#grbo

The outpour of support is overwhelming. IQ helped her source and install a few more ovens in Rainbow’s canteen, multiple people provided identical utensils, appliances and other kitchen needs, and both Mozzie and Echo volunteered for the camera work. Even Mute got involved and set up a livestream and a large screen in the lounge so absolutely everyone can follow the competition without getting in the way. Identifying the two judges was easy and Twitch herself is content in merely commenting on the proceedings and making sure everyone gets their time to shine. As host, it’s her duty to introduce the contestants as well as set an appropriate mood, and if the complete silence in the lounge next door is anything to go by, the pastries she provided for the audience are doing the trick.

After explaining the format a little and welcoming everyone, she turns to face the orderly queue of bakers with Sledge at the helm.

“I’m confident”, he replies to her question of how he feels about today. “It’s been a while since I worked this hard on anything, and I’m already proud of what I’ve accomplished so far. As long as I don’t accidentally break anything, I should be good.”

Once he’s moved out of the frame and to his workstation, Kapkan takes his place, facing the camera stoically. “I am going to win”, he states and immediately leaves.

“Against popular demand, I will not reprise my brownies from Rainbow’s first Christmas party. I do value my pay check too much.” Bandit grins at the instant uproar from the lounge and good-naturedly flips everyone off.

Finally, Dokkaebi appears, already wearing her apron, her hair neatly pulled back. “I’m just here to prove that Asians can bake”, she says as if anyone had ever questioned that fact.

Huh. Twitch turns to the other end of the room where Ace is busy listening to a seemingly endless anecdote by the second judge. Addressing Dokkaebi, she asks: “Did he -”

A nod, followed by a smile that’s a little too bright. “Sure did! That’s why I prepared a special surprise, just for him. To show him what I’m capable of.”

Fair enough, Twitch is intrigued. After everyone has taken position, she motions her judges over and addresses the four contestants who display varying levels of excitement (ranging from manic by Dokkaebi to deadpan by Kapkan). “Welcome to your first and only challenge today here at the first Great Rainbow Bake Off. These are your judges, Håvard and Adriano, and they would like -”

“Wait.” Sledge seems confused. “Why are you a judge, Adrianito?”

Twitch has never before witnessed Maestro being at a loss for words. He squirms uncomfortably next to her, starting a few sentences yet unable to follow through, and after a few seconds, Sledge is overcome by a sudden realisation.

“You can bake!”, he accuses with the same gravitas a widow would the murderer of her husband. “You lied to me.”

“I had to, cioccolatino, you would have used me to cheat.”

“Maybe we can postpone this conversation until -” Her attempt at defusing the situation is interrupted by the righteous fury of a Scotsman wronged.

“I trusted you. I felt for you. And as I stood there, filled with the despair of a man doomed to fail, as I laid my soul bare in our kitchen, all this time you could’ve fixed it? Was all my blood, sweat and tears just a game to you? I saw how well you slept, your conscience clean, did my plight mean nothing to you?”

Sledge’s emotion-laden roar easily triumphs over Maestro’s weak excuses. “I can’t be accused of favouritism, amore mio, I didn’t want -”

“After this, nobody will ever think of you as anything but impartial, well done, you have made it abundantly clear where your priorities lie and it’s not with your talentless, pitiful husband.”

“Please listen to me -”

“And Jesus wept!”

By now, Bandit looks like he’s going to crack a rib from suppressed laughter any minute. Neither Kapkan nor Dokkaebi seem particularly impressed, and there’s obvious panic lining Ace’s features as he looks back and forth between the arguing couple like it’s a tennis match. Twitch is pretty sure Sledge would be winning if it was, and also absolutely certain the Scotsman has spent entirely too much time with the Martello family and their dramatic streak. “Perhaps it’s better -”

“I will be baking today, but you know what? I am not doing it for you anymore.”

Sledge’s crossed arms indicate his side of the conversation to be over, and though Maestro must be dying a thousand deaths inside, he pulls himself together and lifts his chin defiantly. “Very well. I look forward to the results.”

“Get a room”, Dokkaebi comments and earns two genuinely frightening glares.

“In any case”, Twitch continues as if nothing happened at all, “the, uh, judges would, um, like you to make sixteen identical cookies. They don’t need to be Christmas-themed, although it doesn’t hurt your chances, and they should be baked well, taste amazing, and have just the right consistency. You have one and a half hours – on your marks, get set, bake!”

And it’s wonderful to watch them just burst into activity, getting out mixing bowls and scales, sort their ingredients, check their recipes. Like a bunch of well-oiled machines who form something greater than the sum of its parts.

“Should we make the rounds? Check on everyone?”, Twitch suggests to her two judges. Maestro’s expression gives nothing away as he nods, so she leans over to him to whisper: “Do you need a quick cry? Or are you alright?”

“I’m perfectly fine”, he assures her and she chooses to ignore his quivering lip.

As it so happens, Sledge is the first one they approach. “So, Seamus – what are you baking for us today?”

“Shortbread with a side of betrayal”, he replies evenly and when Maestro immediately starts defending himself again, Twitch and Ace exchange a brief look before sidestepping to Kapkan’s workbench instead, dragging Mozzie with them so the other two men can argue in peace.

“So, um, Maxim, what kind of cookies are you making?”

“Pryaniki”, comes the curt answer.

“What are they?”

“Delicious.”

“I mean… what are they made of?”

“Flour. And honey.”

“Just flour and honey?”

“Some other stuff, too.”

“Okay. Great talk. Thanks and good luck!” Twitch and Ace just shrug at each other, unsure of what they’re going to be eating later, and then move on to Bandit who’s currently watching his stand mixer beat some air into what looks like egg whites.

“Hi”, he greets them cheerfully, straightaway putting Twitch on edge.

“These are egg whites, right?”, she inquires with a healthy amount of scepticism.

“Yep.”

“… just egg whites.”

“Sure are.”

“Nothing else.”

“Of course not.”

He continues beaming at her with possibly fake innocence as the noise level rises in the other room, the other operators no doubt speculating as to the actual composition of the stiffening mass. “He wouldn’t be so crass”, Ace dismisses Twitch’s suspicion, earning muffled laughter from their audience. His expression slowly shifts from unconcerned to vague dread at that reaction. “… right?”

“Can you tell us a bit about your cookies?”, she intentionally shifts the focus away from what might become a meringue, provided Bandit isn’t lying, which is a 50-50 chance. She’ll take it.

“I could, but I don’t want to”, is his enigmatic reply. “It’ll be a surprise.”

Twitch’s alarm bells are going off and yet she forces a smile. “Well, we’re… looking forward to it. Did you practice a lot?”

“Made them once. I’ll be fine.”

