they seem quite eager to change the subject. “So, viejo.” They turn back to Ed. “Where you been all week? We’ve been missing you and Stede in the Discord chat.”

“Stede?” Ed asks, and he hopes his voice didn’t sound as high and tight to Jim and Lucius as it just sounded to him. “Stede hasn’t been in the Discord chat, either?”

Jim makes a face. “Yeah. You two coordinate that or something? Like, a protest against the fact that Archie’s in there now, keeping an eye on us all? You know, she’s really not that bad.”

“She’s not bad at all,” Ed agrees.

“Still, if you guys decided to boycott Discord in protest, you could’ve at least told the rest of us.”

“Truth,” Lucius agrees. “Though the situation did lead to a couple of wild rumors in the chat this week. That the two of you were off somewhere, shacked up together.”

Ed tries not to choke on a sip of tea as Lucius waggles his eyebrows. “What?”

“Yeah, me and Zheng kinda started that one up, just to mess with Archie,” Jim admits. “Pretty sure she saw right through us, though. Especially since she’s got friends on the crew that was out at Stede’s this week filming BTS, and no one saw you there.”

“Oh,” Ed says, still completely flustered. “Well, right. Of course I wasn’t at Stede’s this week.”

“Man, I’m gonna miss that doof,” Jim says with a sigh. “The Zumba King of Norwich. Never in my life thought that was an Insta handle I’d end up following, ya know? Much less that I’d ever look into teaching Zumba myself! But Stede sent me all the info, and he said I was a natural. Turns out my nana’s a big Zumba fan too, who knew? Life sure takes some weird-ass turns sometimes.”

“You can say that again,” says another voice, and then Zheng’s pulling up a chair. “Hey, Edward, good to see you. We missed you at dinner last night. Ugh, I don’t like how small the group’s getting now. Though maybe they won’t eliminate anyone this week, given the circumstances.”

Ed stares at Zheng. “What circumstances?”

“Oh—no one told you last night?” she asks. “Stede—he’s not coming back to Bake Off. He quit.”

Ed’s throat goes instantly dry. “Wh-what?” he manages to stutter.

“Yeah.” Zheng’s face scrunches into a sad expression as she twirls the end of one of her ponytails around her finger. “Evelyn wouldn’t say what happened, exactly—only that he’d reached out and told her he was sorry, but something came up and he wasn’t going to be able to return to the competition. We figured it had to do with one of his kids, or . . . I dunno, has to be some kind of family emergency, right? Because people don’t just drop out of Bake Off in week seven for no reason.”

“We actually hoped you’d have the tea,” Lucius says to Ed. “Since you two camera sluts are such close friends. Especially after you both disappeared from Discord at the same time. We figured he was still talking to you, at least.”

Ed still feels like he can’t swallow. “Talking to me . . . ” he echoes as his brain scrolls through Stede’s texts.

I’m rooting for you.

we need to keep our distance

Please don’t try to change my mind.

Good luck tomorrow, Ed.

This—THIS—was what all of that meant?

“No,” Ed murmurs, and he’s talking to himself as much as he’s talking to the three bakers around the table. “No, he . . . I . . . ”

There’s a sound in the doorway then, and everyone looks up to see Izzy stride into the breakfast room.

“Greetings, all!” he cries, sounding uncharacteristically chipper. “Looks like everyone’s in fine spirits this morning!”

“Nah, that’s just you, bro,” Jim says, deadpan. “Rest of us are fuckin’ tired, depressed, or both.”

“Depressed?” Izzy’s already at the buffet table, loading a plate up with beans and sausages. “What, because our resident ray of sunshine is gone?” He shakes his head. “Good riddance, I say. Maybe now we can stop with all the shenanigans in the tent and actually focus on baking again.”

Ed’s standing before he even realizes he’s moved. “What did you just say?”

Izzy turns from the buffet toward Ed, plate still in hand. “What, that I’m glad Bonnet’s finally out of this competition? It’s true, you won’t catch me shedding a tear over that clown. Though—”

“No,” Ed growls, cutting Izzy off. “The word you just used. Shenanigans.”

Now Izzy looks completely nonplussed. “Well, yes, I suppose I did say—”

“It was you.” Ed’s voice sounds dangerously low now, even to himself. “You sent Badminton the screenshots from our group chat.”

“He what?” Now Jim’s on their feet, too. “Iz, is that true?”

Izzy’s face is contorting, eye and lip and brow positions swapping out like a Mr. Potato Head cycling through all the pieces in the kit. Finally, his expression lands on defiance. “And so what if I did?”

Lucius lets out a high-pitched noise of shock just as Zheng sucks in a breath. “Izzy!” she cries. “How could you?”

“And more importantly,” Jim says, their voice now humming with fury, “why?”

“Why?” Izzy has the audacity to laugh, and Ed can practically feel his own blood heating up. “Because I got sick and tired of everyone on this show thinking with their dicks! Or their twats, or whatever. Lucius always flirting with that camera guy, Pete. The two of you”—here he points to Jim and Zheng—“in your little crush square with Oluwande and Archie. And”—he turns now to Ed—“ugh, you and Stede—you were the worst out of everyone from day one! Making goo-goo eyes at each other over your bakes, fucking helping each other all the time. It was like I was the only one left around here who remembered that this is supposed to be a competition!” He snorts. “And then, like you weren’t all already far enough up each other’s arses, along came that stupid fuckery plan.”

“You said you were in on the fuckery,” Ed says darkly.

“Yeah, well, I was at first,” Izzy snaps. “But then I got strategic. Which you used to be, in our first few weeks here. But that was before you started to let your feelings distract you. Before you all started getting wrapped around each other’s little fingers like sheets of strudel pastry.”

Ed’s shaking. “So, what—Badminton showed up, and you decided to throw Stede under the bus? Even though the fuckery was my idea?”

Infuriatingly, Izzy just shrugs. “I figured that if that useless ponce got kicked out, it’d be like a warning shot for the rest of you. A reminder to get your heads back in the game, to stop mooning around over all your little showmances. And we all know Bonnet had no shot at winning this thing anyway. You, on the other hand—” He thrusts his chin at Ed. “You might actually have a shot if you can just figure out how to focus again. So you’re welcome for the second chance.”

Ed takes a lurching step forward, and Izzy flinches back, fumbling his plate of food. “What?” he spits. “You gonna punch me now or something?”

“No,” Ed says, and it’s true. That’s a line he wouldn’t cross, not after the kind of teenage years he lived through himself. But still, he has to acknowledge that, for a split second, he felt an instinct to.

He backs up and takes a deep breath. Reminds himself that Izzy is just a kid.

“Stede beat you last week, Izzy,” Zheng points out.

“On a fucking technicality!” Izzy spits at her. “If he hadn’t had those extra fifteen minutes, he never would’ve gotten that handshake, and he never would have won Star Baker.”

Ed shakes his head. “You have no clue,” he says to Izzy. “No clue yet what’s important in life. That there are things more—”

“More important than winning?” Izzy interrupts with another laugh. “Please, old man, save your life lessons. I’m not looking for a mentor. I just want some worthy opponents in this competition. Bakers who, no matter which way the last few episodes shake out, I can say I was honored to compete against.”

“You’re one to talk about honor,” Lucius mutters, but his words seem to sail right over the pissy teenager’s head. And Ed can’t help think that Stede would be better at this than all the rest of them. Would know just the right words to get Izzy to reconsider his terribly flawed position—to imagine himself as a member of their pack of bakers, instead of as a lone wolf.

“Not cool, Iz,” Jim mutters. They’re still staring daggers at the kid, and Zheng is shaking her head. The atmosphere in the room—which will surely carry over into the tent today—is completely fucked.

Still, Ed tries one more time. “You have a real chance here,” he says to Izzy, “to connect with people. To make friends for life. Do you know what I would have given, at age sixteen, to have a chance like that?”

“I’m seventeen now,” Izzy snarks. “Just had my birthday last week. Got my driving license and everything.”

Of course he’s choosing to correct Ed on a technicality instead of actually engaging with what he’s just said. Ed sighs; he tells himself to let it go. But that’s hard to do, considering the fallout Izzy’s betrayal has caused. Maybe Badminton, acting on Izzy’s info, didn’t straight-up kick Stede off the show like Izzy wanted. But he apparently got under Stede’s skin enough that Stede’s now gone ahead and done the job for him.

Which breaks Ed’s fucking heart.

He eats his breakfast in a daze, hardly tasting anything. He lets Archie and Evelyn herd him onto the minibus with the others. He’s halfway to Welford Park when he remembers that he left his phone in his room, turned off. He’d been thinking he wouldn’t need it today, so why even bring it to the shoot? Now he desperately wishes he had it so he could text Stede.

how could you QUIT, you lunatic?

did you really think THIS was the best move for everyone??

On second thought, maybe it’s good Ed doesn’t have his phone. Maybe his feelings are a little too raw to be texting.

All he can do now, he figures, is channel those feelings into today’s bakes. Izzy wants a proper opponent? Ed’ll give him a proper opponent.

Pastry week is on.

Chapter Text

“Now that’s a strudel fit for a vampire,” Noel quips. “Or . . . a serial killer.”

He’s standing with Paul and Prue on the other side of Ed’s bench, and Paul’s just cut into Ed’s pastry. The filling’s holding together nicely, but the knife Paul’s setting down does looks like it could be a prop out of a slasher movie, coated in red. Noel picks it up and pretends to lick it while growling at the camera.

Ed should laugh. It’s funny! But he’s having trouble focusing on Noel. Just a couple of minutes ago, across the aisle, Izzy got a handshake from Paul for his pineapple-mango strudel. He cleverly used tinned pineapple to minimize the bromelain reaction and help with setting. And he thickened his filling with coconut flour, which Ed has to admit was clever, too. It’s well-known that Paul loves a piña colada, and the judge certainly appreciated the extra hint of coconut flavor. As much as Ed disagreed with everything Izzy said at breakfast today, he has to grant him one thing: the kid is strategic.

“Which you used to be,” Izzy said.

And, okay, maybe Ed has to grant him that, too. When Ed first showed up in the tent, he had strategy to spare. He’d studied the previous seasons. Designed his bakes to include flavors he knew would go over well. Practiced the fuck out of them. He could roll into the tent with confidence because each week he was a executing a plan he knew as well as the spider on the back of his hand. And now, after a week of being . . . well a bit sloppier than that . . . the old Ed is back, bringing his best work to the tent once more.

It just doesn’t feel half as good as it used to.

Not without someone nearby to laugh with about Noel and Alison’s antics. Someone to swap winks with when they get good comments from the judges, or sympathetic looks when they get bad ones. In fact, Paul and Prue are making comments about Ed’s strudel right now, but Ed isn’t absorbing them; his brain’s fully left the tent. It’s drifted far, far away, to a city he’s never even visited before . . .

Ed always thought bakers in past seasons were putting on a show when they acted super-surprised to get a handshake. But in this case, he truly is shocked when Paul reaches across the bench, because he didn’t hear a single word either of the judges said. He was just thinking about . . . well, what he’s always thinking about these days. He was thinking about Stede.

And he keeps thinking about Stede as Noel punches him on the shoulder in congratulations, as Izzy leers at him from across the aisle. He thinks about Stede watching this episode in November and turning to Ed (god, Ed hopes they’re watching it together) and saying “See, I did the right thing. You baked so much better without me there.”

Which isn’t completely untrue so far, is it? Ed’s so torn. On one hand, he wants to do his best, to show off his formidable pastry skills (and to knock Izzy down a peg or two while he’s at it, the smug little shit). But another part of him wants to crash and burn this weekend, if only to prove Stede—and Izzy, and Badminton—wrong. To prove that he bakes better when Stede is around. That everything’s better when Stede is around.

How can Ed possibly pull off both?

He contemplates this dilemma during lunch as he sits with his sandwich by the fire pit. The gears in his brain turn, and by the time the bakers re-enter the tent for the technical, an idea’s percolating in his mind. If Ed can invoke Stede’s presence in the tent during this challenge—can talk on camera about what Stede means him, make a really big deal of it—and outbake Izzy at the same time . . . well, maybe that’ll show everyone. Or at least show Stede, watching in November, that he was just as present in Ed’s mind today as if he’d been in the tent. And Izzy will see it then, too: that having feelings for another person doesn’t have to be a distraction, or a liability. That it can be an inspiration.

The technical is, as Ed predicted, choux-pastry-based. It’s gougères—cheesy, savory choux bites filled with a sundried-tomato-and-garlic cream. The moment Alison says “On your marks, get set, baaake!” Ed dives in, adrenaline surging, ready to slay this fucking challenge. He hasn’t come first in a technical since week one, but now he wants—no, needs—that top spot. Needs the extra little interview after, the platform that comes with it, to talk about Stede; to talk to Future Stede.

That’s the idea, anyway. Things do not go as planned.

The recipe does, at least. The recipe goes great! Ed gets his choux mixture cooking, gets the egg ratio just right on his first try, pipes his gougères onto his tray neat and even, and gets them into the oven with time to spare. Then he’s finally able to let himself go, to channel all his pent-up aggression into smashing and slicing the shit out of a head of garlic. Whack-whack-whack-whack-whack, stab-stab-stab-stab-stab. Yeah, that feels good.

“Serial killer energy,” Noel mutters as he slinks up to Ed with a camera. “You’re a killer, bro. Kill that garlic!”

Another part of Ed’s plan is to grab Noel or Alison in a moment like this and get talking to them about how great Stede would’ve done with this challenge; about how he’d probably pipe his gougères into some sort of artistic flower shape and finish bottom of the group, but lift everyone’s spirits along the way. But Noel never gives Ed an opening, commentating instead on his knife skills, then coming out with an escalating series of garlic-and-vampire jokes. Before Ed knows it, Noel and the camera have moved on and his chance is past. Then the challenge is over, and everyone’s carrying their bakes up to the gingham altar.

The others must have practiced choux this week, too, because the quality of all the bakes is high, and it’s a close one. Lucius comes in fifth, Jim fourth, Zheng third . . . and Ed finishes second, just pipped for the top spot by Izzy, who exits the tent quickly for his post-victory interview.

Shit.

Adding insult to injury, when Izzy climbs aboard the minibus later, he sits by Ed on purpose. “Well fought, Edward,” he says. “Good to see you bringing your A game to the tent again.”

Ed only just manages to bite back a “fuck off.”

