Crash

Girlhood

The morning that they were meant to fly to Spielberg, Penelope woke up with a pounding headache. 

Wanting to make the most of his last morning in Italy, Charles had already left to go on a run. As always, he'd left her a sweet note on his pillow, which she would have appreciated a lot more if it weren't for the pain in her skull. 

Despite that, she knew she had to get ready to leave. It was Monday, and although the race weekend didn't start until Thursday, it was important that they arrived on time. Silverstone had been a mess, not necessarily just for Charles but for the team as a whole. While one driver had won, the other had been massively disadvantaged. The fractures within the internal structure were obvious. That sort of thing wasn't easily fixed overnight. 

So, tired and in pain, Penelope dragged her suitcases into the hallway, eventually collapsing on the floor beside them, trying to catch her breath as she used the wall to steady herself. She was in so much pain that getting up seemed impossible. She figured that if she stayed there long enough, eventually she'd have enough energy to pull herself together again. 

She wasn't sure how much time passed. Maybe it was a handful of minutes, or a couple of hours, or maybe it was no time at all. Everything around her simply felt blurry, like she couldn't get a grasp on anything no matter how much she might have tried to. She was so out of it that she didn't even hear the door open, or Charles calling her name until he was practically on top of her. 

"Penelope? What happened? Are you alright?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she mumbled, the sentence just about coherent. "I'm just...catching my breath."

His hand found her cheek, her skin burning hot under his fingers. "You have a fever," he said, shaking his head. "I'm calling the doctor."

"Don't be stupid. It's just a migraine."

"I don't care."

"Charles-"

"Too late! He's on his way, I just text him." With gentle hands, he took on most of her weight, prompting her to stand. "Come on. Can you walk?"

"Yes," she grumbled, although that soon turned out not to be true. Without even saying anything, Charles caught her and lifted her to his chest, carrying her through the hall without even a whisper of complaint. As soon as he tucked the blanket around her to keep her warm in the bed, she was suddenly too hot. Then, just minutes later, she was too cold, shivering like she was encased in ice. But when he felt her forehead again, her skin was still red hot. 

He had no idea what to do other than wait for the doctor. That scared Charles more than anything. Last time she'd gotten sick, he'd almost lost her. At one point, her eyes had started to close as though she was falling asleep. He shook her until she woke again, remembering something he'd learnt in a first aid course about keeping people awake. He wasn't sure if that was the right thing to do, but it made him feel better. 

It took twenty minutes for the doctor to get there. Charles ran and opened the door before he'd even finished knocking. 

"Buongiorno, Charles," Doctor Alfonsi said, his bag in hand. He was a kind, gentle man in his early sixties, that Ferrari had employed for as long as anyone could remember. "Come posso aiutarvi? È di nuovo il dolore al collo?"

Charles shook his head, urging the doctor to move faster. "It's not me, it's my girlfriend. She's sick, I don't know what's wrong with her."

Doctor Alfonsi's expression shifted. "I see. Where is she?"

As quickly and as calmly as he could manage, Charles led the doctor through to the bedroom, where Penelope was led with a cool compress pressed against her forehead. She opened her eyes when he came in, but there was little behind them.