Chapter Text
Charlie
Mistakes.
Mistakes. Mistakes. Mistakes.
This is a mistake.
Fuck.
Coming here was a mistake. They made a mistake bringing him here. Surely.
He made a mistake listening to her. What was he thinking? What was she thinking?
He made a mistake telling Geoff. Because, of course, he sided with her. The bitch. Okay, fine. Elle wasn’t a bitch; she was his closest friend and one of the most important people in Charlie’s life. But, in this moment, he wasn’t particularly pleased with her. She was approximately 75% of the reason he was here to begin with. Elle was the evil mastermind behind this whole ‘adventure’—as Geoff had called it. His siblings, Tori and Olly, were the other 25%. And maybe, just maybe, if Charlie was truth-telling—which he wasn’t—he also factored into that last quarter.
He made a mistake filling out the application—which was awful and long, and he really should have given up after seeing that alone.
He made a mistake giving the interview process his all. But he promised everyone that he would. So, he did. And that was a huge mistake. Because for some reason, the producers liked him and chose him out of everyone who applied.
He made a mistake accepting his spot six weeks ago.
He made a mistake getting on that train and showing up today.
The sum of Charlie’s existence: mistakes.
And so, there he was. On a pile built of his own mistakes. Anxiety bubbling, boiling underneath his skin. Heart racing. Sweat collecting at his low back. Clammy hands shoved into his pockets. Thoughts racing. Surrounded by other people milling about a garden eating, drinking, chatting, and getting to know each other while he stood off to the side, living up to the awkward gay nerd stereotype.
Charlie’s fingers itched to pull his phone out, to do something other than stand there and watch other people talk to each other. But he had promised. Promised to try. And so, his phone stayed in his pocket, and he watched and waited, looking for an opportunity to talk to another human.
“Hi. We haven’t met yet.”
Charlie nearly fell over jumping out of his skin. Someone had come from behind him, surprising him and pulling him back to reality from his anxiety spiralling.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
The stranger—easily the fittest man Charlie had ever seen—smiled at him shyly and rubbed the back of his neck, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He reached out a hand tentatively. “Hi. I’m Nick Nelson.”
What else could he do but take the hand offered? Nick’s hand was calloused, yet still soft, and incredibly warm and Charlie didn’t want to let it go. But there were rules for these things. A certain amount of time it was appropriate to hold a stranger’s hand when shaking.
He opened his mouth to speak, but the words got stuck somewhere. And Charlie thought he must look like a damn fish with his mouth hanging open.
Finally, sound left his mouth. His words were all hurried and breathy. Full cringe.
“Hi. Charlie Spring.”
Christ.
“Nice to meet you, Charlie.”
Nick smiled a lopsided grin. Warm, kind, endearing, and not at all unfriendly or judgmental. Disarming. Beautiful. And, somehow, so very comforting.
Before Charlie even knew what was happening, he was speaking again. “I can’t believe I made it here. I can’t believe they picked me. Still doesn’t feel quite real yet.”
“I know what you mean. I was so excited they chose me!”
Charlie could not take his eyes off Nick. Honestly, you’d probably have to pluck his eyeballs from his skull to make him stop. Nick was so expressive—and incredibly, brain-meltingly attractive—and Charlie watched each movement of his face.
But he knew he couldn’t just stare. That would be weird. Words. He needed to come up with more words.
“How long have you been baking for?” Charlie asked.
Yes. Good. Baking is our common ground here.
Somehow Nick’s smile got brighter. “With my mum? Since I was little. She taught me everything she knows. On my own? Since secondary when I could be trusted on my own not to burn down the house. How about you?”
In hindsight, that was a stupid question. Normal conversational script dictated turning the question back at the asker once the answer had been shared. But. He and Geoff had prepared this particular answer. He wasn’t expecting to have to talk about it just yet though. And he was expecting to have cameras pointed at him. He was expecting a host or a judge to ask him that for the first time, not another baker. A fit, gorgeous, sweet baker. A baker who was his competition.
Practise couldn’t hurt, though.