Because Ed’s realizing now that he’s gonna need to up his game tomorrow if he wants to make his point. And anyway, a few words about Stede to the presenters or in an interview was never really going to cut it. Those could easily be edited out of the show. The only thing the producers can’t truly make disappear?

The bakes.

Ed heads straight to his room at the inn when they get back. He finds his phone, still turned off, still plugged into the wall, and he’s about to fire it up when he pauses.

All day, he’s looked forward to the moment when he could text Stede, or call him—let his frustration loose and demand some answers. Now, though, he’s not at all sure that’s the right thing to do. Because it’s not like Stede can just hop into his Roadster and drive out here to rejoin the competition tomorrow, even if Ed makes him see the error of his ways. And Ed’s not sure he can do that, anyhow—at least not right now, not at this midpoint of the competition weekend.

If Ed has any chance of convincing Stede to come back to Bake Off—to come back to him—he’s got to get all the puzzle pieces lined up right. He’s got to do that fucking thing that Izzy said he used to be so good at. He’s got to be strategic.

So Ed doesn’t text, doesn’t call. Doesn’t even turn his phone back on. He grabs the complimentary notepad off his room desk instead, finds a pen, and starts sketching.

Ed’s no Tom Hovey—he’s not even a Lucius—but years of working up boat plans for clients has led him to develop decent drawing skills. And measuring ones. Soon the margins of Ed’s sketches are filled with calculations: weights and dimensions and baking times. In a way, it’s like all his weeks—months—years—of baking practice have led to exactly this moment: to Ed building an entirely new bake for tomorrow. No chance at a practice run, no time to test it out. Just Ed’s experience to rely on, and his gut feeling that this is the right thing to do.

Ed sketches and calculates until his hand cramps, and then a little longer, until he’s truly satisfied with his plan. Only then does he turn his phone on, just long enough to snap a picture to put in a quick e-mail to Evelyn.

Same ingredients list, but new design for my showstopper this weekend. Sorry for the last-minute change.

Ed doesn’t ask permission. He just sends the e-mail and shuts his phone off again. If Evelyn or someone else from Love Productions needs to reach him, well, they know where he is.

Ed’s managed to miss dinner again, planning and plotting right through it, so when he hears a knock at his door a few minutes later, he hopes that maybe it’s Archie with another dessert.

To Ed’s surprise, though, it’s Izzy. And he’s standing there not with dessert, but with an entire plateful of food: bangers and mash and asparagus still steaming as if they’ve come directly from the kitchen.

Izzy thrusts the plate at Ed. “You need to eat,” he says. “Can’t have you passing out in the tent tomorrow from malnutrition if you’re really gonna take a run at me for Star Baker.”

His stomach’s already growling, so Ed accepts the plate. “You haven’t poisoned this, have you?”

Izzy snorts as he holds out a fork. Ed takes it and shoves a mouthful of the mash into his face. Once he starts, he really can’t stop; he is hungry. And while it feels a little weird to be eating while standing in the doorway, Ed’s not about to invite Izzy in. Dinner delivery aside, Ed’s still pretty pissed at him.

“I know none of you believe me,” Izzy says, “but I really do just want a proper rivalry on this show. Like Rahul and Ruby and Kim-Joy had in 2018—they each went into the final having won Star Baker twice. Probably the most evenly-matched year ever! It was anyone’s game.”

“Were you even alive in 2018?” Ed asks through a mouthful of mash. He’s teasing, but the kid doesn’t smile.

“I was ten years old,” he shoots back, “and I remember it perfectly. That was the golden age of Bake Off.”

“Was it?” Ed’s definitely biased toward the earlier BBC years, but yeah, okay, 2018 was a great series too. He shrugs. “Not sure it makes much sense to rank one year over another, honestly. Each one has something that makes it special.”

“We could make this one special,” Izzy says. “You and me and one more baker, Zheng or Jim. You or I win tomorrow, the other one wins the quarter, Zheng or Jim wins the semi, and we all go into the final perfectly matched. Then, whoever wins, they’ll be talking about how great our showdown was for years. We’ll leave a real legacy.”

“You’re a little obsessed with your legacy for a sixteen-year-old,” Ed observes.

“Seventeen,” Izzy spits back. “I just got my—”

“Yeah, I know, you just got your license.”

Izzy leans against the doorframe. “You know,” he says, “from the beginning, you were the baker I was most excited to compete against here. I was in the same technical audition as you, back when they were casting. You probably don’t even remember.”

“There were a lot of people in that room,” Ed says.

“True, there were a lot of people. But not a lot of people who looked like you, with your leather jacket and your hair and your tattoos. We all knew you were gonna get cast from the moment we laid eyes on you. And the fact that you never smiled, not even once? That only made it clearer. You were a serious baker, not to be fucked with. You meant business.”

Ed says nothing, and Izzy goes on.

“And that’s how you were the first week here, too. Buckled down, dialed in. Everyone in the tent could tell you knew what you were fuckin’ doing. Especially Bonnet. No wonder he started following you around like a puppy; he was hoping a little of your skill might rub off on him.”

“That’s not—”

But Izzy holds up a hand. “I’ve kept my eye on everyone here,” he says. “Wanting to understand your strengths and weaknesses. To see how the pressure of these weeks in the tent has changed you. And no one’s changed as much as you have, Edward. Week by week, I’ve watched you lose your edge. Watched you crack up like a meringue that’s been cooled all wrong, or—or a poorly-made baklava, or—”

“You watched me fall in love, Izzy.”

Ed doesn’t plan to say it; what a weird thing to confess, really, to a sixteen—sorry, seventeen—year-old kid. But it’s out of Ed’s mouth now, no backsies.

“Fall in love?” Izzy echoes, incredulous. “With Bonnet?”

Ed nods. He straightens to his fullest height so he can loom a little over the kid who fucked Stede over. “You gonna take that to Badminton? Send him a secret recording of this conversation or something?”

“No,” Izzy says. “I . . . look, Edward, I’m sorry about that. It was a shitty thing to do.”

“It was.” Ed crosses the room to set his plate down on his desk, next to the final version of the sketch he’s been working on all evening. On a whim, he picks it up. Brings it back to the doorway where Izzy is standing and shows it to him.

Izzy’s breath catches. “What is that?”

“Gonna make it tomorrow,” Ed says. “For my showstopper.”

“Why are you showing this to me?”

Ed shrugs. “You’ll see it tomorrow anyway. You know, in pastry form, if all goes well.”

Izzy reaches a hand out for the notepad, and Ed lets him take it. Izzy brings it closer to his face and studies it. Finally, he hands it back to Ed.

“So it’s not just some stupid showmance between the two of you,” he says.

Ed shakes his head. “It’s . . . real. I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s real, and it’s made me happier than anything else in my whole life—which, yes, includes getting cast on Bake Off, and winning Star Baker, and all of it. There’s just no comparison, really.”

Izzy looks baffled by this pronouncement, and Ed has to laugh at his expression. “You’ll understand when you’re older,” he says. “Hopefully before you’re as old as me. But I hope you find it one day too, kid. ’Cause it’s the best fuckin’ thing in the world.”

“Better than a Black Forest gateau?” Izzy says, and his voice has just a touch of mirth to it now. “Better than a chocolate croissant?”

“Better than a Bakewell tart,” Ed says. “Better than baklava.”

Izzy smiles at this last one and, finally, Ed sees it: a glimpse of that other Izzy, the one from the back of his “Two Faces of Izzy” Biscuit Week showstopper. The one with the red lips and the powdered-sugar face; the one that looked like it might know just a little about how real happiness feels.

“Well, congrats to you both, then,” Izzy says, and for once his tone doesn’t sound snarky or pissed off. It sounds genuine. “And best of luck tomorrow, Edward.” He gives Ed a sharp nod and moves off down the corridor. Ed shuts the door gently after him, then glances at his sketch one more time.

Best of luck tomorrow. Yeah, he’s gonna need it.

Chapter Text

“I’m not pulling any punches today, just so you know,” Izzy mutters across the minibus aisle. His smile from last night is nowhere to be seen now; the kid has his game face on. “Being in love is all well and good for you, but this is a—”

“Yeah, yeah, this is a competition.” Ed laughs. “I’m well aware of your thoughts on the subject, Iz.”

Izzy turns forward again with a huff, just as Jim twists around in their seat to give Ed a quizzical look. “Why’re you wasting your breath on him, amigo? The kid’s a turncoat.”

“He apologized,” Ed mumbles. Jim’s eyebrows lift, and their mouth opens like they want to say more, but then the minibus grinds to a halt—they’re at Welford Park already, and Archie’s telling them to get moving.

It’s going to be a long shoot today; they have four and a half hours for their showstopper, and it’s already 1 PM. Alison had a conflict this morning, a family event she couldn’t miss, so the production’s shifted later to accommodate her. Ed didn’t mind the lie-in, nor the extra time to carefully write out his brand-new showstopper plan. But now that they’re here and the tent is in sight, he’s champing at the bit to get going.

Thankfully, no one has said anything to him about his last-minute change. Bakers have occasionally done this sort of thing in the past, usually when a practice bake isn’t going well for them. Ed remembers Hermine in 2020, talking about how she’d changed her patisserie showstopper plan just that week. Unfortunately, switching to something new and less-practiced hadn’t gone so well for her. And things could easily dump out the same way for Ed. He knows he’s taking a risk that could end the competition for him, or at the very least cost him a chance at the top spot this week.

Ed drops his stuff in the green room, arrives at his workbench, checks his ingredients. Places his new sketch and recipe in the drawer to pull out once filming starts. Heads back up to the manor house with the others to shoot the walk down to the tent once, twice, three times—he’s used to the routine by now.

Finally, they all take their places and the challenge starts. Ed dives right in, prepping pastry, parcooking shrimp. The amount of filling he’ll need is actually the same as he was going to use in his octopus—he’ll just need to stuff this new shape differently.

He moves through the steps in his recipe, portioning out his pastry dough and chilling it, mixing and seasoning his shrimp filling and putting it into the fridge while he pulls the first portion of dough back out. He rolls it thin on a floured surface, cuts the shape he wants for the base, covers it, and returns it to the fridge to chill again. It’s a warm day in the tent, and keeping every component of the bake as cool as possible before it goes into the oven is going to be a challenge.

The minutes tick by. The time calls roll in. And, slowly, Ed transforms portion after portion of pastry into different things. Thinly-rolled ropes colored yellow with turmeric that he can coil to look like hair. Tiny gold- and orange- and red-tinted semicircles for scales. A trident shape, into which he’s mixed chili powder for extra flavor.

The judges and Alison arrive at Ed’s bench in hour two as he’s carefully glueing pieces of the tail together with egg white.

“So, Edward, your favorite mythological creature,” Prue says. “Tell us what you’ve got going today.”

And Ed does, though he keeps it vague, just talking about always having loved the sea and sea creatures, and about this particular one capturing his imagination. Alison asks if he’s ever seen a mermaid in Bristol Harbour, maybe caught one fishing and hauled it up onto the deck of his houseboat.

“No,” Ed says. “Not yet. But, hey—maybe soon.”

Paul asks a typically cocky question about how Ed’s going to make sure the pastry bakes through while retaining its bright colors, and Ed flat-out lies and says it’s always come out great in practice. Honestly, he just wants to get back to work. The judges nod and wish him luck, and then they’re off to bother Izzy about his pastry unicorn.

Ed returns to assembly. He glues and trims and brushes on a little extra color with food dye mixed with vodka. He finishes the tail, shapes the chest and arms and shoulders how he wants them, fiddles with the tiny hair coils. Then, finally, the only thing left to make is the face.

Ed’s never thought of himself as much of an artist, but if there’s any face he sees constantly in his mind’s eye now, it’s this one. So he attempts to reproduce what he sketched last night in pastry: Stede’s face in profile, strong brow and nose, a wink in his visible eye and a smile on his lips. Neck angled forward just so, like he’s looking for something, swimming toward something.

It’s a lot to portray in pastry, and Ed has to work fast so the dough doesn’t get too warm and melty. There’s no time to fret over or second-guess his choices. And so Ed sculpts, putting all his effort and experience and hope into conjuring the face of his favorite person out of shortcrust.

Alison asked if Ed had ever caught a mermaid—but of course she has no idea that Stede’s the one who pulled him out of the sea. Who stopped him treading water, waiting to drown.

The pie goes back into the fridge for a final chill, then Ed’s sliding it into the oven, a prayer to the baking gods on his lips. That the details of the face won’t blur together in the oven’s heat; that the tip of the tail won’t burn. Ed plonks his arse onto the tent floor and watches the oven more closely than he ever has before, ready to bust in there at a moment’s notice with foil to cover any bit of the bake that looks like it’s catching.

But the baking gods must be smiling on Ed today, because the pastry doesn’t melt or burn. There’s even time to spare when it comes out of the oven, time for Ed to touch up the colors once it’s cooled down. Time for him to dot a bit of green-brown mix into Stede’s pastry eye, to highlight the delicate edges of his tail with lavender. To make him as lovely as the vision that first came into Ed’s mind last night, when he thought about how best to evoke Stede’s spirit in the tent today.

When time is called, Ed looks down at his handiwork and feels a surge of pride. He thinks of the conversation he overheard between Izzy and Stede in week one, about Stede’s lavender soap cakes, and how Stede said he didn’t care what the judges said because he was happy with them.

For the first time since he got to the tent, Ed feels the same. This bake is his best work. He’s brought every skill he has to play, and the result . . . it’s beautiful. It’s exquisite. It’s—

“Stede!” Prue declares the moment the bake is placed on the table in front of her. She claps her hands in delight, and okay, Ed may not care that much about the judges’ opinions today, but he’s still so happy to hear that word. Because if Prue can see it clearly, then the people watching at home in November will see it, too. And one particular person will see it and know exactly what it means—exactly how present he’s been in the tent all weekend. How present he always is in Ed’s mind.

Paul leans close to the bake, blinking as he examines it, and Ed worries a little that he’ll say something mocking, deprecating. But instead Paul looks up, meets Ed’s eye, and in a surprisingly gentle voice says, “You must really miss him.”

“I do,” Ed says. And suddenly everything else he planned to say—his whole speech about Stede—doesn’t feel necessary anymore. Ed’s said it already, by putting his heart into his bake.

