Crash

France

After a lot of last-minute planning and rushing to catch flights, Charles and Penelope finally made it to France. Members of the Ferrari team greeted them at the airport, already giving Charles an itinerary of media duties and sponsor meet-and-greets that he had to partake in before he'd even been in the country for five minutes. He didn't even flinch. He was at work now, despite everything they'd been through over the last week. This was what he was born to do. 

By the time they got to the hotel, it was already late. The early hours of the morning were upon them and sleep was well overdue. Before long, Charles was snoring next to her as Penelope led still, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. There was a lot on her mind. It made it difficult for her to think about sleep when all she could do was worry. 

Plus, there were other things on her mind. Lots of guilt, though it wasn't really about Frankie. This whole past week had been a blur. There hadn't been a single minute to breathe, life going so quickly that she couldn't seem to stop to take in what was happening. Just this time two weeks ago, she'd been sick in Italy while Charles had been driving in Austria. Then a few days later, he'd put on one of the best performances of his life to win the race on the Sunday. She didn't want him to feel forgotten in the whirlpool of disaster that they'd been swept up in. 

So, with all that in mind, Penelope began to formulate her own kind of plan. Charles didn't even stir when she left the bed, grabbing the rental car keys and sneaking out of the room before he knew she was gone. She was back within the hour, following a trip to the local 24 hour supermarket. Then, she snuggled back down beside him and waited for morning to arrive. 

Fortunately, it seemed to roll around more quickly than usual. Charles grumbled when the alarm went off, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

"Fuck," he groaned. "Time zones suck." He expected to hear Penelope agree, but there was no response. Puzzled, he rolled over to find her side of the bed empty, phone abandoned on the side table. "Penelope?"

Somewhere from the hall, a disembodied voice called back. "Close your eyes!"

Charles wondered if he was somehow still sleeping, trapped in some weird dream where his girlfriend was suddenly a morning person. "Is, uh...is everything okay?"

"Are they closed yet?" she called again, ignoring the question. "No peeking! I mean it!"

Somehow, he knew better than to argue. "Sure."

He heard a onset of footsteps, the smell of...birthday candles? Confused, he tried to open an eye and check, but he was met with such a fierce flurry of furious Spanish that it made him wish he hadn't. 

"¿Qué estás haciendo? ¡No mires, Charles! Pequeña mierda. Te pido una cosa, una cosa, y ni siquiera puedes hacer eso. Nunca me escuchas, ¿verdad? Es como salir con un niño, a veces, sinceramente." 

"I wasn't looking!" he protested, holding his hands up in a show of innocence. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"You are a liar, Charles Leclerc."

That word put a bad taste in his mouth. He was glad he had his eyes closed. He didn't have to look at her that way. "What's...what's all this then?"

"Hold your hands out, babe."

"Uh..."

"Oh, Charles, I'm not gonna poison you or anything. Come on, it's a surprise. You'll like it, I promise."

He didn't really need any more persuading. Truthfully, he would do anything she asked of him, anyway. Even at 7am in the morning. "This is a little weird, Nell."

Penelope didn't seem to care. Carefully, she placed something into his outstretched hands, close enough that he could smell his cologne on her. She must be wearing his shirt again. She knew it turned him on when she did that.