“Two years ago, right after I started working toward my doctorate. Helps manage my stress.”
A mild way to put it. Charlie had laughed in Geoff’s face when he originally suggested baking. Like, full-body-folded-over laughter—Charlie wasn’t exactly known for his prowess in the kitchen. They had been brainstorming activities that Charlie could do to channel his focus away from his anxiety. He had needed new ones because the old guard—drumming, reading, running—weren’t cutting it with the stress of getting this degree.
Then he tried baking. And somehow it worked. He had to pay so much attention to getting things right that it took him right out of his head. His first try had been a classic Victoria sandwich. He had no idea where to start, so Elle had suggested her favourite. It had been an overwhelming success: the cake had turned out beautifully and Charlie had managed to keep his anxiety at bay for the two hours he was baking and then some.
“Oh! What’s your degree in?”
“Classic Literature.” Charlie answered quickly, a standard answer to a question he was familiar with.
Looking a little unsure, Nick asked, “And do you have a… focus? I don’t know the right word.”
Charlie smiled at that; it was so sweet and earnest and, honestly, unexpected. “My thesis is an exploration of sexuality in Roman literature.”
Nick’s mouth made a little ‘o’ shape, as if he meant to say ‘oh’ out loud but the sound disappeared. Charlie knew that was a potential when he answered the question. Nick had a very laddish look to him, muscular and sporty looking. Probably played rugby or something. And laddy lads didn’t usually do well in conversations to do with sexuality. Nick stayed frozen like that for a moment before he looked like he was going to say something else.
A person dressed all in black and wearing a headset interrupted them. “Nick. Production needs you for a promotional.”
He turned back just after walking away, “It was really nice chatting, Charlie.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Charlie was freaking out now, though. He could barely process Nick’s words after he heard ‘promotional’. No one had told him that they would be doing promotional content today. He hadn’t dressed for it. Hadn’t prepared for it.
Nick
Just before Nick turned the corner, he took one last look back at the garden. Charlie’s back was to him now and another contestant, whose name he couldn’t remember, was chatting to him.
Nick ran through his conversation with Charlie as he was led through the hotel. Charlie was a baker. A contestant on the show he had just been hired to present for. Charlie was smart. A PhD, smart. He was cool, too. Black ripped jeans, Doc Martens, and an oversized wool jumper. Charlie was also beautiful. Long, dark curls, striking blue eyes, dimples, a ridiculously sexy silver hoop on his right ear. How could one person be so smart and beautiful and cool at the same time?
Charlie had to think he was an idiot, though. First, Nick had startled him by sneaking up behind him accidentally. Then, because his whole life was rugby, rugby, rugby, he had no idea how to ask intelligent questions about Charlie’s degree. And, of course, Nick made it even worse; when Charlie used the word ‘sexuality’, his brain had short-circuited for a moment (a completely ridiculous and not normal reaction, by the way). Really gave the whole rugby player stereotype a run. He almost felt like he should thank the runner he was following for saving him from himself before he could make even more of a fool of himself in front of Charlie.
Oh, god.
This was exactly what Nick wasn’t supposed to do. You weren’t supposed to fall for contestants on the show you were hosting. That was, without a doubt, completely unprofessional.
By the time they made it to a room with cameras, stylists, lights, and all, Nick had talked himself into some sense. He was going to forget about Charlie Spring and his gorgeous face. He was going to be professional. Responsible. Adult. No crushes on bakers.
Everything was momentarily forgotten, though. Prue Leith and Paul Hollywood were right there. Cue the fangirling.
On the other side of Hollywood was his co-host, Imogen Heaney, an actress, another out, Queer celebrity, and ‘internet personality’ (whatever that meant). Imogen was certainly beautiful, pretty face, big blue eyes, full, rosy cheeks, and a lovely smile. Nick didn’t really know much about her past the short brief he had been provided in his info packet.
Nick was directed to a chair and people fussed over him until they deemed him presentable enough. Then he joined the other three to run through some promotional content they were making for the show’s TikTok. Nothing Nick’s media training from rugby hadn’t prepared him for already.