“Oh, Edward, what imagination you’ve shown here,” Prue crows. “The vision, the colors, the sense of movement. This is a true work of art. I feel badly even thinking about cutting dear MerStede open.”

“But cut we must,” Paul says. “Here—we can spare his human parts, at least. Let’s just go for the tail.”

Paul slices through the colorful scales and levers the pie piece onto a plate. Soon he and Prue are talking about how crisp and thin the pastry is, how flavorful the filling, how the bright colors only add to the pleasing experience of eating it. And then Paul’s beckoning Ed forward and holding out his hand and Ed’s getting another handshake, once again to his actual astonishment. Showstopper handshakes are rare enough! A baker getting two handshakes in one episode has never happened in all of Bake Off’s fifteen-year history.

“It’s a real triumph, mate,” Paul says as he squeezes Ed’s hand. “I think Stede would be proud.”

“Thank you,” Ed murmurs, and yeah, he’ll take that. It’s just more evidence he can lay at Stede’s feet when he makes his case. Look at all the good things that happen when you’re there in the tent with me.

Izzy gets a good review on his unicorn, too, but there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind who Star Baker is going to be. Nobody is sent home, and Ed wins Pastry Week. The other bakers crowd around him in congratulations, and even Izzy looks genuinely pleased for him. Then Archie’s sweeping Ed outside for his interview, hurrying him along to where the camera’s set up. They want to get filming fast because it’s late and the sun is at quite a low angle already.

Evelyn’s out there as well, along with the segment director and Pete behind the camera. Evelyn puts Ed on his mark while the director adjusts the lighting, and they’re about to start shooting when Abshir runs up, nearly out of breath, holding out Ed’s phone.

“Oh,” Evelyn says, “Abshir, thanks, but you didn’t have to do that. Edward doesn’t do the phone call when he wins.”

“Wait,” Ed says. His brain’s racing. He thought he’d be speaking to Future Stede here in this interview, traveling through time to November to say see, you were with me in the tent, you really never left at all. But, he realizes, he can do one better. He can speak to Present Stede right now.

He reaches out and plucks the phone from Abshir’s hand. “I actually am going to ring someone up today.”

Evelyn’s eyebrows lift. “Oh? Have they signed the NDA?”

“Yep,” Ed says, because that’s the truth.

“Well that’s great, then!” the director says. Evelyn looks a bit more skeptical—Ed gets the sense that she’d would like to cross-check his statement—but they really are losing light by the second, so she nods, giving everyone the go-ahead to start filming.

“All right, put it on speaker and go ahead and make the call,” the director says. “We’re rolling.”

Ed opens his contacts and taps on Stede’s name to dial.

Pick up, he prays as the line starts to buzz. Pick up, pick up, pick—

“Ed?!”

Ed’s heart leaps. It’s his voice. The single syllable of Ed’s name, in his voice.

And there’s so much Ed wants to say to him—so much—but what actually comes out of his mouth is just the next line in the script, the thing everyone around him is waiting for him to say. “Hey. Um. I won Star Baker.”

There’s a pause then, a stretching silence. Then time speeds back up, and Stede’s voice pours out of the phone. “Oh, Ed! I’m so proud of you! And I knew you could, I knew all along, you just needed a clear path, with nothing standing in your—”

“No!” Ed cuts him off. “Listen. I won because of you. Because I kept you with me, this whole time, and—like—okay, so I turned you into a pastry mermaid—or merman—merperson—and—”

Suddenly, it’s all too much to explain over the phone, too weird and complicated and ridiculous a situation for mere words. Ed needs to show Stede his drawings, needs to look Stede in the eye and hold his hand and just . . . be with him as the improbable story of this weekend comes out.

“Ed . . . ” Stede says slowly, “are you . . . being filmed right now?”

“Uh, yeah,” Ed says quietly. “Sorry, I should have started by telling you that. You’re my on-camera phone call. My . . . loved one.”

Evelyn’s eyebrow is slowly sailing all the way up into the strap of her eyepatch, but Ed’ll just have to deal with her later. Because a series of hiccups and sobs are echoing out of his phone now, repeating like they’re on a loop. When Stede finally speaks again, his voice is a choked whisper. “I’m sorry, Ed. I messed up. I messed all of this up.”

“Hey, no,” Ed says, and tears are pricking his own eyes now. “I mean, yeah, you kinda did, but it’s okay. You’re allowed to mess up. You don’t have to be perfect with me, you . . . ”

They’re all gaping at him now—Evelyn, Pete, the director—and Ed cringes away from the rolling camera. It was probably stupid of him to make this call while they were filming, but it’s not like he can just walk away now.

Or . . . can he?

Yeah, actually, he can! Because this is just a scene on a fucking TV show. A show that, yes, Ed’s loved for years, and wanted to be on for almost as long. But it’s not real.

Stede is real. They’re real, together. And so Ed mouths “sorry” to Evelyn and the rest of them, but he clicks off the speaker button, presses the phone to his ear, and walks right out of the shot.

“Stede,” he says a few seconds later, “I’m off camera now. I’m by that tree, the one Jim likes to hide under for privacy. But . . . uh, it looks like Evelyn’s coming after me. So I only have a few seconds. Look—I love you, okay? I love you.”

He can hear Stede hiccup-sobbing again on the other end of the line. “Oh, Ed. I love everything about—"

“Wait.” Ed cuts him off. “Don’t—don’t say it yet. I want you to say it to me in person.”

He hears Stede breathe out, shakily. “I want that, too.”

“Good.” Ed smiles. “Then text me your address. I’m coming over.”

“What? Now?”

“Yeah, now. Or, like, as soon as I can get the fuck out of here and get on a train. Is that okay?”

“Yes, of course it is, but—”

“Okay, then just text it to me. Gotta go, mate.”

And now Evelyn’s here, stepping into Ed’s space and holding her hand out for his phone. Ed hangs up and, sheepishly, hands it over to her.

“I’m . . . just going to pretend I didn’t hear any of that,” she says. Her tone is terse, but if Ed’s not mistaken, her eye is kind of twinkling.

The twinkle only lasts a moment, though, before Evelyn’s take-no-shit attitude is back. She holds up Ed’s phone, shaking her head. “You can have this again after you’ve shot your interview in full. Honestly, Edward. Nothing can ever just be straightforward with you, can it?”

“Nah, don’t reckon it can,” Ed says, but he’s smiling. Because his phone’s already buzzing in Evelyn’s hand; the text is coming through. And when he wraps his interview ten minutes later and gets his phone back, it’s confirmed.

Stede has sent Ed his home address in Norwich. Ed’s going to see him again, tonight.

Chapter Text

Well, Ed thought he was going to see Stede tonight. But apparently the Sunday rail schedules have another idea. Getting from Newbury to Norwich by train is going to take eight hours, requiring a layover in Reading and a station transfer in London.

Ed’s standing outside the Bake Off tent under the rapidly-darkening sky, staring at his train app and fighting back tears when Zheng’s voice cuts through it all.

“Edward? What’s going on, are you okay?”

She’s walking up to him, bag slung over her shoulder, and the other bakers aren’t far behind. Jim, Lucius, and Izzy pour out of the green room trailer with their stuff, ready to head to the estate gates where the minibus is waiting. They circle around Ed, though, when they hear the concern in Zheng’s voice.

“What’s the matter?” Jim asks, stepping closer.

Lucius crowds in as well. “Yeah, how can we help?”

“Uh,” Ed says. On one hand, Izzy already knows everything. Even Evelyn knows now. But Ed and Stede are still in major violation of the show contract. If he tells all the remaining bakers what’s going on between them, can he trust them to keep it on the downlow?

“I just . . . need to get somewhere,” Ed says, hedging his bets. “I was hoping to get there tonight, but I’ve been checking the train schedules, and it’s not gonna work.”

“Are you trying to get to Stede’s house?” Lucius asks gently.

Ed’s eyes snap up. “How did you—”

“Amigo, we all saw your pastry,” Jim says. “Pretty obvious you’ve, uh, caught feelings for the Zumba King of Norwich. But hey, maybe showing up at his house in the middle of the night to declare those feelings isn’t the way to go, eh?”

“Yeah!” Zheng smiles sympathetically. “Look, Edward, I’ve done my share of grand romantic gestures. They’re fun! But they always seem to end in a—”

“He knows I’m into him, okay?” Ed explains. “We’re already . . . together.”

Lucius squeals at this news, jumping up and down and clapping. “I knew it!” he cries. “I knew it was meant to be ever since you fell asleep all over each other on the coach in week one!”

Jim and Zheng’s expressions, though, are a little more suspicious. “Is that why he dropped out?” Zheng asks. “Because of the no-dating-fellow-bakers rule?”

“Not exactly.” Ed sighs. “I mean, he hasn’t fully explained it to me yet. We didn’t talk all week. But I’m pretty sure it’s that he didn’t want to be a distraction. That he thought I’d do better on Bake Off without him.”

“That’s pretty fuckin’ noble of him,” Jim says. “Especially since he won last week! You sure you two’re really together? That you’re not just stalking him or something?”

“Mm, strong question, Jim,” Lucius says, though his expression is more smirky than serious when he turns back to Ed. “I think we’re gonna need to see some receipts if you want our help getting you to Norwich tonight.”

“I never asked for your help getting to Norwich,” Ed says—though, actually, some help would be great. And as weird as it feels to be labeled a potential stalker, he appreciates that the gang’s looking out for Stede. So, hoping Stede won’t see this as a major betrayal of trust, Ed opens their text chain and scrolls up to the exchange from the other night, where they declared their feelings for each other. The phone gets passed around the group, and Ed watches as Jim’s and Zheng’s expressions shift from skeptical to . . . well, looking kind of like that emoji with the huge, round eyes that are half-full of tears.

“Omigod,” Lucius breathes, scrolling up now through more of the 900+ messages Ed and Stede have exchanged over the past few weeks. “Just look at the two of them trying not to flirt with each other over text! This is the kinkiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Give me that!” Ed huffs, grabbing for his phone, but Jim’s faster, snatching it out of Lucius’s hand.

“‘Report back on the level of zanginess’?” they read out loud. “Dios mio, you two nerds were made for each other.”

“Are there selfies in there?” Zheng asks, plucking the phone out of Jim’s hand. “Thirst traps? Dick pics?”

“Uh, children present?” Lucius says. He inclines his head meaningfully toward Izzy, who’s been lurking at the edge of the group this whole time.

“Shit, sorry,” Zheng says, and Ed takes advantage of her distraction to steal his phone back out of her grasp.

“There are no dick pics,” he grumbles—though this is a good reminder that if he ever does get one from Stede, he should hide it in a folder under twelve levels of encryption and delete the original text.

“Aw, we’re just teasing you,” Jim says, and, at last, they shoot Ed a grin. “Pretty obvious now what we’re dealing with here. A case of actual, bona fide, tooth-rottingly sweet and pure true love.”

“So what’s the story then?” Zheng asks, cocking her head to one side. “You’ve been apart all week—and then he quit the show without telling you—so at the last minute you changed your showstopper into a mermaid version of him to try to lure him back somehow?”

Well, it sounds pretty fucking ridiculous when described out loud like that, but . . . “Yes,” Ed says.

“Okay!” Zheng nods. “I’m not going to pretend I understand, but I can respect that different relationships have different love languages. And that yours and Stede’s is apparently . . . humanoid-cryptid pastry.”

“Look, I just need to get to Norwich. To see him, and talk to him in person, and . . . yeah. Try to get him to come back to the show.” Ed scrubs a hand over his face, feels the scratch of a week of new stubble against his palm. “So if any of you have an idea about how I can get there in under eight hours, I’m all ears. If not, I’ll just head to the train station.”

Suddenly, four phones are out of bags and pockets, glowing in the dusky air as Jim, Lucius, Zheng, and even Izzy tap and type furiously.

“It’s not nearly that long a drive,” Lucius announces.

“Yeah, three hours and twenty minutes,” Jim says.

“A car could get you there before midnight,” Zheng adds. “I would drive you myself, but I took the train here from London.”

“Same,” Jim says. “I was gonna catch the 9 o’clock back.”

“I took the train as well,” Lucius says. “I’m sorry, Edward.”

“Hang on, I’m looking at Uber,” Jim says, “and, okay! Yep, there’s one in Newbury that’ll take you to Norwich for . . . oh.” They look up at Ed then. “Uh, £450.”

“Yeah, um, thanks guys,” Ed says. “I appreciate your trying to help, really, but—”

“I’ll drive you.”

All heads swivel to look at Izzy.

“You?” Jim says in a shocked voice. “But you’re only—”

“Seventeen,” Ed says slowly. “And you just got your license.”

Izzy nods. “Passed the test a week ago. And I drove here—we don’t live all that far away, just over the line in Somerset. So I’ve got my mum’s car back at the inn.”

“The people carrier!” Lucius cries, suddenly giddy. “You sculpted it out of cake in week one!”

“Yes,” Izzy says, though he’s gritting his teeth as he does. “And I don’t need any shit from you lot about it. It’s just a temporary situation. I’m saving up for a better car, okay?”

“I wasn’t giving you shit, that's just how I talk!” Lucius raises his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Anyway, a people carrier is great because—”

“—it has so many seats,” Zheng says, finishing Lucius’s thought. “Which means—”

“—we all can come,” Jim concludes.

“No fuckin’ way.” Ed and Izzy actually say these same words at exactly the same time.

Izzy jerks a thumb in Ed’s direction. “I’ll drive him to Norwich because I owe him that much. ’Cause a big reason Bonnet left the show is those screenshots I sent Badminton, and I’m sorry about that. But that doesn’t mean I’m taking the rest of you along for the ride. People carrier’s not a party bus.”

“Yeah,” Ed says, because it’s bad enough thinking about showing up at Stede’s house with Izzy in tow. He definitely doesn’t need even more of an audience than that.

“Okay,” Jim says slowly, “only, Edward, you don’t drive, right?”

Ed shakes his head.

“So are we really supposed to let a seventeen-year-old, who’s only had his license for one week, drive you halfway across England in the dark when he’s tired from a long day of baking? Fuck, no! Sorry, Iz, but that’s not happening. I may not have a car here, but I’ve got a license. I’m coming with you, and I’m doing at least half the driving.”

“A third of the driving,” Zheng says, “because I’m coming, too.”

“Well, make it a quarter each, then,” Lucius says. “That’s fifty minutes per driver; seems reasonable. And Izzy’s got to do his shift first, while it’s still a bit light out.”