As they make their way over to Dokkaebi, Ace addresses her in a conspiratorial whisper: “If that’s a meringue he’s making, he’ll mess it up for sure. You need to bake it long enough but not too long, it needs to be beaten to stiff peaks and I doubt he knows what that looks like, and if he’s folding anything in, he’s likely to knock all the air out of it if he’s not careful. It’s ambitious and I don’t believe he’ll pull it off.”

Though Twitch had much the same thoughts, her inherent optimism refuses to accept Ace’s assessment at face value. She still believes in Bandit, even if he’s prone to sabotage competitions like this one. “Will you be impressed if he gets it right?”

“Yeah, I’ll give him a handshake if he does.”

“How about you snog him if he does!”, Smoke calls from the other side of the room.

Is he even supposed to be in here?

Ace rolls his eyes. “Sure. I have so little faith in him that I accept that.”

The Brit manages to exchange an encouraging thumbs up as well as a wide grin with Bandit before he’s thrown out into the lounge and if she’s honest, Twitch is quietly rooting for Bandit now.

“I actually have a little surprise as well”, Dokkaebi informs them once the attention is on her. “I’m making two kinds of cookies, one is macadamia chocolate chip and the other a very special treat for Ace.”

Interesting. “What makes them so special?”

“Glad you ask.” Thusly prompted, Dokkaebi pulls out a small jar of what looks like to be a light brown paste. “This is an ingredient you don’t find in normal cuisines here, that’s why I really wanted to use it. My second set of cookies will be baked with it, and it’s made specifically for you.”

“I’m intrigued.” Ace eyes the mystery ingredient with a frown. “What’s it called?”

“Gae-sae-kki.” And with a lovely smile, Dokkaebi simply gets on with it.

The next hour and a half is a flurry of events Twitch can’t even summarise succinctly. Sledge and Maestro finally manage to make up after half the time is over, meaning Sledge is scrambling for the rest of the time, running around in a panic until Dokkaebi offers her help which he gladly accepts. Bandit is done early and starts harassing the other bakers, first and foremost Kapkan who eventually challenges him to a blindfolded game of tag – meaning Bandit spends fifteen minutes crashing into things and yelling for Kapkan to disclose his location whereas Kapkan took the blindfold off immediately and went back to icing his pryaniki without a care in the world.

At least one oven malfunctions, Dokkaebi burns her butter and makes everyone cough their lungs out (even next door), Echo nearly commits suicide by Kapkan when he stumbles and almost knocks his finished cookies off the counter, Maestro recounts various stories at least one of which features a bog mummy (it’s not entirely clear with the other two) and Mute features audience-made memes in a corner of the livestream, allowing them to vote on them to keep engagement up.

And then, finally, Twitch gets to announce: “Your time is up! Please stop fiddling with your cookies. Well done, everyone!”

The lounge erupts into loud applause after which they do another short round of interviews while the four contestants clean up their stations. There’s a tension palpable in the air, now that the stress is over: they feel it, it’s getting serious. The judging is about to begin. All eyes are directed to the front, to the small table placed before Maestro and Ace.

Twitch savours the silence a bit longer, relishes the attention for just a moment. She knows how hard they worked during the past week (most of them anyway, she’s not convinced Bandit has worked a day in his life), knows they finally got a taste of what it means to spend hours in the kitchen producing delicious goods to share with others, knows they’re all trying to win. This is partly why she stepped down from judging herself: she’d declare all of them winners, no doubt. She couldn’t pick a favourite.

“Grace, would you like to bring your cookies to the front?”, she eventually prompts, to which Dokkaebi just nods.

Her first batch is beautiful, slightly browned on the outside, a good balance of macadamia nuts and chocolate chips, not too flat but also not too dense either. They’re uniform, all of them the same size and colour. Twitch can tell both judges are impressed. While they’re chewing, she grabs one and tries it herself – and wow.

Okay.

Forget about all that not being able to pick a favourite, this is the best chocolate chip cookie she’s ever eaten. The browned butter gives it a light roast aroma, the brown sugar emphasising this darkish sweetness, and the macadamia nuts lift the taste back up, brighten it a little. It’s delicious. She needs this recipe.

“Amazing”, says Ace, utterly flabbergasted. “These are perfect. I have absolutely nothing negative to say.”

“What a flavour. What a flavour! You have created a miracle, my dear, this is a feast for the senses, utterly divine, if I could choose my last meal on earth right now, it would be this. Never before -”

And while Maestro waxes poetically into the nearest camera, Dokkaebi points to the second, smaller batch she’s presenting. “These are just for you, Ace. I hope you like them.”

The Norwegian eagerly shoves one of the unassuming-looking biscuits into his mouth, likely expecting similar excellence. The longer he chews, the more confused his expression becomes until it flips over into thinly-veiled disgust. With difficulty, he swallows everything and is left grimacing wildly. “An… acquired taste. I’m sure it tastes different to you, but -”

“Oh, I’d never eat this”, she objects, remaining unfailingly pleasant.

Ace blinks at her. “Didn’t you use something traditionally Korean? Or something like that? What was that stuff you showed us?”

“That was just pureed dog food. Merry Christmas!” With that, she grabs the tray with the chocolate chip cookies and walks out the door, only to be greeted with roaring approval in the lounge, the noise deafening for the brief moment before she closes the door behind her.

“I think you deserved that”, Twitch mutters in Ace’s direction, the man staring down at the dog food biscuits in horror and seemingly contemplating his life choices.

“- a poem in baked form”, Maestro finishes his verbose speech and turns back to the two of them. “On to the next one?”

.

They take a short break while Ace brushes his teeth and drinks about a litre of water just to get the taste out of his mouth, and Bandit admits he’s not so sure about wanting to kiss him anymore. Twitch fills Maestro in about what he missed and the Italian laughs so loudly he causes a brief feedback loop and even Mute takes the time to dash into the lounge just to congratulate Dokkaebi.

Twitch does feel a little bad for Ace, all things considered, but he takes it in stride despite his slightly paler face than usual.

“Let’s continue then. Dom, do you want to present your cookies next?”

“Sure.” When he puts his tray down, Twitch instantly knows he won’t need a mistletoe this year. She’s not sure what kind of cookies they are, but she knows a good meringue when she sees one – next to no cracks, shiny on the outside, and when she picks one up, it’s wonderfully light without being sticky.

“They look good”, Ace admits reluctantly.

“Made them especially for you.”

“Forgive me if I’m hesitant to eat them, but the last time I heard that…”

Twitch snorts and is the first to try them. It’s crunchy, lovely and sweet with a hint of almond – probably ground almonds folded into the mixture. And yeah, it’s nice, but… nothing groundbreaking. There’s no twist on it, no personal note she can discern, and it’s certainly no reason to stare motionlessly into space and look like the world just stopped turning. Concerned, she nudges Ace. “You alright?”

He shakes himself out of his stupor and stares at Bandit who’s displaying his trademark smug grin, the one he wears whenever he’s inordinately pleased with himself. “Where did you get this recipe?”