When they were done, the two judges and two presenters spent half an hour chatting. They would need to have enough chemistry to work together first thing tomorrow. Not really a concern for Nick, he had always found it easy to mesh with others.
“So, how does the ‘Rugby King’ end up on our little show?” Paul’s question sounded rude, but his eyes held amusement.
Nick hated that nickname. Rugby King. A snide comment from his brother that the media took and ran with a few years ago.
Prue beat him to the punch. “You didn’t hear? Our sports star is an amateur baker, himself.”
He smiled at Prue and confirmed. “I am.”
Imogen took over the conversation after that. He was thankful for it because it meant that he wouldn’t have to talk about his retirement. Or his reason for retirement. He was physically healed, but emotionally… His reason for living, for waking up, for trying and moving forward, for breathing, had been taken away from him at the age of 26. Forced into early retirement by a high hit and an unlucky fall.
Nick shoved those thoughts back. It was important to put his best foot forward. He smiled though it, laughing and chatting and being his sunny, warm self. Nick was going to win over Prue if it was the last thing he did.
Charlie
First and foremost, at this hour of the day, no one should be awake, least of all Charlie. Secondly, fuck.
It was really happening. The tent. Bake Off. He was standing at the opening of the tent, and he needed to walk inside. It was real. It didn’t feel real yesterday. But today, at this ungodly hour, with white canvas stretched out in front of him, it was really real.
And he was going to kill Elle.
And Geoff.
And Tori.
And everyone who let him do this.
FUCK!
“Come on. We’ve got this.”
Charlie looked to his left. Sahar, one of the three other bakers he managed to speak to last night. He had learned last night that she was a Project Manager from London. She was standing to his side with her elbow held out for him. He took her arm, and they strode forward, making their entrance together.
Though the bakers still had to do their official group walk into the tent, everything was fair game to be used as footage to fill the episode. Cameras were pointed at them from the moment they walked in and to their benches to be mic’d. ‘Vanity’ shots, they had been told, were not just for the baked goods, but also the bakers, judges, and presenters.
Viewers were going to love to see that—contestant solidarity, a clear alliance—so early on, Charlie thought. He could only imagine the comments on social media. Though, he had been pointedly avoiding social media since his selection for the show. After seeing a random GBBO TikTok of last year’s finals come through his FYP, he realised that was going to be him. A reality show contestant in social media videos for the whole world to see, to have opinions about, to comment on. So, he deleted all the apps from his phone and told everyone that knew that he was not to be informed on anything Bake Off until he was home.
He was chatting to Sahar and another baker, who he had not talked to yesterday, Charlotte, an acountatnt also from London, apparently. Charlie had taken a station at the back of the tent, and Sahar took the one just in front of him. Charlotte had taken the bench in front of Sahar, making it easy for the three of them to chat and have tea as the others arrived.
Charlie was working incredibly hard not to look around the room at the other bakers. He didn’t want to see the man from last night. Nick. He was so friendly; Charlie just knew that he would wave and smile. And then some poor cleaner would have to come remove his melted body from the floor of the tent. So, he didn’t look. He stayed very involved in the conversation with Sahar and Charlotte, back to the rest of the bakers. That was easy to do, though. There was an easy camaraderie shared between the three of them—something he tried hard to not think about in terms of social media again.
They were interrupted when they still had a few minutes left of down time by another baker, Nathan. He wanted to know where the tea was kept. Then, he stayed for the remainder of their chatting. He didn’t quite have the same easy friendship as him, Charlotte, and Sahar, but he was still a kind and funny man and easy to get along with. Nathan was a teacher in Kent and wore a little progress pride flag on his cardigan—Charlie wished he had had a teacher like him.
Production called the bakers to their spots at their benches, and everyone donned their aprons simultaneously. It was time for the judges and hosts to come from the doorway at the top of the tent.
And oh.
Oh, fuck. Oh, no. Oh, god.
Charlie looked around at the other bakers now, as quickly and subtly as he could.
Nick.
Nick was not a baker.
He was one of the hosts.