“Agreed,” Jim says, and Zheng nods, too. Izzy and Ed, it seems, don’t get a vote in this—though, of course, if he did, Ed would vote for safety over privacy.

“Whatever, fine,” Izzy growls. “Well c’mon then—let’s get back to the inn so we can get this clown car on the road.”

Ed runs to the green room to grab his stuff, then meets the gang on the minibus. During the ten-minute drive to the inn, he texts Stede the plan and an approximate ETA.

gonna be late, I know. you don’t have to wait up. maybe just leave the porch light on or something

Ed, of course I’m going to wait up

And anyway, we don’t have a porch

Or a dog 😉

menace

You like it

wrong
love it

❤️

Ed realizes too late that Lucius is looking over his shoulder at the texts and giggling like mad. But at least he doesn’t say anything out loud to the others while Archie’s in the minibus with them.

By the time they reach the inn, Ed's grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. It just feels so good to swap texts with Stede again. To joke around together; to have that lightness back between them. Ed’s missed it so fucking much.

In the car park, Izzy opens the doors to his mum’s people carrier. The vehicle’s many surfaces are scattered with toys and children’s books, and there are multiple car seats that need to be moved into the boot. It turns out that Izzy is the oldest of several kids. Even when Ed sits in the front passenger seat, his arse nearly gets punctured by something a child left behind: a toy unicorn with a stabby golden horn.

“Give me that,” Izzy grunts when Ed holds it up to the light, and he expects him to toss it onto the already-toy-littered floor. But instead Izzy fixes it in place on the dashboard, facing out, like a little figurehead for the people carrier. Suddenly, his mythological-creature bake in the tent today makes a lot more sense.

They set off for Norwich, stopping every fifty minutes as planned to switch drivers. Ed offers multiple times to switch seats, too, and take a turn farther back. But it seems to be mutually agreed upon that he stay in the passenger seat and chat with whoever’s driving, to help them navigate and stay awake.

So he does. He asks Izzy about his family (five siblings in all) and how he got into baking (one of them wanted a fancy birthday cake that the family couldn’t afford, so Izzy taught himself how to make it). Lucius drives next, and he and Ed talk about Jane Austen—favorite novels and characters and film adaptations. Lucius is a big fan of the movie Clueless, though it turns out he was not even born yet when it came out. Ed shakes his head, feeling older by the minute as Lucius waxes poetic about the “old-timey language” the teens in the movie used, as if it were practically dialogue from the Austen novel itself.

Jim drives after Lucius, and Ed tries to chat with them too, though they shut it down pretty fast with a pointed, “Hey, you know, silence is sometimes golden.” So they all ride quietly for a while along the A14 as it skirts Cambridge. It’s fully dark out now, been dark for a while, and when Ed looks back both Izzy and Zheng are asleep in their seats. Lucius is awake, sketching on a pad in his lap that’s illuminated by a tiny clip-on light, though the angle is wrong for Ed to see what he’s drawing.

Zheng rouses shortly before her shift is set to start, so they pull over and swap out drivers one last time. She and Ed chat about their jobs as she drives, about getting your underlings to do exactly what you want while tricking them into thinking it was their idea all along. Her eyes light up and her voice rises in pitch as she talks about climbing the managerial ladder at her engineering firm. And it reminds Ed of something—of the way Fang sounded on the phone this week, when Ed rang up to say he was taking extra time off. Like Fang really relished being left in charge, getting to slot into that boss’s role at the boatyard. It’s been a long time, Ed realizes, since he felt that way about work.

They roll into the outskirts of Norwich fifteen minutes before midnight, following the sat-nav’s prompts into a neighborhood full of large, detached houses. Ed’s heart starts beating faster. He wants to see Stede—he’s dying to—but in his fantasies about their reunion, they’ve been back in the cottage, or at Bake Off, or on Jane. Ed’s never really pictured Stede at home, with his kids. With Mary and Doug. Will they all still be awake, waiting up to meet Ed tonight?

He should’ve asked Stede about this hours ago. They should’ve talked this through. Maybe he can text him now, get some idea of what to expect, take a few square breaths and try to prepare himself for—

“We’re here,” Zheng says. She pulls the people carrier to a stop in front of a wrought-iron gate that leads to a drive that leads to . . . well, it’s not Pemberley, but it’s a pretty massive fucking house. Columns flank the front door. Topiaries punctuate the front garden. And Stede’s teal Roadster is parked inside and off to the left, by a little side door where a lamp is burning.

Ed clears his throat. “Guys. Uh. Thank you. I still can’t believe you all just drove me across the country. You must be exhausted, it’s so late—”

“Oh, sweetie,” Lucius coos, “it’s not even midnight!”

“Yeah,” Jim says, leaning up between the front seats and laughing. “Some of us don’t turn into pumpkins at 7 PM.”

Ed’s about to object when he recalls that he did take himself off to bed at 7 PM not even a fortnight ago, the night of the almost-kiss at the cottage with Stede. So he can’t cast stones.

“Okay, well . . . don’t let the kid drive anymore tonight, okay?” He glances back at Izzy’s still-sleeping form.

“Don’t worry,” Zheng says. “We’ve got it covered.”

“Indeed,” Lucius says. “Now stop stalling and get your arse out of this car.”

“Yeah,” Jim adds. “Get out of here and go get our captain back.”

Ed climbs out of the people carrier, but pauses then to lean against the car and close his eyes. He’s shaking a little. Why is he so scared? Stede said he wanted Ed to come. Stede’s waiting up for him. Stede’s—

“Ed!”

Stede’s through the gate, running onto the footpath in teal pyjamas and a robe and slippers, glasses askew, golden hair shining under the streetlight. And then Ed’s running too, fast as his bum knee will let him, and they’re crashing into each other almost hard enough to topple over, arms grasping, hands in hair, lips smashing into each other’s in a messy, desperate kiss.

“Can I say it now?” Stede whispers, pulling back a little. “Please?”

Ed nods.

“I love you.” Stede’s chest is heaving—maybe from the run, maybe from the emotion of it all. “I love you, Ed Teach.”

“And I love you, Stede Bonnet.”

They kiss again, more carefully this time, though with no less feeling. In fact, Ed doesn’t know whether he’s ever felt more. Stede’s lips against his, having just uttered those words . . . the combination ignites something inside him. He’s a firework now, fuse lit and long-dusty core primed to explode.

And yet, at the same, Ed feels peaceful. Because the fucking bee in his brain has finally shut up, and he and Stede are wrapped in their own little teal silk cocoon . . . for the moment, at least. Until the cheers and the honking break through.

Stede looks up in alarm and Ed has to laugh as he watches his boyfriend clock Lucius, Jim, Zheng, and even Izzy hanging out various windows and doors of the people carrier. The gang is clapping and whooping and pounding the car horn like their favorite band just came back onstage for an encore.

“They’d better quiet down,” Stede says with a laugh. “Neighborhood like this, someone’s sure to ring the council with a noise nuisance.”

“I’ll go talk to them,” Ed says, but Stede shakes his head hard.

“Don’t you dare.” Without letting go of Ed for a second, Stede turns in the direction of the people carrier. “Oi! You lot! Quiet down unless you want the coppers called on you!”

The cheers and shouts fade to grumbles; Ed’s pretty sure he hears a bitchy “So that’s the thanks we get for executing a cross-country booty call?” from Lucius.

Ed laughs. “Give ’em a break,” he tells Stede. “They’re just happy for us. Also . . . er . . . you got any spare rooms in this minor duchy of yours? Might be nice to offer’em a place to crash if they don’t feel like driving more tonight.”

“Yes, of course,” Stede says. “My wing of the house is quite empty most of the time. And we’ve got camping cots and sleeping bags stored in one of the outbuildings.”

“One of the outbuildings.” Ed can’t help but tease. “Knew you had money, mate, but this is kind of next-level.”

“It is rather over the top,” Stede admits. “Once both children are out of the house we plan to sell, downsize quite a bit, and give most of the profits to charity. Ideally to something extremely progressive that both Mary’s and my fathers would have hated.”

Ed grins. “Sounds like a plan.” (He doesn’t let himself wonder just how far down Stede might be willing to size things when the time comes. Whether they could fit an entire auxiliary wardrobe on Jane.)

“Will you wait for me in the garden, darling? I’ll dash over and quickly invite the others to stay. But I’d love a moment of privacy with you before they come in.”

Ed nods, and Stede points him through gate to a stone bench near where the Roadster’s parked. Stede jogs out then to the people carrier, and Ed hears the gang greet him warmly—if more quietly—than they did a minute ago.

He gets back to Ed’s side fast, taking a seat next to him on the bench. He reaches for Ed’s hand, pulls it into his lap, and looks him in the eye.

“Ed,” he says. “I’m so sorry about last weekend. Seeing Badminton again, and hearing everything he said . . . well, I panicked. Got it into my head that I’d nearly destroyed this series of Bake Off for everyone—and especially for you.”

“Stede, no.”

“Please.” Stede shakes his head, and Ed lets him continue. “I know how you feel about this now. And I had a good talk with Mary as well, actually. She saw, right away, how miserable I was when I came home last weekend. How hollow my big Star Baker triumph turned out to be. Even the children could see it, started asking me more and more questions as the week went on.”

He pauses to take a breath. “So I told them the truth. Told them about you. About what an incredible baker you are. About how happy I am when we’re together. And about how scared I was that, years from now, you’d look back and see that I’d ruined your Bake Off chances, and that it hadn’t been worth it. That I hadn’t been worth it.”

“Stede.” Heart aching, Ed squeezes Stede’s hand.

“But do you know what they said to me? The kids?” A tear escapes Stede’s eye now, sneaking under the rim of his glasses to run down his cheek. “Alma said ‘Dad, if he doesn’t think you’re worth it, then he’s a dick.’”

Ed bursts out laughing.

“And then Louis said ‘Alma, Ed doesn’t sound like a dick at all, he sounds like a very nice man,’ and she said ‘Okay, then why hasn’t he rung all week?’ and Louis said ‘Because Dad told him not to,’ and Alma said ‘Oh, no—does that mean Dad’s the dick?’ and Louis said ‘Maybe this whole situation’s a dick,’ and then, well, I asked them to please stop saying the word ‘dick’ so much, since they are children, and—”

Now Stede’s laughing, too, or at least laughter’s mixing with the tears. Ed reaches out and pulls him in so they can laugh-cry together. Stede lets him, and their bodies shake with it, and god, Ed’s missed this—the closeness, the stupid anecdotes, every last fucking drop of it.

“Come back to Bake Off,” he says. “Please, Stede. We all want you there. Even Izzy. Even Evelyn’s willing to pretend she doesn’t know what’s going on between us, I’m pretty sure.”

“But I quit!” Stede protests.

“Then un-quit! Come on, bakers have missed a week for illness or whatever before. Two of them missed the same week in 2022, and then one of them made the final! Just . . . call Evelyn and tell her you’ve changed your mind. Or that your personal situation’s resolved, or whatever. It doesn’t matter! Just, come back. You belong with the rest of us. You deserve to be there, fighting for a spot in the final, just as much as everyone else.”

Stede bites his lip. “Reckon Louis was right about you,” he says. “You are a very nice man.”

“I’m not that nice,” Ed says. “I’m selfish, and I’m weak, and I can be a whiny little brat when I feel like it. The truth is, I don’t think you should come back just so you don’t miss out on the rest of the competition. I want you in the tent with me. I don’t want to do it without you anymore—Bake Off, life, any of it. I don’t ever want to spend a whole week apart from you again.”

For a moment, Ed worries that he’s said too much. But, fuck it, it’s the truth. It’s how he feels. And where has hiding his true feelings from Stede Bonnet ever gotten him in the past? It’s only wasted time when they could have been together, when they could have already been so happy.

“I saw what you made, Ed,” Stede says quietly. “Your showstopper.”

“You saw it? How?” Phones aren’t allowed in the tent; they’re not allowed to photograph their bakes.

“Lucius,” Stede says simply. “He thought I ought to see it, so, he did a drawing from memory and sent it to me. While you all were driving over.”

“He did?” Ed feels a lump form in his throat.

“Yes. He’s been a good friend to you today, hasn’t he? They all have, bringing you here.”

Ed can’t trust himself to speak now, so he just nods. Because it’s true. They have.

Friends.

“Here, you can tell me if it’s a good likeness.” Stede pulls his phone out of his robe pocket and swipes at the screen. He turns it to Ed, and it’s a photograph of a beautiful drawing of his pastry, much nicer than any of the sketches Ed made yesterday. Lucius has added color in all the right places, and depth of perspective so the merperson actually looks like a three-dimensional pastry. If Tom Hovey ever quits his Bake Off gig drawing the contestants’ bakes, Lucius absolutely has the skills to take over.

“I can’t wait to see it on the show in the autumn,” Stede says. “To hear the judges rave about it. To see you get all the credit you’re due.”

“Can’t take all the credit,” Ed murmurs. “Lot of it goes to my muse.”

It’s hard to tell here in the darkness, but Ed thinks that Stede might be blushing.

“I don’t want to be apart from you, either,” Stede whispers. “So . . . okay, yes. If they’ll let me back in the tent, I’ll come back to Bake Off.”

Ed squeezes him then, pulls him in even tighter, and Stede squeezes him right back. Over Stede’s shoulder, Ed takes in the Roadster, and thinks about the first time he saw it in that Sainsbury’s car park in Bristol. About his vision of Stede snapping into it like a toy figurine, legs fusing with the car body, a perfect fit.

Now he knows better. The Roadster’s nice, but this is the perfect fit: the two of them, together. Made for each other, Jim said earlier in the night after reading their texts.

Always was a clever one, that Jim.

“I’ll call Evelyn in the morning,” Stede murmurs into Ed’s ear. “But for now, we should get some sleep. All of us. I’ll go rustle up those camp beds. Will you show our friends that they can park in here, please? If you don’t mind opening the gate.”

“I can do that.” Ed stands up, and goes back outside to help get the people carrier sorted.

They all work together to settle everyone into the two spare rooms in Stede’s wing of the house—but still, it’s nearly 1 AM by the time Ed and Stede finally tumble into Stede’s bed. They say they’re knackered, that they’ll go right to sleep. But even the physical and emotional exhaustion of the night isn’t enough to keep their mouths and hands from seeking each other out, warm and wanting. There are, after all, a whole week’s worth of missed kisses and touches to make up for. And a new sequence of three words that they need to practice saying a few more times, since they haven’t tried them out yet with their bodies pressed close like this.

So they say them to each other, again and again. They sprinkle the words like sugar over crème brûlée, and with the heat of shared breath torch them into something solid. Something real.

Chapter Text

The other side of the bed is empty when Ed wakes the next morning, but he doesn’t panic. He can smell the yeast and cinnamon on the air, so Stede must be baking, already practicing for Spice Week. Which means last night wasn’t a dream; Ed’s really here, at Stede’s house, and Stede really is planning to come back to Bake Off.

Ed grins, hauls himself out of bed, and heads to Stede’s ensuite. Does his ablutions and dresses in one of the clean outfits he packed as an option for filming but didn’t use. Then, like a bloodhound on the trail, Ed follows his nose out the door and down a couple of corridors until he turns a corner and finds himself in a large, open-plan kitchen.

The oven door is open and someone is pulling a tray of cinnamon rolls out of it—beautifully risen and browned and wafting their phenomenal aroma into the warm kitchen air.

But it’s not Stede. It’s a kid in a school uniform, seemingly only a few years younger than Izzy. The kid sets the tray on a cooling rack on the kitchen island, turns back to shut the oven, and finally notices Ed.

“Oh!” he cries, startling—and even in that one syllable, Ed hears the echo of Stede’s voice. He can see Stede, too, in the kid’s pale, curly hair and wide, hazel eyes, but most of all in the O of his mouth and the furrow of his brow, like his face is made of extremely expressive rubber.

“You must be Louis,” Ed says.

Louis nods. “And you must be Ed.” His expression shifts from surprise to a lovely grin, and he steps forward to stick out an oven-gloved hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Finally?” Ed chuckles as he and Louis shake. “Pretty sure you only learned of my existence a week ago.”

“Yes, well, it’s been a long week.” Louis arches an eyebrow. “Dad can talk a lot when he’s in his feelings about something. Or someone, as the case may be.”

Warmth curls through Ed’s chest hearing this.

“If you’re wondering where my dad is,” Louis continues, pulling off his mitts, “he just popped out to give Alma a lift to school, since Mum and Doug had an early meeting at the university. I walk to my school, and my start time’s a bit later, so he left me here to hold down the fort.”

“And get his rolls out on time,” Ed comments. “Very important job.”

“His rolls?” Louis’s expression shifts again, puckering this time like Ed just fed him a lemon. “I made these! Mixed up the dough last night for a fridge prove and got up at 5 to roll it all out and fill it and slice it and prove it again! My dad’s not the only one in this house who can bake.”

“You made these?” Ed’s impressed. “Sorry, you’re right—I shouldn’t have assumed. Your dad did tell me you were a foodie.”

“He did?” Louis’s face brightens. “What else did he say?”

Ed laughs, then nods toward the cinnamon rolls. “Put one of those on a plate for me and I’ll tell you everything.”

“No way, they need to cool for at least five minutes! And then I need to ice them. Can’t rush the process, man. Aren’t you, like, a two-time Star Baker? You’d think you’d know these things by now.”

Ed laughs even harder. Turns out this kid got Stede’s bitchy streak, too. Ed likes him immensely already.

He climbs up to sit on a stool at the kitchen island. “So did you teach your dad everything he knows about baking? Or was it the other way around?”

Louis shrugs. “Neither, really. I don’t actually bake much, I’m more of a cook. And mostly I just do it to understand the process. If I’m really gonna be a restaurant critic one day, I need to know how the sausage is made, so to speak.”

“Or the cinnamon rolls.”

“Or the cinnamon rolls, exactly.” Louis nods. “Dad, though . . . he bakes for different reasons.”

“Yeah?” Ed leans forward on his elbows as Louis turns to fill up a teakettle.

“Oh, totally,” the kid says over his shoulder. “He’s all about, like, wanting to do nice things for people. Got big caretaking energy, you know?”

Ed does know. Though despite what Louis just said about them baking for different reasons, Ed can see that energy in him, too. In the way he’s fanning tea choices out in front of Ed and arranging a cup and saucer and spoon in front of him just so.

Ed plucks up a bag of Whittard Earl Grey, and Louis reaches for the sugar bowl. “Seven, right?”

The question catches Ed pleasantly by surprise. “Guess your dad really did talk a lot about me.”

“Yep,” Louis says. “Talking’s his love language. Well, his other love language, aside from baking.”

Louis is still spooning sugar into Ed’s teacup when Ed hears a car motor outside. Through the kitchen window, he watches the Roadster pull in and Stede climb out. His hair’s tousled and his glasses are darkened by the sun, and the warm feeling that curled through Ed’s chest a few minutes ago expands into his entire body.

The kettle beeps, and Louis passes it over to Ed. “All right, fix your tea how you like, I’ve got icing to make. But then you owe me a chat about everything my dad’s told you about our family, and also about your intentions with him. Any chance of the two of you shacking up soon? Like, maybe in London?” Louis’s eyes look hopeful. “Because I’d love a reason to get down there far more oft—”

“That’s enough, Lou.” Stede strides into the kitchen, car keys jingling. His expression is half-amused, half-horrified at the snippet of conversation he just caught. “Ed, whatever this cheeky kid’s been saying to you, take it with a huge grain of salt.”

“As if I’d be caught dead using regular salt!” Louis huffs, mock-outraged. “Take it with a large flake of fleur de sel please, Ed, if you must.”

Stede and Ed both laugh at this, and Stede reaches over to tousle Louis’s curls. Louis tries to duck away but doesn’t quite manage it, and when Stede’s done they match even more, both laughing and wild-haired.

Ed feels a third surge of warmth move through him. Because he knows what Stede’s life was like at Louis’s age, at fourteen, and he can see what a different environment Stede’s creating for his son. One where touch is easy, and where talking about love and all the ways it can be expressed is just a part of daily life. Their home is clearly a place, too, where Louis can be at ease with his interests and ambitions in a way that Stede—and Ed, for that matter—could never have imagined. Not until much more recently.

Stede trails a hand across Ed’s back in greeting before he climbs up onto the neighboring stool. And okay, yeah, Ed gets that Stede’s kid is right there so he’s not gonna drape himself all over Ed. Still, he can’t help but pine for just a little more contact.

But then, oh, there’s Stede’s foot, pressing against Ed’s under the counter. Ed presses back, and this time Stede doesn’t pull away. That’ll do for now.

“Spoke to Evelyn,” Stede says softly. “I’m back in for next weekend.”

“Ah, Stede!” The grin splits Ed’s face so fast it almost gives himself a cheek-spasm. “Everyone’s gonna be so happy to hear that.”

“Are they up yet? The others?”

Ed shakes his head. “Don’t think so. All their doors were closed when I passed by.”

“I thought maybe you’d sleep in, too. You must be so tired after your big weekend.”

“Nah, should’ve gotten up earlier. Met the rest of your family before they left for the day.”

“You’ll just have to stay for dinner tonight, then, won’t you?” Louis chirps as he pipes icing onto his rolls. “We can do Cromer crab. Or get a black turkey, Dad?”

“Norfolk specialties,” Stede explains.

“I’d love to,” Ed says to Louis, “but . . . I probably need to get home. I’m supposed to be back at work this week.” Shit, he’s gonna need to ring Fang with yet another excuse, at least for today. “But, hey, I’d love to come back sometime soon and try all that stuff. And meet your mum, and your sister. And Doug-who’s-not-a-dog.”

Stede snorts, though Louis glances up from his icing with a puzzled expression, and, okay, it sounds like Stede didn’t tell his kids absolutely everything.

“How about,” Stede says slowly, “I get Lou here off to school, and we see the others on their way, and then we book you onto an after-lunch train to London, where you can switch for Bristol? I’m afraid that won’t get you home until tonight, Ed, but I do feel like we should sit down together and make some plans for . . . you know. How we want all of this to work going forward.”

Ed nods, while Louis mouths “London!” and winks at him over the cinnamon rolls.

He finally serves them and, okay, Ed’s gonna need this recipe. It’s easily the best baked good he’s tasted since Stede’s beef rendang pithivier, and it’s possible he forgets to keep things kid-appropriate and drops some spicy language in appreciation of them. Louis tries to play it cool, but soon his face betrays him and he’s beaming at Ed’s praise. And then Stede’s beaming about it too, which makes Ed beam in turn. So when a bleary-looking Izzy shuffles into the kitchen and mutters “The fuck’re you all grinning about so early in the day?” it only takes a second for everyone to dissolve into laughter.

The rest of the sleepy gang trickles in, and moods improve considerably as they all devour Louis’s rolls and down several pots of tea and coffee. Louis heads off to school, the praise of five different former Star Bakers (even Izzy) ringing in his ears, and Stede helps everyone make plans for how best to get home.

Finally they’re all cleared out, heading back by train or road to London or Newark or Somerset. Stede closes the front gate behind the exiting people carrier and jogs back up the drive to Ed.

“Hi,” Ed says as Stede slides his arms around Ed’s waist and pulls him close for a cinnamon-flavored kiss.

“Hi,” Stede says back, then lets out a huge sigh. “Sorry this morning’s been a circus. I’d tell you that’s not what it’s usually like around here, but I’d be lying. Even without a big Bake-Off sleepover, there are a lot of moving parts to my family. Have we scared you off?”

He's joking, mostly, but Ed can sense the sliver of actual concern in his question. “Nope,” he says quickly. “But this is nice, too. Having you to myself for a minute.”

“You can have me to yourself for . . . ” Stede pulls back to check his watch. “Shit, it’s only two and a half hours now until your train! Where did the morning go? Goodness, I haven’t even had a chance to show you around the house yet.”

“Reckon I’ve seen enough,” Ed says. “Kitchen. Bedroom. Ensuite.” He pauses then. “Might’ve noticed you have a bathtub in there.”

Stede nods. “I do have a bathtub, yes.”

“A . . . big bathtub.”

“Too big, really,” Stede complains, oblivious. “I almost never use it, it takes ages to fill—oh.” Finally, he starts to get it, and Ed grins.

“Look, I know we have shit to talk through. I just figured”—he shimmies a little closer to Stede—“that there’s no reason we can’t talk it through naked, right?”

Stede smiles, then cups Ed’s smooth cheek and runs his fingers down it. Ed shaved again this morning, in the ensuite. He doesn’t think he wants to keep it like this forever—maybe a short beard will be the right compromise between completely naked chin and facial hair that hides him away from the world. But he wanted just one more go at the raw nerve thing. Now, under the brush of Stede’s fingertips, he shivers.

They don’t make it to the bathtub. They barely make it to Stede’s bedroom, and that’s only because Ed insists on it. He doesn’t know Mary’s and Doug’s work schedules and has no desire to meet them for the first time in flagrante delicto on the sitting room floor.

“Lie down,” Stede pants once the door is shut and locked, once their clothes are shucked off onto his plush carpet. “If memory serves, I owe you something, and a Bonnet—"

“If you say ‘always pays his debts’ like a fucking Lannister, mate, I’m gonna kick you right out of this bed.”

Stede grins wickedly as he climbs on top of Ed. “No you won’t.”

He’s right. Of course Ed won’t. Not with Stede already trailing kisses over Ed’s exposed throat and down his sternum, mouth lighting up every nerve ending it brushes along the way.

And Ed’s certainly not going to stop him with his train already booked, with their time together ticking down yet again. Why does it always feel like there’s an hourglass running out on them? Like they live in a perpetual baking challenge, only minutes left until the tent spits them back out into their real, separate lives.

“I don’t like this,” Ed says, and Stede immediately pulls his mouth off Ed’s nipple.

“No, not that.” He threads a hand into Stede’s curls to maneuver his head right back into place. “That’s fucking . . . transcendent, mate, don’t stop, I just meant . . . you know, this. Always having to leave each other. Fucking endpoint always looming.”

“I don’t like it either,” Stede murmurs into Ed’s chest.

And then, Ed’s brain shouts London! because, well . . . maybe?

He's never thought of himself as a big-city kind of a guy before. But, if he had someone to walk the bustling streets with . . . someone to come home to each day . . .

And London does have the best food markets, the best ingredients. There’s so much Ed could bake there. So many restaurants he and Stede could try with Louis when he came to stay. So many art museums they could take Alma to—and Mary and Doug, Stede’s whole family. And there’s Zheng and Jim and Roach and all the other bakers who live in London, that they could see on a regular basis. Friends.

Plus, the city’s less than two hours from Norwich by train, and about the same distance from Bristol if Ed ever needed to go back and help with a complicated build. Though he knows now that Fang, along with Maggie and Ivan, would have things well in hand at the boatyard. They already do, without Ed around. Maybe the time has come for a new owner—someone who actually still has a beard—to take over at Blackbeard’s.

That’s as far as Ed’s brain gets, though, because Stede has worked his way down Ed’s body and is kneeling now at the foot of the bed. His breath ghosts over Ed’s cock, and Ed’s not going to let his mind drift around in London for a moment longer.

Stede takes Ed into his mouth, and Ed quickly loses himself to the delicious wet heat, to the suction that feels like it tugs, somehow, at every sensitive part of his body at once. He groans with abandon and feels Stede’s answering hums vibrate around him, through him. He digs his heels into the floor and tries to hang on to even a shred of self-control, to draw this out and wrestle time, that greased-up bastard, into submission.

Of course, he can’t. That’s not how time works. That’s not how blow jobs work, either, slippery acts of perpetual motion that they are.

Still, Ed grips Stede with his thighs when he comes, his body wanting to hang on tight to the moment even as his mind tries to tell him to let it go. To trust that they’ll have this again; that they really have a chance at a future, together.

Stede crawls up the bed and presses himself into Ed’s side, nuzzling at Ed’s bare neck. “I love you,” he murmurs. And, well, that’s no guarantee. But if anything can knock the hourglass onto its side—can stop time for just an instant—it might be those words. It just might.

***

The bathtub does take forever to fill, it turns out. And while Stede’s house may be posh, it is also old, with a water-heating system that just can’t handle much beyond the number of showers it already provided that morning. So the bath ends up being a shallow, lukewarm affair that does not encourage lingering, much less a serious, life-planning discussion. Which means that Ed and Stede end up talking clothed after all, dried off and dressed and eating bowls of soup in the kitchen. (Louis made the broth. It’s wild.)