“Remind you of something?” Bandit is positively beaming. “Well, Siv sends her regards. These are her vepsebol.”

Twitch is worried Ace’s eyes are going to fall out of his skull any second now. “You – you talked to my mum?!”

“Yeah, no biggie. She’s absolutely charming. I asked her what your favourite cookie was when you were a kid, and she was kind enough to help me bake it.” No wonder Bandit is exuding self-satisfaction. His grin is contagious and Twitch finds herself smiling along with it. “I told you I was taking this seriously.”

Ace is speechless, for the second time now.

“They are quite good”, Maestro agrees and Twitch considers taking the tray back just so he doesn’t eat them all.

And something happens just then, something shifts in Ace’s expression as he realises the man notorious for playing pranks on everyone, the man said to care about nobody but himself, the very man who’d normally torpedo a happening like this went to the lengths of finding out something this personal about him just so he could present him with cookies from his childhood. No sarcasm, no backhand.

“Do you need a cry?”, she asks him quietly.

“I’m fine”, he replies, a little choked up. “Let’s, let’s just keep going.”

Still radiating smugness, Bandit goes back to his workstation to make space for Sledge.

What looks like plain shortbread turns out to be flavoured with lemon zest and ginger, a delicious combination they all compliment, much to his pride, and Twitch is glad to see the couple back to their usual harmony when Maestro holds yet another speech about how it’s the journey that counts and not the destination, and that he’s so proud of how far Sledge has come.

The implication isn’t lost on her, though. The shortbread is fine, but a little unimpressive.

Kapkan is the only one left and from one peek, Twitch can tell his offering is something else. He’s baked the pryaniki into small slabs and decorated them to perfection, adorned them with simple yet elegant Christmas designs like baubles, stars, a Santa hat and even a delicately feathered fir branch. The royal icing is piped with precision, framing each cookie with a cute ribbon and flooded with white so the colours he’s employed stand out more.

“These look exquisite”, Ace speaks what they’re all thinking. “They’re properly set, and underneath they’re all the same colour.”

Twitch lets out a content hum when the taste spreads on her tongue, a rich, satisfying, warm flavour – there’s all kinds of Christmas-y spices involved and the honey brings it all together. This is exactly the kind of cookie she wants to eat throughout December when it’s cold and wet outside and she needs a little pick-me-up.

The two judges concur with her mental assessment, expressing their enthusiasm vocally to an entirely impassive face, and suddenly it’s time to retreat and choose a winner.

While Maestro and Ace withdraw to a corner of the room to compare the participants’ creations, Twitch joins the four bakers (Dokkaebi begrudgingly returned for the award ceremony) to congratulate them on a job well done.

“I’m just happy with what I made”, Sledge summarises his experience with a sincere nod. “I’ve never spent that much time in the kitchen before and I doubt I’ll do it again, but it was fun.”

Dokkaebi agrees. “Yeah, I’ve already found twenty new recipes I wanna try out. No dog food, though.”

“If they give you the win, I’ll strip for you”, Bandit promises (threatens?) her. “They can’t. You probably made the best cookies, but you bet people will try to feed Ace the most disgusting shit if he lets you get away with that.”

“Do you mean yourself by ‘people’?”, she grins.

“By the way, were you actually trying to win?”, Twitch wants to know from Bandit, who gives her an enigmatic shrug.

“Well. I won’t win the competition I don’t think, but I’ve won something else.” He catches Ace’s gaze across the room and winks at him, earning no discernible reaction. Though Twitch thinks she sees Ace’s cheeks darken a little. Then, something else occurs to her.

“Are you not worried, Maxim?”

The Russian frowns at her question. “Of course not. With Grace disqualified, I’m going to win.”

“But aren’t you worried about the implications?” He’s still not understanding. “You’re known as a fearless hunter. You crush cans with your forehead and open bottles with your eye socket. You have a reputation, you know. Don’t you think being crowned best amateur baker in Rainbow because of your delicate decorations will… undermine that? A little?”

Finally, realisation sets in and Kapkan’s eyes widen. “Oh. Oh no.”

Just then, Maestro and Ace step back into the limelight, carrying a trophy and trying their best to look professional. “It was a difficult decision and I’d like to preface this by saying you’ve all done really well, except for Grace, who can go eat a dick.”

“Fuck off!”, Dokkaebi yells back, chipper. Nobody is paying much attention to an increasingly frantic Kapkan.

“But now we can crown the first victor of the Great Rainbow Bake Off! And the winner is -”

“No! Don’t say it!”

“- Maxim!”

“No!”

“Come over here and accept your trophy.”

Sledge manages to grab the man before he can escape and together with Maestro, they wrestle him in front of the camera, ignoring his cries for help and attempts to break free – Dokkaebi shoves the small trophy into Kapkan’s hands while Echo snaps a few pictures, just in case, and Twitch is somehow not at all surprised this ended in chaos.

To ensure at least their audience experiences a satisfying conclusion, she pulls Mozzie off to the side and smiles into the camera. “I suppose that’s it, thank you all for joining us, it’s been a joy to -”

“Actually, can you stand over here?” Mozzie is focused on something in the distance, motioning for her to step a little to the right and gives her a thumbs up once he’s happy with her position.

“Uh, like I said, it’s been great and I hope we can do this again sometime.” Mozzie is still not looking at her. Without turning, she asks: “Let me guess, Dom and Håvard are making out behind me?”

The cheeky grin is all she needs to know.

“Sounds like a few Christmas miracles happened today. Happy holidays everyone, bye!” And as she waves, Mute lets her know he’s cut the livestream.

The four of them hesitate collectively right in front of the door. Throughout the drive here, they joked around, made plans, filled the small car with laughter yet now, here, arrived at their destination, there’s a moment of uncertainty. Finka catches Glaz’ gaze, Fuze and Tachanka look at each other, all of them clearly wondering: are we overstepping?

“He can always throw us out again”, Tachanka eventually decides, steps forward and rings the doorbell.

It’s odd, in all the years they’ve been stationed here with Rainbow, never once have they visited Kapkan’s home nor has he extended an invitation, it’s usually been Tachanka who hosted or Glaz, both of them happy with any kind of company, and after Finka joined them, she regularly forced them to drink with her in her tiny flat. Besides their homes, the nearest pub is also always an option.

The door opens just enough for two grey eyes to peer out in suspicion. “What do you want?”

Glaz is undeterred despite the decidedly unfriendly greeting. “How lovely to see you too, Maxim, it’s been a while since we last spent some time together, so we’re here to change that.”

A beat. “Is this an intervention?”

All four of them immediately, transparently, emphatically deny it, respond with disbelieving laughter or an exaggerated scoff, and Glaz wants to facepalm at how obvious they’re being. There’s no way Kapkan is fooled for even a second.