Next to Nick was Imogen Heaney. Social media goddess. Queer icon.
“Hello bakers! Welcome to the 2025 Bake Off Tent! It’s cake week!” She cheerily announced.
It was in that moment Charlie thought maybe he should not have avoided social media for the last two months.
“It’s time to get baking on your first ever signature challenge. The judges would like you to make a Swiss roll. You can choose any flavors you’d like, but it must have that classic swirl in the center.” Nick explained.
Imogen picked up where Nick left off, “You have two and a half hours to make your Swiss roll.”
“On your marks!” Nick exclaimed.
“Get set!” Imogen called.
Then together, “Bake!”
Nick
From the moment they spoke the word ‘bake’, the atmosphere in the tent changed. Nick watched as it shifted from nervous excitement to quiet determination. With all twelve bakers still in, they started making their rounds immediately. There were a lot of stations to visit and a lot of bakers for Paul Hollywood to intimidate.
It took a surprisingly short time to make the rounds through all the bakers. The four of them moved from bench to bench. Paul and Prue asked the bakers questions and Nick and Imogen tried to make light of and bring humour to anything they could.
There were a few bakers that he would pick as favourites if he were watching at home. The first was, of course, Charlie. And not just because he was beautiful, but because he was using interesting flavours in his ‘Spanish Swiss Roll’ (blood orange, aniseed, and a family recipe) combined with his totally unaffected demeanour with the judges. There was Martha, a student from Berkshire. She was this year’s youngest baker at 17, making a Tiramisu Roll. There was also Nathan, a teacher who was making Cardamom, Pistachio, and Coffee roll that. And then there was Tara, a dancer also from Kent but living in London. She was making Red Velvet and White Chocolate roll. Tara, like Charlie, was completely unaffected by the judges at her station, answering questions and joking. Nick was also going to be keeping an eye on Sahar and Charlotte, already fast friends with Charlie and both equally as confident with the judges as Charlie and Tara. Nick was always impressed by the bakers who radiated that level of confidence and competence.
The hosts were released by the production team to go bother contestants together with a camera following. If his scowl was anything to go by, the man behind the camera was not a fan of Nick’s. It shouldn’t matter, but it was making it a little difficult to concentrate on the bakers when he could feel that scowling face watch him.
Nick knew he couldn’t go to Charlie’s bench first. That would be ridiculous, far too eager, and definitely not appropriate. And he was being a professional.
So, they chatted to Christian, a software engineer and ‘big fan of the Badgers’. He had expressed his sadness over Nick’s early retirement (Nick hoped they didn’t air that bit). Christian was making a ‘Kawaii’ Frasier roll with these little foxes drawn into the batter of the sponge that Nick was curious to see the result of. Next it was Maggie, a retired nurse, making a Tea and Lemon Curd roll. Then it was onto Liam, an Irish veterinarian and stationed just across the walkway from Charlie, baking an Apricot and Basil roll with Mascarpone and White Chocolate. A good flavor combination, Nick thought.
Finally, they made it to Charlie’s bench. Nick was incredibly aware of the camera and Imogen and a thousand production team members watching. Charlie was crouched down, digging through the items under the cabinet at his bench.
When he popped back up, he shouted, “God! Fuck!” He threw a hand over his mouth and looked at the cameraman, who was smirking (which Nick thought was extra rude, considering the deep scowled he turned on Nick immediately after). “Sorry.” He turned back to Nick, looking very unimpressed. “Quit doing that.”
Nick smiled, he couldn’t help it, really. “I’m sorry, I’ll work on announcing myself better.”
Charlie glanced back up from his work, meeting Nick’s gaze, and Nick felt it in his spine, like a shock running up and down the length of his body. “I’ll get you a collar with a bell on it.”
Imogen cleared her throat. Nick tore his eyes from Charlie and looked at her. She was glancing quickly between him and Charlie.
“Do you know two know each other?” She asked, unsure.
“Not really. We met at the mixer yesterday after I startled him.” Nick explained.
