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.