“Go home.” The door slams shut.

Time to find a culprit in silence. Finka frowns at Fuze, grimaces even, to which the Uzbek shakes his head vehemently, pointing at Glaz who reacts with extreme indignation, throwing his hands up and gesturing vaguely in Tachanka’s direction. Their wild flailing continues until the old man once again presses his fingertip to the small button.

After Kapkan has made the fatal mistake of opening again, Tachanka shoves his foot into the small gap with impressive speed. “I will break your foot”, Kapkan growls.

“I will break your door”, the old man replies, just as serious.

They’re at an impasse. Before their exchange can turn to violence, Glaz offers a jovial: “We brought vodka and bliny, still warm.”

Kapkan heaves a sigh and steps aside to let them in. Well, to allow them to crowd the absolutely tiny room where they’re made to take off their jackets and remove their shoes despite the fact they can’t bow down without bumping into each other. Several curses and deliberate shoves later, they’ve somehow made it into the similarly-small living room that’s, uh.

Does this count as decoration?

“I’ll get some glasses”, Finka announces while the rest of them stare at various anatomy-related posters of animals, purchased probably with the intention of learning how to gut them. There’s old guns likely illegal in this country, too.

“Over my dead body.” Kapkan instantly moves between her and the closed door. “Nobody sets foot into the kitchen. Understood? Or this will be the last time you’re here.”

“It’ll be the last time anyway, you don’t even have enough chairs for us”, Tachanka booms and claims the only armchair without the hint of a bad conscience. “Nobody wants to visit an ill-tempered host who could kill you any second.”

“Then leave before I actually do it.”

While the two of them bicker some more, Glaz inspects his teammate more closely: there’s bags under Kapkan’s eyes, his hair is wilder than usual and his clothes dusted with flour. His mood is fouler than normal though Glaz does spot the hint of a smile at a particularly outrageous complaint from the old man. Despite his claims, Kapkan doesn’t seem to mind their presence.

During a moment of distraction, Kapkan slips into the kitchen to get some glasses so nobody manages to catch a glimpse, but the clear liquor quickly smooths their residual apprehension, melting it into the comfortable familiarity Glaz so cherishes. Finka comments on the foreboding art surrounding them, prompting an actual laugh from Kapkan, and a while later, they’ve all loosened up. Bliny are devoured quickly, so they order more food online, Fuze provides some questionable yet (for once) not objectionable music from his phone, and they end up sitting on the thin rug for a lack of a better option. It’s almost cosy.

However, the friendly atmosphere screeches to a halt when Finka asks, much too casually: “So, how’s your baking going?”

Kapkan tenses up instantly. “None of your business”, he grits out. “Why do you even care?”

More exchanged glances. It is time. Fuze starts: “I saw you writing down recipes during a meeting.”

“You fell asleep instead of covering me in the exercise yesterday”, Tachanka adds.

“When I asked what the weather was going to be like the next day, all you said was ‘flour’ and left.” It’s a miracle Finka delivers that line as straight-faced as she does, but Kapkan knows her too well. His face crinkles in disbelief.

“I did not.”

“No. But you could have!”

“Point is”, Glaz takes over, voice gentle, “we’re worried. You’ve been late in the mornings and leaving early in the afternoons and won’t return any messages or calls. You might be taking this small contest a little too seriously. You were baking when we arrived here, weren’t you?”

The scowl on their teammate’s face deepens. “And what’s it to you?”

“Personally”, Tachanka leans forward in his chair, “I’m just pissed you’re not sharing any of your cookies with us, while these three here missed you or something like that.”

“I’m just here for the cookies, too”, Fuze chimes in good-naturedly.

Kapkan seems unsure how to react. “It’s just a few more days. It’ll be over soon. Are you sure you’re not here out of some morbid curiosity?”

The question is followed with deafening silence, especially since the current song just ended. It couldn’t have come at a more inopportune or ominous moment.

Fuze jumps up first but Kapkan dives for his legs, causing him to crash back down, yet before the hunter can collect himself again, Glaz has hurried past them, ignoring the roar of ‘Glaz, you traitor’ behind him as he bursts into the kitchen. Kapkan is only half correct: while Glaz is indeed deadly curious, he’s also ready to support his teammate however he can. And if it means getting his friend back as well, he’s all for it.

The scene before him makes his blood run cold, though. He didn’t know what he was expecting but it wasn’t this – he’s fairly sure Kapkan’s state of mind is only sometimes worrisome, the man is usually stable enough to be reasoned with. This, however, this isn’t the work of a sound mind. This is… worse than a painting by Jackson Pollock, the entire room is covered in primary colours and even more flour, the ground is painted with a thin layer of it and Glaz is fairly sure the light-grey counter was once black.

There’s biscuits everywhere, piled into every bowl, every glass, on every plate available, stacked up to the ceiling and glued together with blobs of icing. Hand-drawn pictures of flowers, hearts, even cute animals are hung up on the surfaces where cookie-stacking is impossible, providing inspiration for what likely was meant to be piped onto the bakeware yet the end result is a shaky mess. Lines are wobbly, the icing either too thin and running off the biscuit or too thick and fated to rot in discarded piping bags, all the motifs clumsy and childish.

It reminds Glaz of a scene in a horror film where the protagonist suddenly stumbles upon the gored remains of his friends.

Okay, maybe he’s exaggerating. It reminds him of the kitchen of someone who needs help, though.

Next to him, Finka utters a curse he did not dare speak himself. “You’ve gone mad”, she tells their involuntary host.

“I just wanted to make beautiful cookies”, comes Kapkan’s quiet, pitiful reply. And that’s when it all falls into place.

To check his theory, Glaz grabs a random biscuit and bites into it. Almost instantly, delicious flavour spreads on his tongue, sweet honey, warming spices – it’s been forever since he’s eaten one of these and this is certainly among the best. Once again, he inspects the room and finds his suspicions confirmed. Kapkan wasn’t trying to bake well, he was trying to decorate well, likely in an attempt of elevating his recipe even further and gaining points through presentation.

Fuze squeezes through the gap between them and begins shovelling biscuits into his mouth at a rate that Glaz stops worrying about food waste. Alright, that part of the problem is gone.

“I can show you how to keep a steady hand”, he offers to Kapkan. “And we can work out a pattern that’s easy to do and looks elegant. You don’t need this kind of elaborate design.”

“And once he’s done that, we can go drinking in earnest”, decides Tachanka, earning affirmative nods all around the room.

The hunter in their midst is, once again, at a loss for words – he likely feared judgement or ridicule, as evidenced by his shocked: “You’re not – I mean, you like them?”

“We want you to win, you idiot”, Fuze yells around a mouthful of several cookies.

“But we also want to drink with you”, adds Finka.

During the span of no more than five minutes, Blitz witnesses the following sights:

Kapkan walking by while drawing invisible lines in the air, visibly distressed and with his tongue between his teeth in concentration.