“Ah. Gotcha.” Imogen nodded, with an expression Nick couldn’t quite read. She turned back to Charlie. “Anyway. Charlie. What are you working on now?”
“Bakers! It’s time for your first technical challenge.”
“Today’s challenge has been set by Paul.” Nick turned towards Hollywood. “Any advice for the bakers?”
Charlie
Charlie was still freaking the fuck out. And fortunately? Unfortunately? It wasn’t even about the baking. It wasn’t the vague instructions left for the challenge. It wasn’t about the judging. It wasn’t about being an utter embarrassment for the whole world to see. Okay, it had been about those things before. He was stressed out by the very thing he had adopted to help with anxiety. Baking was all about instructions, following a script, steps that would lead to a finished product, rules. But Bake Off technical challenges? They were all about stripping the instructions down, making them vaguer as the challenges moved towards the final, testing the bakers’ knowledge and skills. He and Geoff spent time on this very thing in his last session. Yes, they take some of the rules away, but Charlie has the knowledge and experience to fill in the blanks, to write in the rules that are missing.
If only he could do the same with other things in life.
Now, though… It was about him. Charlie had already been frazzled from the nerves of the first bake—which he had done surprisingly well at. Nick and Imogen were making their rounds, chatting up the bakers while Prue and Paul menacingly walked the perimeter watching their every move, and he surprised Charlie. Again. And Charlie was not prepared for another conversation with him.
Then, because of the aforementioned nerves and being startled and unprepared, he cursed in front of the camera—strictly prohibited for a public channel. That wouldn’t be enough though, not for Charlie. He threatened Nick with a collar. In front of at least ten other people and a camera. Why did he do that? If he wasn’t busy racing against the clock to get his technical completed, he might consider finding the nearest brick wall and trying to put his forehead through it.
Christ. Please get ahold of yourself, Charles.
All twelve bakers were sitting on their stools lined up together. Charlie was sandwiched between Charlotte and Sahar, as they faced the gingham altar laden with twelve mostly similar variations of red velvet cakes. Each cake had the bakers’ image in front of it so that the cameras could see exactly which one of them made whatever mistake the judges would point out. And the bakers… they just had to sit silently as Prue and Paul harshly picked apart each flaw. ‘Too dense’; ‘no flavour’; ‘claggy’; ‘not enough cream cheese between the layers’; ‘this one has lost all its height’; ‘what happened here?’
The signature judging had been better, maybe because the judges had to say it right to the bakers’ faces at their benches? Charlie was starting to worry he wasn’t going to survive more than one week of this level of criticism. That was if he made it through the first week.
His first bake had been received well. Better than he was expecting after seeing some of the other rolls that were presented. Charlie still had the showstopper that could be ruined, though. Last night when he was lying awake, unable to sleep in his hotel room, he couldn’t help but think of all the opportunities for mistakes. It wasn’t as simple as just each bake—which if he made it the whole way was 30 opportunities, alone, to make a mistake. It was also all the little things in between, too.
Like telling a host he would put in him a collar.
Fuck.
Charlie’s cake was at the very end of the table. Last to be tasted. He did okay. They just didn’t like how little cream cheese frosting was between each layer inside the cake, which he had unfortunately argued with himself over as he was constructing the cake. Another mistake to be added to the pile.
Prue and Paul spent a while arguing back and forth on all the bakes in the middle; the best and worst were obvious to everyone. Charlie pulled out fifth. That was okay this early on; he could deal with fifth. Sahar came out in second. When she didn’t look excited enough, in an uncharacteristic show of emotion—that he would blame on stress later, Charlie threw an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. Charlotte got eighth. While that was still closer to the bottom, he reminded her that she had received positive feedback on her Swiss roll that morning. Charlie noted who received first and last place, too. Martha, the youngest, received first with a perfect looking cake that the judges loved. Otis, one of the three—seriously, though, how were there three of them—rugby lad bakers, got last.
