#eff won

thank you for the tag @orbitingspacejunk!!!

slowburn or love at first sight // fake dating or secret dating // enemies to lovers or best friends to lovers // there's only one bed or long-distance correspondence (I’ve recently become so fond of ldr aus!)// hurt/comfort or amnesia // fantasy au or modern au // mutual pining or domestic bliss (slice of life ily) // smut or fluff (both???) // canon-compliant or fix-it // reincarnation or character death // one-shot or multi-chapter // kid fic or road trip fic // arranged marriage or accidental marriage // high-school romance or middle-age romance // time travel or isolated together // neighbours or roommates (god i love a crack fic) // sci-fi au or magic au // body swap or genderbent // angst or crack // apocalyptic or mundane

WELL imagine my delight when I found that I do in fact have a WIP with that word and that it is, in fact, an F1 wip! Galex AU - tentatively entitled Be Thou My Vision - where Alex quits racing and buys a big manor house, but when he moves in he discovers that the annual church fair is held on the grounds every year. So he has to work *very* closely with the vicar.

“I’ll be honest with you Alex, in hindsight it hasn’t been ideal. Zero out of ten stars, would not recommend. I’m hopelessly old-fashioned, but I want the person I’m with to actually, you know, like me as much as I like them?” It was, Alex thought, becoming abundantly clear that they had been having very different conversations this whole time. The relief of it was nearly dizzying, adrenaline zipping through him, fingers tingling and uncooperative like he was about to ease the balaclava on before a race. He lifted his hands to touch, palms skating up the shiny polyester of the cassock, snagging on buttons.  “Is that all?” he said, giddy with it. “Blimey, Georgie, is that all it is?” “Don’t.” George was very still under his hands, that impossible stretch of jawline gone tight. “Don’t tease me. Don’t make it worse.”

Never wanted Max to go to Merc, so this will be best case scenario for ME

Snip from the opener of my galex fic - Alex retires from F1 under a cloud and buys an old manor house in somewhere in Hampshire - but things get complicated when he agrees to host the church fete and has to work very closely with the local vicar...

“And of course,” the woman said over the rattle of the good china as Alex tried and failed to competently pour the tea, “it’s very exciting to have a celebrity in our midst.”

Alex hadn’t even been sure she knew who he was. She had turned up at the door within five minutes of the moving vans pulling away, which suggested either a curtain-twitching tactical approach, or happy coincidence; looking at her where she was comfortably settled on the plumpest sofa, that Alex had swiftly cleared of about eighteen garment bags that had inexplicably ended up in the small sitting room rather than upstairs in one of the bedrooms, Alex wasn’t entirely sure the timing wasn’t entirely deliberate. She looked perfectly pleasant, of course, pink-faced and lined in a way that suggested a lifetime of brisk country walks and squinting down the barrel of a pheasant gun, or whatever moderately posh country people did these days.

“Well,” Alex attempted, ripping open the pack of Fig Rolls—pathetic, but all he could unearth out of the kitchen boxes at short notice—and balancing the biscuits on a spare saucer, “I’m retired now, of course.” He tried a casual laugh, then tried not to wince at how it sounded in his own ears. “Country living, pursuit of the good life, and all that.”

“Quite,” the woman said agreeably, and they both looked out the window—which still had no curtains—at the vicious tangle of the orchard, the leaning skeleton of the ancient greenhouse, the crumbling outline of the old Abbey that still stood in what was now Alex’s walled garden. Listed, the agent had said, showing Alex around. Medieval. Alex hadn’t given a shit about any of that—all he cared about was that it was a good two hours’ drive from Oxfordshire, and that there was more than enough room for all the dogs.

The door opened and Sarah bustled in. She had her phone clamped to one ear and a plate of chocolate bourbons in the other hand, and she made welcoming eyebrows at the woman and handed the plate to Alex absent-mindedly. 

“Yes, thanks, he’ll be there. No problem.” She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly as she tried to wrap the phone call up. “I’ll touch base with you next week once he’s settled in and you can come and do some photos for the At Home feature.” 

Alex hated At Home features.

“Okay, bye, bye, bye,” Sarah went on, and then with no change of tone said, “Margery, you made it,” and bent to give the woman an air kiss even as she was still pressing the button to hang up on her call.

Margery, Alex thought with relief. He’d definitely have to remember that if they were going to be neighbours. 

Sarah did most of the heavy lifting for the rest of the conversation; it was her job, of course, but Alex knew she also enjoyed that sort of thing. It meant he was free to drift a little bit. He was used to judging background tone, knowing when to smile and when to nod.

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” Sarah was saying, and he caught the tail end of her encouraging smile, accentuated by the slightest murderous flicker of her lashes that meant she knew he hadn’t been paying attention. “Can you tell us a bit more about it?”

“Well,” the woman—Margery—said. “The vicar will run through all that with Alex. It’s just that—traditionally, you know—the fete has always been held in the Manor grounds, ever since they sold off most of the church land after the war. I was sure the new owner would be receptive to the idea, but of course you never know.”

Her tone suggested the new owner would have had very little choice in the matter, but Alex had the sinking feeling that he really should have been listening to the start of the conversation.

“The fete?” he attempted now, but Margery was already draining the end of her tea and struggling to heave herself out of the pillowy bosom of the sofa. 

“I’ll email the vicar to set up a meeting this week,” Sarah said, and Margery’s laugh tinkled like the sound of cup on saucer. 

“Oh no, dear, you don’t need to worry about email. The vicar's not very good with any of that. He’ll pop around some evening, don’t worry. All in good time. I’ll show myself out.”

And with that, she was gone, three of the dogs dancing around her as she swept out the door, the little traitors. 

“Why am I meeting a vicar, exactly?”

Sarah had the determined expression of someone not entirely interested in anything Alex had to say. She was already tapping at her phone screen, thinking about the next thing.

“Oh, don’t worry, love, it’s just their annual fete. You won’t actually have to do anything, just meet the old dear and tell him he can have his tombola and a bouncy castle in the garden. The old owner always allowed it, apparently.” She looked up at Alex finally. “Unless you’d prefer not to? We can say no, of course, but the optics wouldn’t be great.”

“It’s fine.” Alex probably wouldn’t be here, anyway. It wasn’t like he was going to spend his winters here, or anything. “But I wish I didn’t have to meet a bloody vicar about it. Can’t we just let him know he has free rein and leave him to it?”

“I’ll sort it,” Sarah said, and her phone hummed in her hand, the screen lighting up with a new call. “He’s an absolute sweetheart, by all accounts. Everyone loves the vicar.”

Alex wouldn’t love the vicar. Alex didn’t want to make friends here. Half the point of moving to the country was that he wouldn’t have to see anyone he didn’t want to see—wouldn’t have to deal with the press unless he wanted to, wouldn’t have to be polite to strangers, wouldn’t have to smile for photos he hadn’t asked them to take, or put up with their arms too tight around his shoulders.

He sighed, picked up as many of the garment bags he could lift. Sarah was already halfway out the door, murmuring something soothing-sounding.