Dokkaebi, looking ready to strangle Lesion, yelling at him loud enough it reverberates off the walls: “Sugar is sugar! There is no wrong kind!”

Sledge sitting in a corner with his head in his hands, muttering feverishly: “What do people like? What do they like??”

“I wonder if Manu regrets suggesting the contest already”, Blitz turns to his best friend who doesn’t seem at all concerned with the competition, instead opting to doze in the lounge as usual.

“Don’t think so”, Bandit replies with a yawn, keeping his eyes closed. “Have you noticed how many more people are able to try her cookies these days? It’s raining compliments for her, instead of these gluttons devouring everything she produces in seconds.”

Blitz frowns. “You realise you’re usually one of those gluttons?”

“Eh. I’m on my redemption arc right now.”

Cryptic answer, but alright. Something else occurs to him: “Aren’t you supposed to be preparing as well? I mean, I’m glad you’re not possessed like the others, but -”

In the distance, Dokkaebi screams: “It’s the same fucking thing!”

Yeah. Blitz doesn’t even want to imagine his teammate going to similar lengths to win – Bandit’s competitive streak is a mean thing once it gets out, surfacing not just in an obsessive way but also bringing out the absolute worst in him regarding cheating. He knows he doesn’t need it and even then he tries to find loopholes everywhere, unfairly disadvantages his rivals, attempts to mess with them where he can. Blitz much prefers him napping on the sofa to burning bridges.

“There’s still time”, is Bandit’s laconic reply.

“Isn’t it in two days?” Silence. Blitz’ frown deepens. “Have you ever baked anything in your life?”

“Of course. I’ve been baked many times.”

Blitz resists rolling his eyes, but only barely. “Dom.”

“I mean, I’ve baked pizzas, croissants, pies…”

“Dom. Anything not frozen.”

“I once put a tangerine in the oven because my girlfriend at the time said it’d make my flat smell less of man-who-lives-alone. Well, I forgot about it and let me tell you, burnt citrus is a lingering odour not easily removed.”

Yikes. He crinkles his nose in sympathetic disgust. “So… I’ll take that as a no. Are you going to wing it? Half-ass it? Manu doesn’t deserve a lukewarm attempt and you know that. Part of this exercise is about you lot understanding and appreciating how difficult it is to produce tasty biscuits all the time.”

“Oh, I understand. That’s why I’m not dumb enough to try.”

“You’re dumb enough to try anything”, someone else butts in out of the blue, flashing Blitz his wide, trademark grin. Ace has materialised out of nowhere, seemingly shrouded in Christmas cheer and glitter with how festive his clothes are, his sweater a hideous mix of tartan, polka dots and paisley. No, wait, this is actual glitter raining off him. Blitz vaguely recalls a brief panic spreading through Rainbow when Kali was overheard mentioning a bomb, but this explains it perfectly.

“Not dumb enough to try you”, Bandit shoots back and Blitz feels nausea rise in him at the way his best friend looks at Nighthaven’s golden boy. To everyone else, it might come across as contempt, but after about a decade, Blitz knows what utter devotion looks like on Bandit’s face. And, unfortunately, this is it. “What happened, did you put a unicorn through the shredder for one of your videos?”

“No, I decided to cosplay Tinkerbell today, seeing as some of you could do with a little more magic and joy in your life.”

“And just like Tinkerbell, you also wither and die whenever nobody pays attention to you.”

“I thought about cosplaying you, but I couldn’t fit seven dicks in my mouth.”

Bandit actually laughs at that. He must’ve lost his mind, Blitz really has no idea what he sees in the Norwegian influencer though it’s so painfully obvious he’s smitten with him. Odd that he wouldn’t do his best to impress him and prepare properly for the Bake Off.

“Your lunch is in the fridge”, Bandit informs the other man who visibly lights up at his words.

“You’re a godsend. By the way, I’m going to give you shit for years if you don’t show some effort for the Bake Off, remember that.”

And as Ace glitters away, Blitz can’t help but shout after him: “You realise he actually likes you, right?”

The only answer he gets is a disbelieving scoff and a dismissive as if. Curses. Blitz’ hope was that they finally start dating just so he doesn’t have to bear witness to their increasingly awkward courtship. Which seems to involve a whole lot of insults.

He turns to Bandit. “You buy him lunch now?”

“We buy each other lunch. My turn today.”

“I don’t know why he thinks even for a second that you don’t have the worst crush on him I’ve ever seen.”

Bandit shows his own grin now, decidedly more toothy and scarier than Ace’s. “And I don’t know why you think even for a second that I don’t have the perfect plan.”

Well. Blitz hopes that plan involves getting glitter out of all the clothes he owns.

.

It turns out Bandit’s plan involves turning up at his door that evening, carrying a bunch of ingredients, a variety of baking utensils, a laptop and a small dictionary for translating between Norwegian and English.

“Hi”, he greets Blitz with a smile. “My oven broke. Can I use your kitchen while I zoom Ace’s mum?”

There’s hands grabbing bits and pieces off the tray before she’s even set it down. “Careful, please”, Twitch warns right before the tell-tale hiss of someone burning their fingers. She shuts the oven door to a chorus of people hafsafasfha-ing hot cookies and turns around with an amused, mock-reproachful expression. “You guys are worse than vultures. At least wait until they’ve cooled down.”

“Hipsters”, Bandit calls from the lounge next door, “all of you. Eating cookies before they’re cool.”

Neither of the people present show any sign of remorse and it might just be their burned tongues keeping them from devouring the rest of the batch. Not that they aren’t eyeing it with obvious hunger.

“Are you making any more?”, asks Dokkaebi while jugging a cookie to try and get it to an edible temperature – after four passes, it predictably breaks though Kapkan’s reflexes are good enough for him to catch both halves in the air and throw them down his gullet.

“I’ve run out of butter, so no. I could’ve sworn we had more than what I’ve used so far.”

“I think Shuhrat ate it”, is Kapkan’s reply. Everyone turns to him. Despite the obvious curiosity displayed, he refuses to elaborate while squishing a particularly brittle cookie into a sad-looking ball before tossing it out the door.

“There’s a shop down the street. You could go buy some.”

Twitch ignores Sledge’s broad hint to try and make eye contact with Bandit currently melted on the sofa. “And? Do they taste like you remember them?”

“Yeah, the taste is spot on”, Bandit mumbles around his mouthful. “But why is it shaped like that? It’s meant to be a star. And did you put the icing inside?”

Before Twitch can blame the Russian for messing up the design in favour of making it more throwable, Ace joins them, prompting a collective groan. They know what awaits them, and the anticipation colours Twitch’s cheeks and broadens her smile. “Hi”, she greets him. “I saved you one from the previous tray.”