Nick
Filming for the day was done. Nick was exhausted. Bakers had all done their last interviews, the hosts and judges had done their ‘Wrap Up’ chat, and everyone had been carted back to the hotel, released for dinner. Nick went back to his room first, changing into comfortable clothes (joggers and a jumper), then made his way to the restaurant. He had no idea how dinner was supposed to work; he knew the hotel was reserved completely for the show, but he didn’t know much more than that. Would he have to sit by himself? Would he be randomly seated with others?
He didn’t get a chance to think any more about it when he spotted a head of dark curls walking just ahead of him. Nick picked up his pace a little and caught up to Charlie, who was with the same two women he spent all his time chatting to in the tent, Sahar and Charlotte. They had reached the host stand and asked for a table for three.
“Can I join you?” Nick asked before the host could respond.
All three of them turned to look at him and then both women turned their eyes on Charlie.
Under his breath, Charlie mumbled something that sounded like. “Christ. He needs a bell.”
Nick had surprised him. Again. At least this time he hadn’t made Charlie jump out of his skin.
Charlie glanced at each of the women quickly and nodded. Charlotte smirked before turning back to the host and asking for a table for four.
In hindsight, this was probably not wise. Not for Nick’s goal of remaining professional with Charlie. But his brain had temporarily stopped having thoughts when he saw him there. Well… Thoughts other than that Nick wanted to see Charlie, to talk to him. He looked around them. The restaurant was full of mostly crew/production, who greatly outnumbered all the others. He couldn’t see Imogen or Paul and Prue. Maybe he wasn’t meant to have dinner in the restaurant and was supposed to do room service. Too late now.
He was seated at a table with the three bakers. He was seated at a table with Charlie. Charlie was just to his right. God, Nick was an idiot.
“So, Nick, how are you liking hosting the show?” Sahar asked.
Clearly, she was taking pity on the table, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled over them after the host had left them with their menus.
“I love it! I’m still so excited they picked me. Normally they pick hosts that have acting or comedy backgrounds, so I thought it was a long shot when I applied.”
“Do you watch the show?” Charlotte asked this time.
“Oh, yes. Religiously with my mum.”
“Yes, he’s also apparently a baker.” Charlie added. There was something there, in the way he said that, that Nick didn’t understand.
Charlotte, of course, caught it. “Oh. I didn’t know that.” She shifted from looking at Nick to Charlie. “How did you know that? You didn’t even know who he was until this morning.”
Oh…
That put his first conversation with Charlie into perspective. He had been so excited that someone already knew that he was an amateur baker and not just the ‘Rugby King’. But Charlie hadn’t known he was a rugby player at all. He had thought Nick was just another baker. Competition.
“So, you—yesterday when we—you didn’t know who I was?”
“I’m a gay nerd getting a PhD in Classic Literature. I think it’s safe to say I don’t know a thing about rugby, let alone who players are.”
Nick felt himself smiling. “You know, there are queer rugby players. And there are queer people who are interested in rugby, too.”
Snapping his eyes back up to Nick, Charlie responded flatly, “I am aware.”
“And do you know who I am now?”
Charlie bit the inside of cheek before he glanced back down at his menu and answered, “Yeah, they filled me in this morning.”
There were so many questions that Nick had. Did the bakers not get information on the hosts? Had Charlie never been on social media? News of Nick and Imogen joining the show had been everywhere. There was some controversy over his selection, both support and opposition, all for the same reasons.
He didn’t have comedy or telly experience. Some thought that meant he shouldn’t be picked. Some thought that would be a breath of fresh air.
He had been one of the few out rugby players in the league. Some thought that meant his selection made him a ‘diversity hire’ because he wasn’t otherwise qualified. Some were excited about queer representation, especially when he was co-hosting with another out celebrity.
Nick didn’t really care what everyone said. He applied for the show because he wanted to do something for himself. He had been eating, sleeping, breathing, living rugby for most of his life and without it, he felt lost. He was tired of feeling lost and wanted to do something fun, something just for him. Coming to the tent was fun. Meeting all the bakers was fun. Meeting Prue and Paul was fun. And for the first time in a long time, and even though it was work and he needed to be professional, it was all just for him.