And it’s a little strange, how clinical it feels to pull their phones out, open their calendar apps, and make plans for trips to each other’s homes for weeks and months from now. Ed, of course, doesn’t have children and has never been through a divorce, but he can’t help but think it feels like they’re making custody arrangements. Only the thing they’re sharing custody of is their relationship, newborn and fragile and needing all the tender care they can give it.

Of course, the Bake Off filming schedule is a major consideration for the next three weeks. So they agree to a temporary schedule that will see them spending the bulk of those weeks apart, practicing. Then they’ll get weekends together filming the show, and switch off going home with each other for one night on Sundays, at least until one of them gets eliminated.

With this new plan in place, Ed returns to Bristol that evening. He returns to the boatyard the next morning—but only to call an all-staff meeting, pass around some NDAs, and finally let Fang, Ivan, and Maggie know what he’s been up to lately.

“For real, boss?” Fang squeals in the tone he usually reserves for when a client brings their dog by the yard.

“And you’re through to week eight already?” adds Maggie. “That’s a real fuckin’ accomplishment.”

“Shame you didn’t bring your practice cakes to work, though,” Ivan grumbles. “Even a little bit of cake would’ve been nice.”

The others agree—but overall they act so thrilled and supportive of Ed that he can hardly remember why he didn’t want to tell them about Bake Off in the first place. Something about keeping his private life private? Yeah, maybe turns out Ed was holding his staff at arm’s length for no good reason at all.

After the meeting, Ed’s employees send him right back home to practice for the rest of the week. In fact, they tell him not to come back to work until he’s either won the whole competition or been booted off the show.

“We’re rooting for you,” Fang tells him, and Ed asks Fang to put another meeting on the calendar for three weeks from now. This one will be just between the two of them, to discuss the future of the company.

***

Spice Week is wild ride. Bake Off has never had six bakers in the tent in week eight before; there’s never been a double elimination in a quarterfinal. The hosts and judges go around the tent during the spiced-biscuit signature, trying to stoke the drama, but the bakers don’t take their bait. Something shifted among them the night of the Norwich road trip, cemented all their bonds. Even Izzy has a half-smile to spare now and then for his fellow bakers. And . . . is he wearing lipstick this weekend?

Before the first bake is even complete, it becomes fairly clear that Lucius will not survive to the semifinal. He's definitely putting more effort into batting his eyelashes and tossing pithy quips toward Pete’s camera than he is into his recipe. Everyone else, though, hustles. Stede produces meticulously decorated masala chai spiced-and-iced biscuits in the shapes of steaming cups and kettles. As usual, he makes extras to share with the crew and his fellow bakers. And there’s a special one for Ed, but Stede won’t let him see it until the challenge ends.

When he finally gets it, Ed doubles over in laughter. Stede’s decorated his tea-themed biscuit to look like a microwave.

Zheng gets a handshake for her three-dimensional Chinese takeaway container–shaped five-spice biscuits. Ed’s cheddar-and-hot-pepper biscuits, shaped like wedges of cheese and peppers, also go over well, his gamble at a savory interpretation of the brief paying off with the sugar-weary judges. Izzy and Jim get more mixed comments, and look a little grimmer going into the technical.

That challenge, to Ed’s delight, turns out to be a bread one: za’atar swirl bread, its dough enriched with eggs and olive oil and rolled up with one of Ed’s favorite spice mixes. He dives in with the mixing and kneading, but even moving as fast as he can, Ed knows there’s not enough time in the challenge to really get a good prove on his loaf. So he pulls a Nancy and pops it into the microwave for a five-minute super-proving blast. No one else follows his lead—not even Stede—and he gets a look of true horror from Izzy. But Ed (with the help of his series five Bake Off fairy godmother) prevails, producing the best-risen twisted loaf 90 minutes later. He wins the technical for the second week in a row, with Zheng, Izzy, Stede, Jim, and Lucius following in order behind him.

The showstopper the next day is a spiced dacquoise. Ed goes for a cardamom-and-orange theme; Stede’s is elderberry and hibiscus, decorated with a gorgeous flower motif. Zheng blows everyone away with her pecan-and-fenugreek dacquoise, sandwiched with blueberry curd and maple crème pâtissiere, and no one is surprised when she’s crowned this week’s Star Baker. Izzy pips Jim in the showstopper, mostly because Jim’s dacquoise cools too quickly and cracks in several places, and tears are shed all around as the bakers bid goodbye to both Lucius and Jim.

The atmosphere in the tent feels different when the bakers return the next weekend for their patisserie-themed semifinal. Places in the final are at stake now, and of course everyone wants one. Ed doesn’t even know if he wants one more for himself or for Stede, though it’s not like he doesn’t also want Zheng and Izzy to do well.

They film their walk to the tent and tie on their aprons. Stede, stationed in front of Ed this week, turns around to shoot him a steely smile. Ed shoots one back. Noel announces the first challenge, and they’re off.

Ed told Stede that he was good at patisserie, and it’s the truth. He’s worked at home for years to perfect his techniques on complex French cakes and pastries. What he never guessed was that Stede is a patisserie savant as well; that his comfort with detail and fiddly decoration makes him a natural expert at it. Ed has a good weekend, but Stede has a great one, winning his second technical and capturing the Star Baker title for a second time. Izzy, crushingly, does not make it to the final—not because he messed any of his bakes up, but just because the other three executed their financier signatures, macaron technicals, and millefeuille showstoppers ever-so-slightly better.

It's a blow for the kid, for sure, but Ed thinks he handles the loss better than he might’ve a couple of weeks ago. He lets the other bakers get close after the announcement. He lets his tears fall freely. Ed hugs him, and Izzy hugs back hard, and Ed feels like maybe the kid’s finally letting go of his ego a little. Like even though he didn’t get what he wanted here, Izzy knows now that he’s part of something bigger than himself. Something good that’ll stay with him for his whole life.

He’s also the youngest baker ever to make it this far in the competition, and if that’s not an impressive legacy, Ed doesn’t know what is.

Ed’s so focused on Izzy that he’s barely absorbed what the results mean for him. It’s only when Izzy heads outside for his farewell interview, leaving Ed in the tent with the other two bakers, that it sinks in.

He's going to the final.

Stede’s going to the final.

They fucking did it! The two of them and Zheng have made it to the final of The Great British Bake Off.

The three seem to catch each others’ eyes all at once, then Stede’s face breaks into one of its signature megawatt smiles. Ed’s own grin rips across his face in response, and Zheng mirrors them both, and then with a little scream they’re all crashing together in a group hug. They’ve each lasted nine weeks here; they’ve each won Star Baker twice. Just like Izzy wanted, it’ll be an extremely well-matched last episode. Anyone’s game.

Archie escorts Stede outside a minute later for his Star Baker interview, and Zheng heads off to the green room, desperate to call her relatives with the good news.

But Ed lingers in the tent. He turns around, taking it all in slowly for the first time since week one.

The cameras are off now. The crew’s already clearing the showstoppers from the bakers’ benches. And Ed isn’t performing, just feeling. Adrenaline and exhaustion and elation and . . . well, probably he should be feeling more trepidation about next weekend than he is. But right now, he can’t help but lean into the joy of this moment.

He came into the tent alongside eleven strangers, hoping to finally make some connections. And he did. He even helped someone else learn how to do it. So even if he doesn’t win the finale next weekend—even if he crashes and burns through all three challenges—he knows his life’s never going to be the same.

“Hey, man!” Archie waltzes back into the tent, fist reaching out for a bump. “You did it! You’re in the final.”

Ed knocks knuckles with her. “Yeah. I am.”

“So what’ve you got up your sleeve for your last showstopper, eh? Gonna do a half-Izzy half-creature cake? Satyr savarin?”

Ed snorts. “Nah. Think the kid’s achieved full human status, finally. But I’ve got some other ideas.”

Archie grins. “Well, I’m sure you’ll come up with something great. Oh, and I have a message for you from Stede.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He says, ‘Get your kit, it’s a long drive back to Norwich and Alma swears she’s not going to bed this time until she lays eyes on you in the flesh.’ I assume you know what that all means?”

Ed chuckles. “Yeah. I do.” Stede’s complained several times now that if Alma doesn’t get her full eight hours of sleep, she’s a complete terror in the morning. So Ed appreciates the high stakes of them getting to Norwich at a reasonable hour tonight.

And he appreciates Archie’s easy acceptance of him and Stede as a couple. Appreciates that no one on the crew’s given them any shit about it, or brought up the contract again. And that certainly no one’s gone off blabbing to Channel 4. In fact, just today Ed heard a rumor about Nigel Badminton being reassigned back at headquarters—in trouble for having read casting notes to the bakers without permission. Ed’s not sure whether Evelyn would’ve been willing to rock the boat enough to run such a complaint up the chain, but Archie might’ve. Yeah, Archie seems like a pretty good bet.

So Ed thanks her, and Oluwande, and Pete, and all the rest of the crew as he heads to the green room, and accepts their congratulations and high fives in return. Maybe, he thinks, to work for Love Productions, you kind of have to believe in love.

Chapter Text

November 26 (five months later)

Stede’s gloved hand squeezes Ed’s arm. “Whenever you’re ready, darling. No rush.”

Ed nods, then pulls his wool coat tighter around him. Which, okay, is maybe counterintuitive given that he could just walk two paces, open a door, and get them both out of the chilly night air entirely. But Ed needs a moment first—and he knows Stede knows him well enough at this point to get that. Which is why they’re hovering in Coldharbour Lane, near but not quite at the door to Jackie’z, looking in through the window instead.

They’ve been to Jackie’z before. It’s become pretty much the default meetup spot for all the London-area bakers. Ed wasn’t sure at first that he’d be comfortable here; he’s pretty studiously avoided bars, pubs, and clubs for the last fifteen years, preferring to give his former vices a wide berth. But it turns out that having friends who don’t try to bully you into doing shots with them makes a difference. As does Jackie’s zero-tolerance rule for drunken . . . well, for once, the right word probably is “shenanigans.” Jackie and her ripped Swedish bartender husband won’t hesitate to toss a drunken arsehole out into the alley. And Jackie also seems to command a backup army of . . . okay, Ed’s not exactly sure who they all are. But they’re big and buff and always hanging out at the bar, and they do whatever Jackie asks. (Jim calls them her “colección de maridos,” and Ed keeps meaning to ask them what exactly that last word means.)

He spies a few of the maridos through the glass tonight, along with other familiar faces and a whole lot of festive decorations. The ceiling’s hung with multicolored paper lanterns, and tables have been pushed back to make the dance floor as big as possible. There’s a projector and screen set up in the middle of it, and the bar’s covered with baked goods. A spread to which Ed and Stede will be contributing; Stede’s carrying the container. Their financiers, decorated with almond slivers and gold leaf, are an homage to the signature challenge that they and Zheng and Izzy baked in the semifinal all those months ago. The semifinal that played to record viewership on Channel 4 and Netflix just last week, setting up a last episode that will air in . . .

Ed stops clutching his coat shut long enough to check his watch. In forty-two minutes.

Jackie called it a “viewing party” in the Discord chat—a chance for all the bakers to watch the finale together. They needed to be in London to film Extra Slice tomorrow anyway, since all the bakers always appear on the last episode of the comedic Bake Off recap show. So Jackie offered to shut her bar down tonight and host this viewing. Friends and family were invited, too, but not the general public, so there should be no gawking or selfie requests. Just a night for their full cohort to celebrate together off-camera.

Ed takes a deep breath and turns to Stede. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

They take the final steps to the door, and a bouncer marido opens it for them. He’s got an invite list, but he must already know them by sight because he just waves them in. And then Ed counts the seconds—one, two, thr—and, yeah, there isn’t even time to do a quarter of a square breath before they’re being mobbed by friends.

“Ed! Stede!” Zheng, Jim, Oluwande, and Archie—crush square no more, now a well-established polycule—get to them first, and soon Ed’s trading embraces with them all. Frenchie’s there next, offering loose-limbed hugs, and Roach follows with his almost year-old son on his hip, the kid drooling as he gums a not-at-all-crisp-anymore biscotto.

Farther back, Ed spies his own support crew: Fang and Mary Read have both come down from Bristol. Mary’s chatting with Annie, actually, who’s in from Brighton. And Ed spots Stede’s family at a corner table, too. Louis, unsurprisingly, has a sample of every baked good from the bar on a plate, and he has his Moleskine out, already taking notes.

“’Tis the Kiwis!” a voice bellows in a thick Scottish accent, and if anyone in the bar didn’t already know that Ed and Stede had arrived, they certainly do now. Buttons waves in greeting from his perch on a stool before pronouncing—again, loud enough for the whole bar to hear—“They mate for life, yeh know.”

Lucius elbows his way through the scrum next, towing camera-guy Pete by the hand. “Ooh, Ed, I love this purple on you!” He reaches out to finger the lapel of Ed’s new coat.

“Yeah, it’s great,” Pete says, though he doesn’t look at the coat at all; he never takes his eyes off Lucius. “You’ve got impeccable taste, babe.”

Stede leans in to join the conversation. “Wait ’til you see what he’s got on underneath!”

“Yep, okay, I’m leaving.” Ed feints back toward the door. “I didn’t come here tonight to be objectified.”

They’re all laughing, though, including Ed. “Oh, sweetie, that ship has sailed!” Lucius declares. “Have you been online lately? Seen the comments under that photo of you on the Bake Off Instagram?”

Well yeah, of course Ed’s seen. The photo is a shot of him from week three, still bearded, gazing beatifically out at something beyond his workbench. “All hail the Baking Jesus,” the caption says. The last time Ed checked it had 50,000 likes and more than 200 comments, with “I’d be his disciple”/“ready to fall on my knees and worship” being the dominant flavors.

The comment with the most upvotes, though, simply says “What’s he looking at?” and has a long string of replies underneath. The early ones were all over the place, but the comments people have added over the last few weeks have all been along the same lines.

“Stede. He’s got to be looking at Stede.”

And, well . . . they’re right. Ed had thought there weren’t any cameras on him during the Bread Week Zumba dance party. But Oluwande must have zoomed in from across the tent to catch him like this, having a little religious experience as he watched the Zumba King of Norwich work his magic.

Of course, that was before Stede danced up to him and reached out his hand. Before it all went sideways. And Ed was nervous watching that episode air in October, waiting to see how their awkward interaction would play onscreen.