“You’re an angel”, he informs her seriously and behind him, Kapkan rolls his eyes. Ace scrutinises the proffered cinnamon star, checks the bottom and breaks it in half, then carefully chews with a pensive expression. And even though the others present might not appreciate his barbs directed at them, they do watch him with interest for his verdict.

Eventually, he nods. “This is perfection. It’s not too sweet and the cinnamon comes through beautifully. The beaten egg white on top is just right, crunchy on the outside without being dry, and it’s baked really well. Delicious and very neat-looking.”

By now, Twitch is beaming. She adores it when Ace channels his inner food judge mostly because he’s the only one providing actual feedback other than ‘there wasn’t enough’. “Thank you. Glad you like it.”

“And thank you for making them.” A pointed glance at the other operators, to whom the ground is suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. “We’re stuck at base, unable to do anything productive, and I bet you’re the reason some of the people here get up in the morning. If it wasn’t for your constant baking, we might’ve started cannibalising each other out of boredom and listlessness.”

“I put a lot of dubious things in my mouth”, Bandit calls from next door, “but I would never eat you.”

“Such a shame your kindness and genius goes either unnoticed or unappreciated.”

He’s laying it on thick today, causing Dokkaebi to frown in indignation. “Hey, we appreciate her.”

“You gobble up these masterpieces like they’re, I don’t know, popcorn. That’s what you philistines are doing.”

Before it can turn ugly, Twitch cuts in: “It’s fine, and I mean that. I’m happy when someone enjoys what I make. Plus I bake to relax, so this is therapeutic for me as well.”

“If you know so much about cookies, Ace, why don’t you ever make any?”

Twitch grins, knowing full well than Sledge’s triumphant gotcha-expression isn’t the victory he thought. “He did. Last week. Remember the spiced apple sandwich cookies? I pretended they were mine and you all inhaled them.”

As soon as the realisation sinks in, the other ops go through the five stages of grief, every emotion visible on their faces as they question everything they’ve ever known. Twitch normally doesn’t like deceiving anyone, but Ace recounted how the last batch he offered ended up being fed to birds, without anyone ever tasting them. A tragedy, really. Or a deserved response to him badmouthing Hibana to her face. Which honestly, fair enough.

Still. Twitch likes to believe there’s some good in everyone, and it turns out compliments about other people’s efforts in the kitchen is part of Ace’s.

“If you can do it, it can’t be that difficult”, Bandit offers a bold claim from the couch. Something is up with the two of them, Twitch has noticed them hanging around in shady corners, sharing forbidden cigarettes (Bandit had promised Blitz to quit) as they mutter into their only half-existing beards. Banter is Bandit’s love language, going by how much he picks on his teammates all the time, and Ace has been seamlessly included. Interesting.

“You’re the kind of person judging contestants on the Great British Bake Off for overbaking a sponge while you sit there in sweatpants with a beer in your hand, never having created any kind of food yourself”, Ace shoots back. Next to him, Kapkan quietly asks: “Why would they cook a sponge?”

But Twitch can’t answer him, instead her face lights up at the sudden idea jumping to the forefront of her mind. It might be just the thing to stave off boredom and possibly get the other operators to understand that baking requires not only time and effort but also some experience. She wouldn’t mind earning a few more compliments, despite her assurances to the contrary.“We could organise a Great Rainbow Bake Off!”

And Ace looks at her like she just invented the best thing since sliced cake.

“I’m in”, Sledge immediately announces, getting elbowed in the side by Dokkaebi.

“You’re only in favour because you can cheat with Adriano! He’s the best cook we have, he’ll just give you one of his recipes and you’ll win by default.”

“Please, I would never. I’m a sportsman, I flourish with competition and would never try to get an unfair advantage.”

“I like the idea”, Kapkan nods. “May the best baker win.”

“We’re excluding him, though.” Ace points towards the lounge and pulls a face. “He’s never taken anything seriously in his life.”

Bandit calls back: “I’ll try extra hard just to spite you.”

“Oh yeah? I don’t think you’ll make the effort.”

“How dare you, now I’ll come up with something to blow you away.”

“I don’t want to be blown by you.”

Before their quips can get any more explicit, Twitch quickly addresses Dokkaebi whether she’s game, to which the Korean woman shrugs and nods in a ‘why not’ fashion. “Alright, I think we’ve found our contestants and our judges! Seamus, Maxim, Grace and Dom will participate and Håvard and I will judge. Bake Off rules dictate that you get a week to prepare before having to bake live – we’ll figure out the logistics as we go. Any more questions?”

Dokkaebi raises her hand. “What will we need to bake?”

“What even are cookies, anyway”, Dokkaebi muses as she tries and fails to turn the hand mixer on. Regardless of how many times she flicks the switch, nothing happens. “How does this stupid thing work?”

Lesion, already looking like he regrets ever making her acquaintance, condescends to showing her where the cable is concealed on the underside and even plugs it in for her. “Now be careful with the -”

Too late. She’s already jammed the beaters into the bowl and turned the appliance on, producing an impressive cloud of flour and flinging bits of raw egg and butter around when she jumps at the sudden flurry of action. While trying to turn it off again, she lifts the mixer and spatters both herself and her gracious host in various ingredients while yelling about how dangerous this thing is, and then Lesion is by her side once more to finally put a stop to the salmonella carousel.

Accusingly, she asks him: “Why don’t you have a stand mixer?”

He glances down at his ruined jumper and gives her a look conveying very much what he’s too polite to say. “You need to start on a lower speed”, he explains gently. “And don’t lift it before switching it off.”

“You’re lucky you don’t smoke anymore. Hey, do you think we could go out back and make a flour explosion instead?” By the time the old man opens his mouth to, no doubt, refuse, she’s already waved him off. “Nah, forget about it. I need to win this, so I better practice. How does your oven work?”

She’s awarded with a quiet sigh.

No doubt he’d been looking forward to a quiet evening alone, being misanthropic and morose on his own as he wraps himself in five blankets and drinks litres of tea and/or coffee, but fortunately for him, Dokkaebi stepped into his life to disillusion him of that option. She chose him not just because he has an oven at all, it’s also that Hibana merely laughed when she was asked whether she can bake, Mute shushed her in case Smoke caught wind of their conversation (and though involving them would no doubt have ended in hilarity, nothing constructive would’ve come out of it), Vigil silently shook his head and IQ’s expression turned into quiet horror. She didn’t bother asking Echo – he probably would’ve lied and said yes, then watched her clean his kitchen so she could use it before revealing he has no knowledge to offer her after all.

So yeah. Lesion it is. He’s got a well-stocked pantry, a functioning kitchen and the patience of a saint, making him the perfect victim.

For some reason, her cookie batter doesn’t look right but she figures it’ll be fine anyway. After plopping all of it in small portions onto the baking tray, she tosses it in the oven and glances at the prominent wall clock to gauge the time.