The first day of the first week was done and it was morning of day two now. The energy in the tent was different again. Two very early mornings in a row, plus the pure exhaustion from fourteen hours of filming and interviewing and baking and chatting and worrying yesterday, changed the energy from an anxious buzz into a tired, low thrum that felt like it was simmering just under the surface.
They had already been given their prompt (36 miniature British cakes) and were thirty minutes into baking. With four hours to work with today, the judges and hosts did not have to move so quickly through the bakers to ask questions. In fact, they were also all sent in separate directions to begin with. Nick chatted with the rugby lads first. He found easy company in the known, easy banter reminiscent of a (very well-behaved) locker room. Starting with Otis, an IT manager in London, making mini chocolate and cherry cakes. Next, he made it to Liam. He was making chocolate ganache surprises that looked promising. And then onto the last of rugby lads, Christian a PE teacher, living in Liverpool and making lemon and blueberry drizzle cakes.
After those three, he was told to move around to some of the other bakers. Nick started with Terry, a retired gentleman from West Midlands. Terry had an excellent mustache, which Nick complimented, of course. They talked about his bake, coffee and walnut Battenburg squares before he made his way to the next baker before he was going to take a break, Mel. She was somewhat intimidating to talk to, but she still joked with Nick during his time at her station. He learned that, apparently, half the bakers had some connection to rugby this year; her husband was the captain of a recreational league in London.
Just as Nick was about to leave, he caught sight of both judges and Imogen at Charlie’s station. Nick walked over to find out what the excitement was about.
“Thirty-six four-tiered cakes?” Paul asked, sceptically. “How do you eat it?”
“Just put it in there.” Prue said, making a motion to shove the whole cake in her mouth.
Nick had arrived just as Prue finished the gesture, and Nick and Charlie’s eyes locked, for just a moment. Charlie looked down and away immediately, a pink tint barely visible at the top of his high cheekbones. The other three turned to look at Nick, and he had to work incredibly hard not to burst into a fit of laughter.
Charlie had composed himself again and picked up speaking, presumably, where he left off earlier in the conversation. “Nothing fancy, but they just look—”
Paul interrupted him again, laughing this time, “Nothing fancy? Four tiers. Nothing fancy. What is fancy to you?”
“At least six tiers.” Charlie said, deadpan, but his eyes betrayed the humour behind his words.
Charlie
Day two was off to a running start. Or, at least, that was what his heart thought Charlie was doing with how fast it was beating. The judges and hosts had already been by. His cakes were cooling. The cameraman he liked the best—Tao he had learned earlier that morning—had already come by to get a shot of him pulling them out of the oven.
And, somehow, Charlie was on time, slightly ahead even. Something had to be wrong. Even with all his practise this past week, he had been right up on the clock or worse each time. He just knew it couldn’t go this well, not in the first week, not for his first showstopper. Charlie wasn’t lucky that way and he was always making mistakes.
The judges and hosts came back around again. His cakes had cooled. His fillings had been completed. He started construction. He finished assembly and plating.
“Bakers! You have sixty seconds.”
There was a whole minute left and Charlie was somehow done. So, he jumped in and helped Charlotte as she struggled to get all her cakes plated. Apparently, even with how many times he had watched the show, Charlie had wildly underestimated how those last few seconds were actually just as stressful as the editing made it feel.
“Three… Two… One… Time!”
Charlie and Charlotte slumped against the nearest counter, grinning stupidly at each other. They did it. Week one baking was done. They had made it to the tent and completed three separate bakes for the judges.
All twelve bakers were seated back in the same arrangement as yesterday, stools in a row, shoulder-to-shoulder, but this time in the middle of the tent between benches. Charlie was again sandwiched between Sahar and Charlotte. Paul, Prue, Imogen, and Nick were standing together facing them.
“Bakers, it’s been a whirlwind of a first weekend, here, in the tent. But you made it to the end. Congratulations!” Imogen beamed at the group. “Now, I get the fun job this week of announcing our first ever star baker. This person has brought a quiet confidence to every bake, with traditional flavours, perfectly executed.” She paused and scanned the bakers’ faces, then landed on Sahar. Some emotion flashed over Imogen’s face that Charlie couldn’t read, and then she was speaking again. “Our star baker is Sahar!”