He needn’t have worried, though. None of that bit made it to air. So much of what went down in the tent during filming didn’t—Ed knows this now that he’s seen nine of the ten episodes. The cinnamon challenge Noel goaded him and Stede into doing in Swedish Week? Never happened, according to the final cut. The Free-From Week fuckery, too, got completely glossed over in post-production.

Ed and Stede’s caramel-shard swordfight, though? It got slo-mo and close-ups and even dorky cowboy showdown music. Their “tangy-zippy-zangy” banter made the edit, too, though the mentions of it online after focused mostly on Alison’s spectacular laugh.

Yeah, the viewers didn’t quite seem to pick up on what was building between the two of them until week six—until the moment after Stede won the Free-From technical. Because Ed picking him up and spinning him around? That made the cut, too. And that was when the first all-caps post title on Reddit popped up.

WAIT—ARE BAKE OFF’S EDWARD AND STEDE TOGETHER?!?!?

The poster had gone back through all the previous episodes to gather “evidence”—most of it, actually, pretty well sussed—and Ed and Stede had read through the post together, giggling. Even funnier had been the comments that followed, more than one calling the poster a “conspiracy theorist” and insisting that the two bakers were “just good friends.”

The debate bled from there onto other social media platforms. Still, it might not have become a thing if the Bake Off socials manager hadn’t jumped in, too, posting a still of their embrace with the caption “Just a couple of bros celebrating graham crackers well baked.”

“See??” the post’s top comment read. “Even Bake Off says they’re ‘a couple’!”

It turned out that a potential queer, middle-aged baker romance the shot in the arm Bake Off never knew it needed. The next week, viewership numbers soared higher than they’d been in years. And when Stede didn’t show up for that episode, the online speculation grew rampant, with commenters offering reasons from “They broke up and he’s too sad to come back” to “Edward railed him so hard he’s still recovering.” And then, when Ed’s MerStede showstopper hit screens, #EdwardMissesStede started trending on multiple platforms before the episode even finished.

And all the while, Ed was snuggled up on a couch with the man in question, watching the episode air.

They were at Stede’s house in Norwich that week, and of course his family was watching, too. They wanted to get Ed’s play-by-play . . . and maybe wanted to threaten a little havoc.

“Pleeeease let me take a picture of you two like this and put it online,” Alma begged them during the ads. “I could break the Internet!”

“N-D-A!” Stede reminded her—a regular refrain these days—and she pouted, but didn’t ask again. According to the contract they’d already violated so many times, Ed and Stede could be as public about their relationship as they liked after the show finished airing, but not before. Anyway, soon enough Alma was cheering instead of pouting, congratulating Ed as he got announced as Star Baker. And then she was hovering at the literal edge of her seat as the edit cut to showing him outside the tent.

She knew what had happened then. They all did. Possibly everyone else in the room knew even better than Ed what to expect. His memory of the “loved one” phone call had gone strangely fuzzy—blanketed over, probably, by emotion and adrenaline. So he watched the scene begin with held breath, too.

But Love Productions cut the whole phone call, choosing instead to play a clip from Ed’s interview after Evelyn had taken his phone away. Alma and Louis let out cries of indignation, and even Mary and Doug and Stede seemed disappointed.

Ed, though, felt a bit relieved. It seemed clear now that the producers were being strategic with how much they revealed of Ed and Stede’s budding relationship. That was probably out of pure self-interest, since the “are they or aren’t they?” speculation was great now for the show’s popularity. But also, maybe, it was good for Ed and Stede not to have all their formative moments broadcast to the world. To keep some of those memories—fuzzy as they might be—just for the two of them.

For the finale, though? Ed doesn’t know what to expect. Will Love Productions keep things ambiguous between them onscreen until the very end? Or will they shift strategies, and show the moment when—

“Heyyy, Steve! Regular Dude! Welcome!” Jackie surges forward, grasping each of them by the shoulders to exchange air kisses. “Good to see you two fabulous baker boys!”

“Pleasure’s always ours, Jackie,” Stede says.

“Oi, Swede-baby! Fix these two a couple of virgin Sweet’n’Spicies, yeah?” Jackie shouts the order over her shoulder to the bar, then drops her voice. “Not that there’s anything virginal about you the two of you. All spice all the time, if the internet’s to be believed. Did you know that there’s even fanfiction about—”

“Make it three, please,” a gruff voice interrupts. Ed turns—relieved, honestly, for an out from this particular conversation—to see that Izzy has arrived. He looks incredible tonight, his hair swooped up and back into a stylish pompadour, his makeup markedly leveled up from that first attempt Ed saw in the tent.

Ed grins. “Hey, mate!” Izzy’s smile is more tentative, but he holds his hand out for Ed to shake, then nods toward the woman standing beside him.

“Edward, this is my mum, Oona. Mum, this is—”

“Edward Teach!” she says a little breathlessly. “Oh, I’m such a big fan. I wouldn’t expect you to remember, but we actually—”

“We met at the finale fête,” Ed says. He remembers well—she and the rest of Izzy’s family took up a whole table.

Oona smiles and shakes his offered hand. “Yes, well, now that I’ve watched the series, I couldn’t pass up the chance to hobnob again with all you newly-minted baking celebrities! And, well—I hope this isn’t strange to say, but especially you, Edward.”

“You’re her favorite,” Izzy mutters through gritted teeth.

“Oh, love, you’re my favorite,” she reassures Izzy, but she throws Ed a wink over the top of the kid’s head. “I just can’t help but feel an affinity for the bakers closer to my own age. And particularly when I already know that they’ve modeled some very kind and forgiving behavior to my son.”

“Muuummmm,” Izzy groans, and Ed can see him start to turn red under his powdery makeup. Ed tries to restrain his laugh, not wanting to make the kid feel even more embarrassed.

“All water under the bridge now,” Ed says, clapping Izzy on the shoulder. “Or, butter under the pastry?”

Izzy shudders. “Something went very wrong with that pastry if it’s sitting in a puddle of butter. I think ‘fondant around the cake’ is the phrase you’re looking for.”

“Metaphorically, maybe . . . ” Ed admits, “but really, fondant’s too disgusting to eat. How about ganache inside the truffle?”

“Lavender petals on the cheesecake?” Stede offers brightly, sliding into the conversation. “What are we talking about here?”

Ed turns to him, about to explain, when Jackie’s voice busts in on the brainstorming session.

“Okay, sit the fuck down, all of you!” she shouts. “Calypso’s itching to get out here and do her new number before the show starts!”

So they all sit the fuck down, Ed and Stede squeezing in at Stede’s family table in the corner along with Fang and Mary. Ed hasn’t seen any of them since the quarterfinal aired. He and Stede have had a slew of appointments lately in London, so it’s made more sense for them both to stay down here on Jane since she’s moored on the Thames these days. Ed sailed her across country on a multi-day trip back in September, with Stede along for the (slowwww) ride. That was after Ed and Fang officially signed the sale-of-business papers, but before Bake Off started airing. Before Ed and Stede became recognizable on the street—or in the canals, as the case may be.

So Ed did finally get the night he wanted on the River Avon with Stede . . . and the morning after. Several of them, in fact, and his skin grows warm now thinking back on them. He realizes that he never took his coat off, so he slips it off his shoulders and onto the chair-back just as the lights in the bar drop for Calypso’s grand entrance.

Several of the bakers reunited here for her first performance at Jackie’z, at the bar’s drag night in August. As he’d promised at the week one elimination, John flew in from Belfast to perform, and he stayed to DJ a set after, too. So Ed’s seen the glittering blue dress before; the perfect eye makeup; the dramatic sashay across the dance floor.

Tonight, though, her vibe is different. She’s wearing the sparkly dress again, but tied over it is John’s Bake Off apron, and she’s got a prop in each hand—a wooden spoon with a face drawn on it in her left, and a crème brulée torch in her right. The music starts, and whoops and cheers and giggles reverberate through the bar as people recognize Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” And as Calypso shimmies and lip-syncs and grabs bakes off the bar to feed to herself mid-song, she delivers a part sexy-chef, part cookie-monster performance that absolutely brings the house down.

Near the end of the song, Calypso beckons Jim up from their table, then strides toward Ed’s, stretching out a long-nailed hand in invitation. For a moment, he stiffens. But she’s not there for him. She wants Stede. With a grin, he clambers out of his seat and joins the other two on the dance floor, where they launch into a sequence of Zumba-inspired moves. The audience gobbles up this group finale like the confection it is, and Stede glows sweetly with pride (and a little sweat) when he comes to slide back in next to Ed.

There’s thunderous applause, and many bows and curtsies—and then, all of a sudden, it’s time. The projector switches on, the pre-episode Waitrose ad already playing. The crowd in the bar quiets, even though 90% of them were there at the fête and already know how the finale turned out.

And Ed gets that uncanny feeling again, the feeling he used to get in the tent of existing on two timelines at once. This time, though, it’s in reverse. He’s here now, watching the opening minutes of the last episode, and he’s back in time, too, being filmed as he walks into the tent. As he pulls on his apron. As he shoots Stede a glance across the aisle that tries to say good luck and I love you and we can do this and hey did I mention I LOVE YOU all at once. As he gets a look from Stede that says just as much in return. And as he listens to Alison announce the first challenge (two types of pasties, one savory and one sweet, in two and a half hours) and breathes deep as she says, “On your marks, get set . . . bake!”

Ed breathes deeply now and does what he couldn’t do in the tent. He takes Stede’s hand in his, interlacing their fingers, and squeezes.

Up onscreen, the signature challenge gets broken up by scenes of the bakers with their loved ones at home, extra footage filmed in Norwich, Bristol, and London. Alma and Louis squeal when they make their appearances on the show, both in action with their dad in the kitchen and as talking heads in an interview.

“We thought it was just a whim at first,” onscreen Alma says, “when he started baking during lockdown. Like, that whole sourdough thing everyone was doing?”

“But then he never stopped!” onscreen Louis adds. “Like, he was so glad when our stepdad Doug joined the family, because it was one more excuse to bake a birthday cake."

Fang and Mary get their moments on camera, too, along with Ivan and Maggie; their interview snippets express delight, but not surprise, that Ed has made it to the finale. “He’s always been a private guy,” onscreen Fang says. “Didn’t even tell us he’d got onto the show until a couple of weeks ago. But none of us are surprised he’s done so well. He can do anything, our Ed.”

“It’s true!” Fang whispers now, and from her seat next to him, Mary adds a hissed “Fuck yeah!” Fang shoots Ed a smile that’s maybe a little teary, and Ed tears up right back. Our Ed. He wasn’t there for the interviews, and he never imagined his Bristol people claiming him like that. Then again, he never could have imagined any of this.

When Zheng’s loved-one interview hits the screen, it’s a severe-looking older woman that the caption labels as Zheng’s aunt. She launches into a speech about how’s she’s always encouraged Zheng to be hard and ruthless. But barely a sentence is out of her mouth before Stede gasps, fingers tightening around Ed’s.

“That’s Auntie!” he hisses.

It takes Ed a moment to catch his meaning. “The one you cursed with matcha-addicted badgers?”

“I didn’t curse—”

“Shhh!” Mary Read hisses across the table in her best librarian voice. “Some of us are trying to watch the fuckin’ show!”

Stede quiets down then, though his eyes dart around the room as if to check whether Auntie is here. She doesn’t seem to be. Zheng’s happily ensconced at a nearby table with the rest of the polycule, head resting on Oluwande’s shoulder and legs stretched across Jim’s and Archie’s laps. If Auntie taught her how to be hard, it seems like now she might be finding space to be soft. And it suits her, Ed thinks. Everyone should have a chance to be soft if they want to be.

Zheng wasn’t exactly soft during the finale challenges, though. She’d charged right in and kind of walloped Ed and Stede right out of the gate. They’d all eaten each other’s signature pasties for lunch that day, after the judging was filmed. And just like in week one, Zheng’s had been Ed’s favorite by a mile, combining Chinese-inspired flavors with gorgeous design and flawless execution. None of them had a disaster in the signature, but Zheng clearly came out on top. And Stede probably finished bottom, which wasn’t a big shock given that he’d missed Pastry Week and wasn’t as well-practiced as the other two.

The show breaks for an ad, and Ed heads to the bar to load up on food for the table. The variety of baked goods on offer runs the gamut from savory to sweet, and there’s probably something that would fit every theme week of Bake Off this year. Ed cuts slices of John’s Irish brown bread, snatches up some of Jackie’s Jamaican beef patties and a few of Frenchie’s music-note-shaped biscuits, and even takes a cup of Buttons’s seaweed soufflé.

Seconds after he gets back to his seat, the technical challenge starts to air. The challenge was individual steamed lemon puddings with a crème anglaise and decorative tuiles, and though the recipes were minimalist, they all turned out decent versions of each element. Ed remembers feeling extra-glad that he’d bullied Stede into watching so many BBC back-series of Bake Off, because there were lots of tips from those years that helped with that technical. In fact, Stede absorbed those lessons so well that he finished second to Zheng in the anonymous challenge, while Ed placed third. The judges, though, had insisted that all three bakers were very close, and that the technical results would likely count for very little in the final judging. Still, Zheng was out ahead of the pack at the end of day one.

Another ad break arrives, and Alma pulls out her phone. “Internet’s going nuts,” she reports. “Queen Zheng ascendant, Bakers with Benefits slipping.”

“Bakers with Benefits?” Stede says. “That’s a new one!”

Alma rolls her eyes. “Have you been under a rock lately, Dad? That’s been the ship name for you guys for, like, a week.”

Stede harrumphs, and Ed pats his hand. “Don’t worry, love. You’ve been busy.”

“We both have!” Stede points out, and that’s the truth—whatever Stede has been busy with in the last week, Ed’s been right there with him. The calls with their new agent. The interviews at the cookery school. The meeting with the podcast producer, and the one with the publisher who thinks they should write a baking cookbook together. Turns out it’s not just the winner of Bake Off who gets inundated with opportunities; all the finalists do pretty well. Especially when they come as an already-trending, two-for-one package. A package Ed is more than happy to be half of.

And it seems that the explosive popularity of this series has lifted everyone else up, too. A publisher has already offered Izzy a deal to write a cookbook for kids. (Which Ed finds hilarious. Even Bake Off’s editors haven’t quite managed to snip every single “fuck” or “twat” out of Izzy’s onscreen time.) And Jim’s fielded multiple requests for appearances at next year’s Pride events. Just as Ed predicted, they became a queer icon the moment they Zumba’d their way across the tent in episode three.