“No timer?”

“Don’t need it. I know when twenty minutes are over. Do you think they’ll come out great first try and I won’t have to do anything else for the contest?”

Lesion raises a brow and glances at the admittedly-malformed lumps she just produced. “Sure. It’s possible.”

.

“Second try!”, she announces good naturedly, slamming the oven door shut. By now, she’s grateful for the apron Lesion provided and has made ample use of it. She looks like she butchered a chocolate Santa. “Done. Now to analyse what went wrong with the first batch.”

“Have you ever baked before?” Lesion is perched on the only chair in the small room, doing a crossword puzzle in between critiquing her non-existent talent.

“No. But it can’t be that hard, right? Dom said so himself. And he would burn a salad.”

The old man is judging her, she can feel it in the back of her neck – it’s a skill she’s developed over years of being surrounded by guys who think they know better than her. Even if it’s warranted in this case.

“Why do they look so odd? What’s this white stuff?” She pokes the sad, melted masses of sticky dough she rescued from the oven half an hour ago with a frown. Some of them have weird holes, others are flatter than the rest, and some display streaks of a substance she can’t identify.

“Flour”, comes the exasperated reply.

“Oh. But it’s supposed to be in there, right? You can’t make cookies without flour.”

“You didn’t mix them enough. You’ve had clumps of butter that melted out of the dough in the oven, that’s this brown stuff here. And you didn’t chill them, that’s why they’re so… horizontal.”

Huh. Good to know. “I didn’t chill these ones either”, she points to the glistening balls of dough currently being baked.

Lesion gives her another look.

“You could’ve said something!”

“I’m already keeping you company, that should be enough.”

.

“Weird that it’s so little dough this time”, she wonders out loud while inspecting the cold blobs with narrowed eyes. This time, she feels like she did everything right, she made sure everything was incorporated well and even put the blasted things in the fridge for a good while. “Oh well. It’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

“Then you got some time to help me. Who’s the first programmer again? Babbage doesn’t fit.”

She regards Lesion with disdain. “Lovelace. How dare you forget that the first ever computer programmer was a woman.”

“And another, I need the name for the protocol employed by network switches to ensure -”

“Spanning Tree. Also based on the work of a woman.”

“By the way, what kind of cookies are you making again?”

“Sugar coo-” Dokkaebi slams her fist on the table, making Lesion jump. “Fuck! I forgot the sugar!”

.

She doesn’t miss Lesion’s conspicuous glance at his wristwatch. “I’ll be done soon”, she threatens while watching her handiwork, crouched in front of the oven. It’s really working overtime today, she reckons. “This is the last one. Everything’s in, I mixed it well, I chilled it, I gave them a little kiss and wished them goodnight, and now they burn in hell for their sins.”

“What crime did they commit, being sinfully delicious?”, he mutters in the direction of his phone while typing away. Dokkaebi suddenly realises she hasn’t checked her notifications in more than two hours, which is an absolute miracle – normally, her fear of missing out gets the better of her and though she’s been trying to cut down on screen time, she finds herself unable.

“I wish.” Both of them have yet to eat a single cookie and while they’ve nibbled on some, they didn’t dare eat a whole one. Just in case.

She deems the cookies done and gets them out with an oven mitt, poking at the malleable substance with curiosity. “They look good. Don’t you think? They might be fine.”

Lesion, for once, looks vaguely impressed. The cookies are a nice golden-brown colour and have held their shape well, somehow. Dokkaebi cuts one with a knife and lets it cool on the counter for a bit before offering one half to Lesion, putting the other half into her own mouth. Both of them bite down at the same time … and spit it back out at the same time.

“That”, Lesion forces out with a grimace, “tastes bad. What did you do?”

Dokkaebi struggles to come up with an answer before sweeping her gaze over the counter still littered with ingredients, nearly slapping her forehead once she notices. “Oh. I used salt instead of sugar. Oops.”

Another sigh. “I’m going to bed. Feel free to keep trying.”

.

A while later and in the midst of an involved multi-player battle, Dokkaebi hears footsteps approaching. She’s so engrossed in her current game that she doesn’t look up when Lesion opens the door, merely opting to ask: “Weren’t you going to sleep?”

“Not if you’re setting my kitchen on fire.”

It takes a second. “Oh fuck!” She nearly drops her phone as she scrambles to yank the tray out, coughing at the smoke emanating from it.

“Looks like someone’s getting coal for Christmas.” Lesion looks and sounds very much done. Just like the cookies. “Please go home now, Grace.”

.

She’s back the next day, undeterred. Lesion may do his best in trying to ignore her, though he thankfully is brave enough to try whatever she shoves under his nose from time to time.

“Not bad”, he rates her first attempt that day before audibly biting on something very crunchy. “Ah. Especially the eggshell. A brave addition.”

Right. Next try.

“This… tastes odd, and it’s kinda dark. What kind of flour did you use?”

Dokkaebi doesn’t really understand the question and shrugs, irritated. “Flour.”

“No, but -”

“It’s flour. It says on the packaging. Flour. See?”

Another look.

“Okay. What’s wrong with it?”

“This is buckwheat flour. It’s not the same as wheat flour, it tastes -”

“Flour is flour, it should do the same thing!”

“It doesn’t though, it will -”

“Flour is flour!”

.

Dokkaebi has never seen Lesion’s place this neat. While she occupies his kitchen, he apparently can’t relax enough to do nothing which results in him pacing about the flat and compulsively cleaning and tidying whatever sticks out. And there’s a lot of things that stick out. In the time she’s produced three more failed batches, he’s made sure the bathroom is sparkling, folded his laundry, put clean sheets on, took out the trash, sorted his books and tidied the living room.

In turn, she has not taken her phone out once.

“Try this”, she pants once she’s finally gotten a hold of him, meaning once she tackled him into the couch because he wouldn’t stop running from her and the cookie-shaped threat in her hand.

With an air of defeat, he bites into it and -

- and doesn’t look like he just drank paint thinner. Instead, he pulls a not bad face. “Surprisingly tasty. Different. What did you change?”

“I bought them at the shops.” For a second, he believes her, and this is even more of a victory than hearing him call them tasty. If he entertains the notion that these are store-bought, even just for a heartbeat, then she’s finally done it. “Honestly, I just did the same thing as always.”

“Everything is the same?”

“Yeah.” He gives her a blank look. “No, really! Butter, sugar, flour… all the same. Come look.” She gets off him and allows him to breathe once again, leading him to the kitchen and presenting her ingredients. “Here. I mean, your white sugar ran out, so I used the packed brown one. But sugar is sugar, it won’t make a difference.”

Lesion just sighs.

.

It’s a testament to the old man’s patience that he doesn’t close the door in her face the next afternoon.

“You were right”, is the first thing Dokkaebi says. “Flour is not flour, and sugar is not sugar. I looked it up. There’s an actual science to this, I thought it was just throwing together the same things with different results.”