Sahar was grinning mildly as the bakers around them clapped. Charlie threw his arm around her and squeezed her shoulders again—he would blame this time on the stress, too.
Nick started speaking and the applause settled. “That means I get the more difficult job of announcing who will be leaving us this week. And the person we will be saying goodbye to is—” Another pause to scan the bakers. “Otis. I’m sorry, mate.”
“Yeah. It’s alright, mate.” Otis smiled sadly and stood to walk towards the hosts and judges to say his goodbyes.
From there, the rest of the bakers were released from their stools. They would have some time to speak with the judges, then off to more interviews, and then home.
“You did so well! Star Baker on the first week.” Charlotte was trying to get Sahar to get more excited.
Sahar had maintained her quiet, unruffled countenance even after making her call home. Charlie wondered what it would take to get her truly worked up. Making it to the finals? Would winning even do it?
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I could still go home next week.” She argued.
“Or you could go all the way to the finals.” Charlie said.
Sahar hummed with a slight lift of her head. Charlie took that as a win.
They fell into a comfortable quiet as they waited for the shuttle to take them to the Newbury train station. Charlie was headed back to Manchester and not looking forward to the four and half hours of travel time and two train changes. Sahar and Charlotte had it easier, both heading back to London.
“Charlie, looks like Nick is headed this way.” Charlotte whispered in his ear.
She was almost as tall as he was, so he only had to look down slightly to meet her gaze. Charlotte reminded him of Tori, except she was more expressive than his sister. There was a devilish grin pulling at her lips and a look in her eyes. Where Tori’s face would lack the smile, her eyes would flash a look like Charlotte’s. Charlie was choosing to ignore it, though, because for the first time since he had met the man, Charlie had a moment to prepare himself for Nick’s approach.
Nick
“Hi, Nick.” Charlotte greeted him as he walked up to her, Charlie, and Sahar. She turned to Sahar, “I need to use the restroom before we get on the coach. Come with?”
Nick watched as there was a silent conversation between Charlotte and Charlie. What it was was beyond Nick, but he was certain something had been said.
“So, how was your first week?” Nick asked when they were alone.
“Honestly… better than expected.”
“Does it feel real yet?” Nick was thinking of his first conversation with Charlie in the hotel garden.
They had bonded (at least, Nick thought they had) over their disbelief that they were selected. And Nick was feeling like this, hosting Bake Off, being at the tent, felt a lot more real than it had 48 hours ago.
“Not really, no. Still can’t believe I’m here.”
Charlie pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. It looked like a nervous tick but was entirely too distracting and was pulling Nick’s attention to his mouth. Which, no.
Nope. Eyes. Look at his gorgeous blue eyes.
“Well, you know what they say? Bake it ‘til you make it.”
He scoffed and shook his head, “Christ. That was terrible.”
“Not a fan of puns?” Nick asked.
“Nope.” Charlie said, putting extra emphasis on the ‘p’ sound.
Nick laughed, “You should tell that to your face then. You’re smiling and you almost laughed.”
“Only because it was so terrible.” He bit his lip again, obviously fighting the smile Nick had pointed out. “Maybe next time you should do better.”
“Okay, so this week while you’re practising your bakes, I’ll be working on my baking puns and practising announcing myself.” Nick teased.
The shuttle was just pulling up then, Charlie glanced at it and then back the direction Charlotte and Sahar walked. He grabbed the handle of his suitcase and shouldered his other bag.
He smirked at Nick, “You do that.”
Sahar and Charlotte had caught back up to them, and the three of them were walking to the coach, when Nick called, “See you next week.”
Only Charlie glanced back at him, the other two just looked at Charlie.
Nick was back home, lying on the couch in his empty, silent flat in Leeds, with a blank Notes page open.
Baking Puns for Charlie
Bake it ‘til you make it
Bake a leg
Crust me, I’m a professional
I’m turning over a new loaf
I wasn’t born yeasterday