The ad break ends, and Stede’s hand finds Ed’s again as the episode dives into the showstopper. The brief was to make a highly-detailed, sculpted layer cake symbolizing “a memory from Bake Off that changed you.” Yeah, leave it to Love Productions to keep the eye-roll-inducing themed prompts coming right up through the last challenge.

“What’re you gonna make?” Stede had asked when they got the briefs after quarterfinals. All the bakers had been given briefs through week nine well before filming started. But only semifinalists got the last set of briefs, giving them barely two weeks to plan and practice their signature and showstopper bakes for the finale.

“Aw, mate, I can’t tell you,” Ed said. “You’re the competition now.”

“I’ve always been the competition!”

“Yeah, and you wouldn’t tell me any of your baking plans in advance until we started fucking each other.”

“Ed!”

“But all right, I won’t hold out on you. Gonna make your cock out of cake,” Ed said. “Changed me forever. Never tasted anything so—”

“Ed!”

“Oh, come on. You can do mine, too, if you want. I won’t be proprietary about the idea. It can be like week one, when we both made boat cakes, remember? A nice parallel, a real bookend to the—”

But Stede didn’t let him finish the sentence, shutting him up with a kiss.

And then they hadn’t talked about it again. As if, by mutual silent agreement, they’d both committed to waiting, to being surprised on the day by whatever the other one came up with.

Ed has to admit that this made showstopper day much more fun. He and Stede both knew by that point that they each had little chance of winning; that unless Zheng had some kind of major cake fuck-up, she was going to walk away with the title. But that was actually freeing. Now they could bake their showstoppers without worrying about anything big being on the line. Without pressuring themselves to get it perfect.

Which was a good thing, because Ed’s bake was never going to be perfect, at least not in taste. He made the decision early on to embrace style over substance. Which meant opting for a dense, sturdy sponge, and going for a detail-laden fondant exterior instead of something a human might actually want to eat, like ganache or buttercream. He did end up with a lavender-flavored crème diplomat filling that he thought was pretty damn good. But Ed definitely focused the bulk of his four hours on making his showstopper look pristine.

He cut his cake layers into wide rectangles before stacking and carving them, then covered the shape with gray and white and black fondant. He textured ridges and carved out a cartridge flap and stenciled tiny red letters onto it. He sculpted buttons on the main cake and then more on the mini-cake controllers, connecting them to the big one with black licorice strips. Ed didn’t even like licorice, but fuck if it didn’t look just like the kind of cord that used to attach controllers to the old eight-bit Nintendos back in the ’80s.

Okay, so maybe Ed was stretching the definitions of both “memory” and “Bake Off.” But technically, the brief hadn’t said it had to be his memory. And no one said it had to take place in the tent. So, Ed went for an expansive interpretation. And when Alison called time, he stepped back, proud of what he’d created. Of the particular memory he’d managed to bring to life.

The cake was no MerStede, of course. Nothing Ed ever baked again would top that. Shaking off the hyperfocus that had gripped him for the past few hours, he turned to look over at Stede’s bench at last and saw—

MerStede?

Ed blinked and even rubbed his eyes, wondering if he might finally be cracking up from all the pressure. But when he moved his fists away, it was still there.

Stede . . . as a mermaid . . . as a pastry . . . as a cake.

“Do you hate it?” Stede whispered, and Ed hadn’t even realized he’d stepped close. “I just . . . the moment I saw Lucius’s sketch of it, Ed, everything got so clear. My life was taking this turn and I just had to hang on tight and swim with you into the current or I’d regret it forever. I probably should have come up with my own concept for today, but if I’m honest, no other memory from Bake Off stands up to this one for me. How could it?”

“Mate, it’s beautiful,” Ed said, his voice thick with emotion. “Just like the baker.” He stepped closer to examine the cake. Stede had piped his human features in exquisite detail, and must have dyed little pots of buttercream twenty different colors to achieve his ombre effect in the tail.

“And what about yours?” Stede asked, stepping away to look at Ed’s showstopper for the first time. And then Ed heard him gasp, and start crying, and—

Well, none of that makes it to air, of course. Only their little pre-judging interviews do, where they explain the memories in far more anodyne terms.

“When I found out Ed had made that for me in the week I missed,” Stede says in his interview, “well . . . it was a special moment.”

And the way Ed’s interview is edited almost makes it sound like there was a vintage Nintendo in the green room that he and the other bakers would play on during breaks.

Zheng’s bake is presented last in the edit, and clearly as the only one that interpreted the brief correctly. She made the Bake Off tent itself out of cake, and waxes poetic in her interview about the first time she saw it out the coach window. When the judges slice in, her sponges are rainbow-hued, each of their nine layers a flavor that Zheng used in one of her bakes in a previous week of Bake Off. And the cake looks so fucking good in close-up that Ed’s almost ready to go lick the projector screen.

Finally, after one more ad break, it’s time to make it official.

Onscreen, the bakers walk out of the tent carrying their showstopper cakes. They head off to greet their families and friends. Fang and Mary and Maggie and Ivan and their kids exclaim over Ed’s Nintendo cake and try slices of it and clap him on the back. Alma and Louis make it onscreen again, too, gleefully stabbing forks into their cake-dad’s torso. Then the presenters call the bakers back to their marks for the big announcement.

Once again, Ed is back and forth, here and there. He sits at the table in Jackie’z, holding Stede’s hand, and remembers the producers placing Zheng between them for symmetry but then having them all hold hands in a circle, ring-around-the-rosie style. Other than the faux-handshake he gave Stede in week six—which never made it to air anyway—Ed never held hands with Stede during filming before that moment.

Now, he watches himself take his boyfriend’s hand onscreen, and watches both of their faces break into soft smiles at the contact.

The camera angle switches to show Paul, Prue, Noel, and Alison all in a line. Noel, holding the Bake Off cake plate and mic’d up for the big announcement, begins to speak.

“It was an incredible final, and you’ve all been amazing. But there can only be one winner. The winner of the Great British Bake Off, two thousand and twenty-four, is . . . Zheng!”

The Zheng onscreen lets go of Ed’s and Stede’s hands to cover her mouth as she screams in delight. The Ed and Stede onscreen scream and cheer right along with her. But don’t drop each other’s hands to do it. They just . . . don’t.

Zheng steps forward to receive her cake stand and her congratulations from the judges and presenters. Meanwhile, onscreen Ed and Stede sway closer together in her absence, shrinking the gap she’s left between them.

It's all in the background; blink and you’ll miss it. Neither of them wanted to distract from Zheng’s big moment in any way, and Ed’s glad to see that, in the edit, they don’t. The camera fades off them and they grow fuzzy. The show then cuts to Zheng’s interview, to her wiping away tears as she talks about conquering insecurities through baking and learning to embrace her creative side.

It’s all very heartfelt and beautifully expressed, and when the camera cuts back to Ed and Stede . . . well, they look and sound pretty gormless in comparison.

“My favorite thing about doing Bake Off?” onscreen Ed says, clearly trying to restate the interview question in his answer. His and Stede’s outer arms are both laden now with enormous flower bouquets, but they’re still holding hands.

Not that you’d know it from the shot. It’s zoomed in enough that their forearms, wrists, and intertwined fingers are completely cropped out. So Ed fully expects the next part to be cropped out, too—which is why he’s a little shocked when the scene continues exactly the way they filmed it.

“Uh, definitely meeting this guy,” he says, cutting his eyes over to Stede with a smirk. Stede’s answering smile is slower—wider—brighter. It makes the Ed watching today at Jackie’z think of the first time they met. Of that sensation of a lamp turning on in a dark room.

Onscreen Ed, similarly besotted, raises their clasped hands to his mouth and kisses Stede’s knuckles.

Holy shit. They kept that in.

“And Stede—” an offscreen producer’s voice starts, but Stede cuts her off.

“Yeah, same,” he says quickly, and then he’s reaching toward the camera with his flowers, clearly trying to pass them off to the producer without breaking eye contact with Ed. Finally he just drops them to the ground, out of the shot, and brings his free hand up to Ed’s neck. He angles his head slightly: a question. Ed gives a tiny nod, and then Stede kisses him, full on, in front of the camera and Paul Hollywood and everything.

Jackie’z erupts in screams and cheers. Most everyone was at the fête, but they didn’t all see this. On the table, Alma’s phone starts blowing up, then Stede’s, and Ed’s sure his would, too, if he hadn’t turned it off in the taxi and buried it deep in his coat pocket. Hard enough to live in two timelines at once tonight; he didn’t need to add the internet to that mix, too.

But it doesn’t matter. The internet comes to him. “Ohmigod!” Alma cries. “You guys are trending again. Bluesky’s going insane. TikTok’s already—”

The rest of whatever she says, though, is drowned out by the sounds of chairs being shoved back and feet stamping on the floor as the bar gives a standing ovation for Ed and Stede.

“KISS NOW!” someone shouts. And so, laughing, they do it. They rise to their feet and reenact the moment everyone just saw onscreen as, all around them, phone-cameras flash. And look, being the center of attention may not be Ed’s favorite thing. But being the center of attention for something like this? With his partner at his side, still holding his hand all these months later? Maybe that’s not so bad.

The crowd soon shifts its attention, giving Queen Zheng the applause she’s due. It looks like her partners snuck her winning cake plate in here tonight, because Archie shoves it into her hands while Jim half-bullies her into standing up on a chair. Oluwande films it all on his phone. The rest of the episode plays out in the background, forgotten—even the “Since the Great British Bake Off . . .” slideshow that Ed’s loved so much in past series. No matter, he can stream it some other time. Right now, there are bakes to eat and friends to catch up with and celebrating to do.

The maridos swoop in to break down the projector screen. John, de-Calypsoed now except for his eye makeup, takes command of the DJ booth. Jackie pushes a button on the wall, and a disco ball descends from the ceiling. Music starts up and people race to the dance floor, the polycule getting out there first, and most of the other bakers following.

Ed and Stede’s table clears quickly. Annie swings by to grab Mary Read, and Lucius and Pete invite Fang to dance moments later. Ed even spots Izzy out on the floor, apparently recruited by Stede’s kids. He may not be the next Zumba wunderkind, but his moves aren’t quite as stiff as Ed would’ve expected.

“Do you want to?” Stede asks quietly.

Ed thinks about it, then shakes his head. “Not to this.” It’s some kind of generic house mix, just a little too close to the kind of stuff he and Jack used to dance to in Wellington, back in the bad old days. “But you should,” he tells Stede. “Go on. No one keeps the Zumba King of Norwich in a corner.”

“Maybe the king likes his corner,” Stede says, but his feet have already betrayed him, tapping to the beat under the table. Ed nudges them with his own foot.

“Go,” he insists. “I’ll come join you out there if he plays a song I like.”

Stede brightens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ed says, trying to project a certainty he doesn’t quite feel. But he’s pretty sure Stede can tell he’s putting on a brave face. Stede knows about Ed’s history with dancing now—Stede knows practically everything about Ed now—so he gets why this is complicated. But he can probably also sense that Ed wants to give it all a go, if conditions are right.

Stede gets to his feet. “Then I’ll see you in a bit, darling.” He heads for the dance floor and quickly disappears into the crowd. Ed can imagine hands grabbing for him, every group on the floor wanting Stede in its circle. And how can he blame them?

The house music plays on, and Ed nurses a second virgin Sweet’n’Spicy. It’s no L&P, but it’s not bad. He sneaks a few of Louis’s uneaten baked goods, too. He’s starting to wonder what the kid wrote in his review of the seaweed soufflé when the house beats crossfade with something new. Something with a slower rhythm, and fingersnaps mixed in, and—oh, a voice Ed knows very well.

It's Whitney, though not that song. Stede knows better than to request that one for him. This is a cover she recorded in the ’90s that didn’t hit big until after she died, when a Norwegian DJ remixed it into the bop that’s playing now.

And speaking of bops, there’s Stede again, bopping back past their table and striking silly poses. Opening the door for Ed to join him, but keeping a little distance in case his answer is still no.

But the answer’s not no. Even sitting down, Ed’s shoulders are swaying, almost shimmying. Maybe Stede knows him too fucking well now, if it’s this easy for him to pick out a song that’ll get Ed moving.

Ed stands up, but he doesn’t go right up to Stede. He holds his hand out instead—

like, please take me to the party—

like, there’s a whole barful of people you could be dancing with right now, but you chose ME—

like, I’m ready, if we can do this together.

And Stede takes his hand and leads him to the dance floor. Holds Ed at the waist and starts to sway with him as Whitney belts out lyrics about worlds turning and facing fears and hanging on. Ed closes his eyes and lets his body follow the music.

He's doing it. He’s dancing.

He opens his eyes to see Stede smiling at him, impossibly fond. Ed smiles back. Starts to move his shoulders again, to feel the slink of his shimmery new shirt against his skin. To let the colors of the disco ball blur in front of his eyes and feel the beat of the music pulse in his ears. To surrender to sensation, finding a new way to let himself go.

“Bring me a higher love,” Whitney sings, and Ed circles his arms around Stede, drawing him close. He catches Stede’s lips with his and lets their tongues and hips slide together.

“Get a room!” Lucius shouts, and then all the other bakers join in.

“Get a boat!”

“Get a podcast!”

“Get married!”

They break apart at last, laughing. Ed feels like he’s swallowed glitter. It’s all so much right now—and if their new agent is right, it’s all about to become so much more. At least for the next year, until a new crop of bakers hits the telly and the Bake Off fandom moves on. But Ed’s ready for it, he thinks. For dancing, and London, and cookbooks, and teaching classes, and whatever other new experiences come his way. As long as he’s got Stede and his friends near, Ed feels like he can do anything.

The song should probably be over by now, but John’s got to be looping it for them or something, working his DJ magic. Ed’s about to close his eyes and let himself fall under Whitney’s spell again when he feels Stede freeze against him.

“Oh no. Ed!” Stede gasps. “I’ve just had a thought. This song I asked John for. It’s not about . . . ”

“About what, mate?”

“Higher Love!” Stede squeals. “I hadn’t even imagined! But, is it? About . . . drugs?”

Ed throws his head back in laughter, really lets his whole body shake with it. Then, finally, he pulls Stede in tight. “Nah, mate,” he murmurs into his ear. “This one’s just about love.”

The End