“Come in. I restocked, so you can just keep on baking.”

“I actually brought everything I need.” And then some. She holds up her shopping bag and returns the rare smile she receives. “I’ll probably want to use half white, half brown sugar since they do different things, and I’ll try out baking soda instead of powder. Also, I read that browned butter can -”

“You know, I’m glad you didn’t give up.”

Dokkaebi scoffs. “Give up? This is the most fun I’ve had in years. I think I’ll keep baking even after the competition.”

“It is so refreshing to witness you coming into your own in the kitchen, tesoro!” Maestro flutters around him, visibly excited even though absolutely nothing is going on – all Sledge is doing is staring forlornly at the pitiful-looking light brown slab mocking him from the counter. “You’ve never shown any interest in cooking at all, it is wonderful that you’ve decided -”

“Just for the contest”, he interrupts his husband with a sigh. It’s not the first time he’s reminded him of the occasion and something tells him it won’t be the last. “And if it keeps going like this, it’ll be the last time I produce anything edible. Well. Hopefully edible.”

Maestro’s enthusiasm flickers momentarily before returning full force. “There is no way you will fail, luce dei miei occhi, you excel at anything you attempt, be it rock climbing or weightlifting or surfing or snowboarding or…”

They look at each other for a long moment during which Sledge waits for the shoe to drop. He might be perfectly suited for anything physical, but most other things elude him. He just happens to have a very outdoors-y partner who encourages him to pursue new hobbies, thus creating the illusion of a jack-of-all-trades. Though to be fair, the main reason why he’s never picked up cooking was that Maestro kept telling him he was doing it wrong before taking over and finishing the dish himself, undoubtedly much better than the Scotsman ever could have. He doesn’t want to risk his lover dying of hyperventilation, and so the only time he touches a spatula or even a pot these days is to clean it.

“Well. All I’m saying is that I believe in you wholeheartedly, zuccherino. Is this your first attempt?” He indicates the sad-looking mass with a gesture more eager than it clearly deserves.

“Yeah. I thought I’d wing it, I helped my mum make shortbread a couple of times when I was young and I figured it can’t be that difficult.”

The brief pause gives him an instant uh-oh sensation, because if anyone on this earth is supportive enough to overlook utter disasters, it’s Maestro. So if even he shows some doubt, Sledge may as well toss the whole thing and go watch rugby. “I’m… sure it turned out fine, but this is just practice anyway. Shall we try it?”

He’s uncertain he wants to. With a vague sense of dread, Sledge gets a butter knife and tries to cut what he so generously called shortbread, only to find it’s entirely too tough for this kind of utensil. He switches to a bread knife and saws off a long strip, not missing the brief horror in Maestro’s features. “Go ahead then.”

His husband looks like he’s desperately trying not to say something and it’s a miracle that he doesn’t cross himself as he brings the bakeware to his mouth. He bites into it and has to rip the bit off with force.

Sledge doesn’t even go for a piece himself – if it turns out to be poisonous, he’d rather only one of them end up in hospital. Especially because he has to win their Bake Off in five days.

Once Maestro has finished chewing (a very long minute), he struggles for words. “Cuore mio, have I told you that you’re the light of my life? Nothing could ever get between -”

He rubs his temple. “Adrianito. Just… just tell me how bad it is.”

Even then, Maestro waits for an affirmative nod to curtly reply: “Seamus. This is bread.”

Oh. So… that’s not bad then, right? “It’s called shortbread. I’m not too far off then.”

The Italian stares at him. “I’m… are you – are you sure you’re Scottish? Have you ever had shortbread before? Do you know what it is? Do you think it’s bread baked by someone like James?”

Sledge can’t help but snort at the mental image of a flour-covered Smoke, presenting a beautiful loaf right out of a large brick oven and ceremoniously declaring it shortbread. “Maybe?”

Wordlessly, Maestro grabs his sleeve and drags him out of their kitchen, urging him to put on his shoes and coat and herds him outside. Without an explanation, they briskly walk a few minutes down the road until they’ve reached their usual, well-assorted bakery. At this point, it’s obvious what’s happening and Sledge resigns himself to be proven thoroughly wrong, as so often in their relationship when it comes to food. They both have their strengths: he ensures they don’t pay too much for insurances they don’t need, and Maestro feeds him healthy, delicious meals.

… maybe Sledge shouldn’t have agreed to this stupid competition in the first place.

“Oh my god”, he mumbles through a mouthful of the buttery, crumbly biscuit Maestro all but shoved into his face. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

He’s lucky his husband didn’t take that one personally. “And this is shortbread of questionable quality. You can make it even better.”

Sledge mouths an apology at the crestfallen young man behind the counter and manoeuvres them back outside to enjoy the rest of the biscuit. Then he realises: “Wait, are you saying I can make this myself?!”

“You can add anything you like, too. Chopped walnuts, lemon zest, chocolate coating, fresh herbs – flavour it however you want, amore mio!”

For a moment, he’s drunk on the possibilities, tries to conjure up combinations he’d enjoy but reality catches up to him fast. “I can’t do that. I have no experience, I don’t know what goes well together. And I’ll never get the consistency right.”

Maestro knows him too well, it’s obvious he’s predicting where Sledge is taking the conversation, and he’s doing his absolute best to try and steer them away from it. “If you put your mind to it, you can achieve anything. Now, since we’re already outside, should we -”

“Can you help me?”

The powerless look directed at him doesn’t feel good. Sledge didn’t lie, he is a sportsman, but he’s also competitive enough to want a fighting chance. And for that, he’ll take any support he can get. “Caro mio -”

“I know I promised them you would have nothing to do with it. I don’t want you to come up with the recipe either, just… nudge me in the right direction. Give me a little push.”

It’s rare enough that he asks for Maestro’s aid that despite the circumstances, the beautiful face before him is conflicted. Eventually, the Italian gently shakes his head though not without taking Sledge’s hand into his. “Tesoro mio, I almost wish I could support you, but I can’t. I might be skilled in cooking but baking is a completely different discipline, one I have not mastered myself. Please do not ask me again unless you want me to be overcome by sadness over my own shortcomings. I will cheer you on yet cannot provide insight. May you be fortunate enough to succeed where I have failed.”

And at these words, Sledge is suddenly filled with determination. Even Maestro can’t bake? In that case, he has to make it. He’s already picturing the two of them, working side by side in their kitchen, Maestro preparing the main course while Sledge bakes the dessert, them dancing around each other and exchanging little updates about what they’re doing… and it’s so homely, so blissful that he offers a serious nod. “Okay. For you, I will try.”

The deep, sensual kiss he receives as a sign of gratitude wipes his mind clean of a quiet, intrusive thought that doesn’t manage to claw its way back to the surface for the rest of the preparation period: