Chapter Text
Charles stared at the letter in his hand, dumbfounded by it. Who still sent letters in this day and age? Emails were a thing, right?
Unfortunately Charles couldn’t ask his manager that as Nicholas had walked off immediately after handing the envelope to Charles, off to do more important things. So he was left to stand there like an idiot in the middle of the garage, while the mechanics were getting the cars ready for the first practice session of the season. Nicholas hadn’t said anything about the importance of the letter, so Charles initially planned on opening later, back at the hotel, but when his eyes fell on the little emblem engraved in the top left corner of the envelope, his plans changed.
It was the logo of the small American health organization he and Carlos had donated some money to at the end of last season. It had been a promotional thing, supposed to draw some attention towards the organization with a video and all.
The two Ferrari drivers had found it a good idea as it was one of those non-benefit organizations that would use the money for operations and support for people who couldn’t afford those type of things. The amount both of them had donated hadn’t even been that much, but the people shooting the video with them had been overwhelmed with joy, thanking them over and over again and promising that their money would be spent wisely, but anonymously.
Neither Carlos nor Charles had really minded.
That was the part where Charles might‘ve not paid the most attention - at least his memory wasn’t to blame for once. But now that he was holding the heavier than expected bundle of papers in his hands, he remembered that one of the women there had told them that they might receive a letter from the people whose donation would benefit.
Charles might also be wrong and this was just another request for another donation, but curiosity got the best of him and a minute later the envelope was opened with a screwdriver - an action Charles had to apologize for to the mechanic, whose screwdriver he‘d stolen.
It was best to retreat to a quiet corner and once Charles had found one, he removed the letter from the envelope, eagerly scanning the paper. Clearly it wasn’t a donation thing.
The letter was double paged, written in neat, clean handwriting. No one working for a company and in their right mind would take the time and effort to do this. It had to have been the person whose treatment Charles‘ money had gone towards. Surely.
Quickly Charles glanced at the watch on his phone. Another twenty minutes until preparations would begin for him, just enough time to squeeze this in.
He began reading.
Dear person with enough money to fund my prosthesis,
I‘ve been told that I should write you a letter and let you know how you helped me. So while I am not the biggest fan of writing letters, I do think I owe it to you, since you single-handedly gave me a chance at walking again.
Guess I kind of spoilered you there, because yes, thanks to your donation, I was able to afford a prosthetic leg and the physiotherapy I‘ll need to learn how to walk with it. It’s all a bit complicated and I won’t bore you with details, but basically I‘ll start the recovery process next week (by the time you get this letter, I‘ll probably be stumbling along a pole with a physiotherapist by my side, cheering me on like I‘m a grandmother trying Zumba for the first time).
Anyway, nurses also told me to tell you a bit about myself, but again I‘ll stick to the basics not to bore you - if you‘ve even read this far.
So, I was in the military, which might let you figure on your own why I was in need of a prosthetic. But I‘ll tell you anyway, just in case your imagination isn’t that great (but no judgement on my part).
Basically, I was in the middle of a battlefield, trying not to die, when this grenade came flying towards me and my buddy. Buddy freezes instead of running, so my brain short circuits and comes up with the great plan that - instead of dragging him away with me to safety - I should kick it. Of course the damn thing had to go off right when my foot connected with it. Yeah, that was my foot and most of my leg up to my knee gone.
Okay, sorry if that was too graphic. I kinda lost my perception of what is and isn’t disgusting for people who‘ve never seen a war zone. Well, maybe you have, I don’t know.
So yeah, before I ramble on here (sorry for that by the way, just haven’t been able to talk/write so freely to anyone in a while and the eraser is out of reach) thank you.
If you want to answer (no pressure though, again, I doubt you‘ve even read this far) here is my email address: [email protected]
Again, thank you
Jericho
Charles immediately scanned over his favourite parts of the letter again, a big grin plastered over his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d genuinely enjoyed reading something as much as this.
Even though he had no clue - except for the person’s name - who this was written by, he felt like he knew them. At least a bit of them. The way it was written, the sarcasm and humour displayed along the page, made it feel so familiar as if Charles was talking to them, not just reading words that had been put there days or maybe even weeks ago.
The part about the whole getting a leg blown off had made him pause for a moment, but the playful way the person had told Charles about it didn’t let the depressing feeling last all that long.
Thank god there was an email address at the end of it. Charles would definitely need a follow up, a chance for him to ask some questions. How long had they been in the military? What stories did they have about it? How was their recovery going?
That sudden feeling of connection was new to Charles.
Over his years in the spotlight he’d grown to learn that it was best to keep his distance from fans, stick to his circle of friends on the grid or the ones he’d made before he’d become famous. People not belonging to that part of his life were quick to use him - for money, fame, a chance to make their own name - and not always in the prettiest ways. But with this person those things didn’t apply, right?
They had no idea who he was, thanks to that whole anonymous thing. It was probably best this way. Charles could just set up a fake email account and contact them this way…
Charles was about to pull his phone out of his pocket and do exactly that, when he heard a chuckle from his side, the sudden presence of someone standing right next to him, ripping Charles back into reality. He jumped, a squeal escaping him, the sound so embarrassingly high he immediately slapped a hand over his mouth. That just got him another chuckle and a hand on his shoulder.
“Calm down, Charles. It's just me.” Carlos said, already leaning over his teammates shoulder to get a better look at the letter he was holding. Frowning, he asked, “What are you laughing about?”
Laughing? Had he laughed?
Charles didn’t know, so he just ignored the question.
Having recovered from his pre-taste of what a heart attack would feel like, he answered, “The letter from the person I donated to. That charity thing we did last season, remember?”
Recognition lit up in Carlos' eyes as he took the letter from Charles, who had to suppress the urge to snatch it right back out of the Spaniards hands. Impatiently he watched his teammate slowly read through the page. A frown appeared between Carlos’ brows.
“It’s so nice! And handwritten… I only got one that was typed on the computer!” He complained as he reached the back of the letter.
“You got one too?” Charles lifted a brow, wondering why he’d never heard about that.
“Yeah, like a month ago. It was from a person that was able to get top surgery because of me.” A proud grin hushed over Carlos’ face before he gestured towards Charles’ letter. “But this is cool too. I bet the guy is really happy to be able to walk again.”
Charles’ brow arched even higher as he crossed his arms over his chest. “How do you know it's a man?”
A hint of panic snuck its way onto his teammate's face under the questioning gaze of Charles. Carlos tried to justify his assumption, but that only seemed to make it worse.
“You know, the handwriting is… nice but not… pretty. And the person was in the military and- and the humor. Like the way they write-” Finding it best to shut up, Carlos closed his mouth, his eyes staring a hole into the floor.
“So… only men can write like that, go to the military and be funny?” Charles challenged, smiling when he saw Carlos’ cheeks began turning red.
It was quiet for a moment as Carlos decided if he should dig his grave even deeper or just put the shovel down. The second option was the one the Spaniard picked.
“Yeah, I fucked up. I’d like to publicly apologize.”
“Better.” Charles laughed, but couldn’t quite let this go yet. “I’ll have to tell Lando about this though.”
Carlos’ brown eyes shot back up to Charles, round and wide. He shook his head, a quiet groan making it past his full lips. “Please, no. I can’t listen to another hour long powerpoint about feminism! I get it!”
“If you got it, you wouldn’t have-”
Charles was interrupted by Fred Vasseur calling them over to talk over strategy and get ready. On the way there, Carlos and Charles shoved each other around, laughing like a couple school boys. It was like they’d spent no time apart.
___
By the time Charles reached his hotel room that night he was exhausted, crashing down on his bed as soon as he’d reached it. Lazily he wiggled out of his clothes, ready to get under the covers and sleep, but before he could do so, his eyes spotted something white on the floor.
The letter.
It had fallen out of his bag, now half covered by his clothes. At first Charles figured he’d ignore it, get to answering it tomorrow, but even when his head hit the longed for pillow, he couldn’t get it out of his head. That same curiosity as when he’d first read it taking over, making him toss and turn until he couldn’t ignore it anymore.
With a loud sigh Charles sat up. He didn’t bother to get up fully, just dangled his torso out of bed and fished for the paper. Barely he made it back onto the mattress without falling off, laughing into the dark empty space without him when he did.
His eyes burned when he unlocked his phone, but he just blinked stubbornly as he pulled up the email app he normally used.
Setting up a new account took longer than he wanted to admit and Charles groaned when he finally got to type in the security code that had been sent as a normal message. Picking a name that hadn’t been taken yet had been hard enough… But that wasn’t even the worst of it.
Constructing an email Charles was actually happy with was almost impossible as he felt he had very high standards to meet. Charles would consider himself a funny person, but somehow getting that across in writing was harder than anticipated. When the letter-person, Jericho, had done it, it had seemed so effortless.
Now that Charles tried to build in a joke or two, he felt it sounded cold and stale. Nothing like them.
He thought about deleting the whole thing at least ten times by the time the clock showed it was way past midnight, but at some point Charles’ determination and stubbornness, which he used only showed on track, had turned on. This would not be something he’d give up on. Not this easily.
So he wrote, rewrote and deleted. Until, eventually, he was sure there were no more words in the English language for him to try and make this better with.
This was it.
Yawning he clicked the send icon, immediately turning his phone off. His eyes took that as they signal and closed, feeling so heavy Charles doubted he could open them again, even if he would’ve wanted to. But even like this, absolutely drained and tired out, he felt a sense of satisfaction.
He’d done it and maybe there would be an answer to his masterpiece when he woke up in the morning.
With that though he drifted off into sleep.
___
Jericho almost confused the email she received on a random friday afternoon as spam. Hadn’t it been for the fact that she rarely subscribed to anything and the sender's name being [email protected] - seriously, no self-respecting scammer would call themselves that -, she might’ve just deleted the damn thing.
Intrigued by those two factors, Jericho read the title: Hello, I am the prosthesis donator
The corners of her mouth twitched as she settled down on her couch, hissing at one of the springs poking into her back. The thing was probably a hundred years old, the cushions worn out so badly they barely protected Jericho from the things underneath, but that was what she got from purchasing the cheapest couch she could find in the thrift shop around the corner. Rubbing over the sore spot the young woman bent forward, not wanting to get stabbed again as she clicked on the email.
To be honest, she hadn’t really expected to actually get an answer. Back when she’d written the letter, she’d been mildly high on pain meds and the new found freedom of not serving under the strict system of the American military (at that point she’d found it completely incomprehensible as to why she’d joined it in the first place).
So yeah, she’d written some pretty dumb stuff in there.
Apparently whoever had donated the prosthesis to her didn’t seem to think so. Or they were just really, really stupid and didn’t understand her very on the nose sarcasm. Unlikely, but those people did exist.
With a quiet chuckle Jericho turned her focus back to the email and began reading it.
Dear person, who needed my donation for a prosthetic leg,
I am very glad my donation was used for something as great as giving you a shot at walking again. I’m really happy to hear that and learn a bit more about you. I do have some questions though (your very entertaining letter has been occupying my thoughts all day)!
But first, I’ll give you a short introduction with me, because I don’t want to be rude (if this doesn’t interest you, please feel free to skip this part). My name is Charles and I have never served in the military, but don’t worry, your description of how you lost your leg was in no way too graphic (I’m just glad it was only your leg you lost. Still, shame).
Anyway, I work a lot and travel for work. Right now I’m pretty sure I’m in a different time zone than you and it is really late here, so I apologize if my English is shit (not my first language, so that might add to that). And that is… about it.
Of course, feel free to ask questions too.
Now, my turn. Of course if any of these questions are too personal for you do not feel pressured to answer them.
1) How long did you serve in the military and what was your function?
2) Do you have any funny stories from that time? It would really help me associate your time in the military with something other than the image of a grenade ripping half your leg off.
3) How has your recovery been going and is your physiotherapist as supportive as you imagined they’d be?
That is all for now. I hope I’ll get an answer from you and hope you’re having a great day, no matter where you are :)
Thanks for your letter
Charles
Pleasantly surprised by the email, Jericho let her phone sink into her lap. It wasn’t what she’d expected at all.
Not only was this guy matching her energy and humor, he also - she figured it was a guy by the name, but would definitely ask for clarification on that in her reply - seemed to really care.
Why?
Maybe this was so hard to understand for Jericho due to the lack of genuine friendships over the last couple of years.
Five years in the military, surrounded by men who mostly treated her as something lesser than them, purely based on her gender (even if she performed just as well or even better than them).
And the ones that had been nice… Well, there was a fine line between genuinely being friends with her and just wanting to get into her pants. Most of them crossed that line at some point, all with the excuse of “her being the only woman around” and them “just being lonely”.
It was understandable - not okay though - but it hurt a little, to think that all the jokes and nice gestures had only been made because those guys wanted to have sex with her.
But Charles, he didn’t know she was a woman. Her name wasn’t one that gave her gender away and nothing about her letter to him had been either. So she could assume his interest towards her was genuine. It made the decision to send a reply even easier.
Jericho didn’t get to it immediately. She had an appointment with her physiotherapist - having managed to go from daily visits to every other day in the past week - and wanted to eat something first and then get ready. Changing there was a hassle, so Jericho preferred to do it at home and go there in her exercise clothes.
She felt almost normal again. No, not really. But she was almost able to pretend like she was normal again in public.
Sweatpants, high socks and sneakers were able to hide the prosthetic, only the crutch she used when going out, still giving her health issues away. It was better though, much better and for that she was so unbelievably grateful.
Knocking the crutch against the prosthetic, which made a soft bonking noise, Jericho whispered, “Thanks, Charles.”
Luckily the bus stop wasn’t too far away, only a couple hundred metres and those Jericho could walk without issue. The standing and waiting however was the bigger issue.
She still wasn’t fully used to the prosthetic and resting on it for too long made the remaining part of her leg weirdly numb and sore at the same time. Using her core strength to lean against the crutch, she bared her teeth.
There would have been a free seat between an elderly lady and a mother, pushing a stroller in front of her, but Jericho refused to take it. That awful sense of pride she still had made her do so. She didn’t just want to seem regular again, she also wanted to feel like it. Believe it.
And she could stand, obviously. The pain it caused could be ignored.
Once the bus arrived, Jericho took a seat at the back. It was a long ride and she wanted to use the time to formulate a reply. But as much as she tried to write it as quickly and still correctly as possible, she couldn’t manage to finish it before her stop was announced.
With a groan she slipped her phone back into the bag she carried with her, hearing it hit the water bottle in there. Hopefully it wasn’t damaged.
___
Physiotherapy had sucked the last of her energy out of Jericho.
Her therapist always told her it was normal, a prosthesis did tend to be more difficult to manage as it was much heavier than a leg would be.
Normal.
It always took Jericho a lot of self-control not to yell at him for using that word as if it filled her with a sense of frustration and helplessness she wasn’t used to. Once she’d snapped at him, told him that this was everything but normal. His reply had sent her to sleep crying that night.
“This is your new normal, Jericho, and the faster you accept that and actually listen to what I’m trying to teach you here, the easier it will be for you.”
Jericho wasn’t quite at that point yet, although she liked to pretend she was, just to make the sessions go easier. The last thing she needed was for her physiotherapist to turn into a regular therapist and ask her shit like “why do you feel this way” and “do you want to deal with those feelings". The answers would be very short; “shit” and “no”.
When she sat down in the bus again, sweaty and completely tired out, she regretted not having showered or even brought clean clothes along. Her leg was itchy, her prosthesis moving a bit each time she took a step - she’d so that that thing off once she was back in her apartment.
At least she had a task to finish for the drive. Jericho was glad for that.
Ever since she’d come back to the US, released from the military because of her disability, she hadn't really had anything to do.
Sure, the physiotherapy, but she didn’t work anymore. For now she was focused on her recovery, living off her disability pay - just enough to live off, but nothing glamorous. And while Jericho didn’t necessarily miss having to be alert at all times, working every second of every day, her body was still trained on it.
This sitting at home with nothing to do for ninety-five percent of the day, was driving her insane.
This time Jericho managed to finish the email before her stop, even with some time left to read through it once again before sending it off.
Dear Charles,
Happy to hear from you and I hope you did get that sleep you so badly needed.
I will gladly answer all of your questions, none of them were too personal, don’t worry.
So I served in the military for roughly five years, if we count boot camp, and I was a Marine. I don’t know how familiar you are with the American Military system, but those are the guys that basically do a bit of everything.
A funny story… One time the kitchen fucked up and used expired milk for our dinner. Next morning everyone had food poisoning that lasted for a week. Sounds horrible, but back in boot camp that was the best thing that could have happened to us. No push ups and all that. And our drill sergeant had gotten sick too and chilled with us in the barracks. I’ve never felt so happy hearing a grown man whimper in agony.
And my recovery has been going well. I can move on my own now and am able to live on my own again. This is the freest I’ve been in years and it feels pretty damn amazing :) So I guess, thank you again. You have no idea what you’ve done for me.
But now, enough sentiment, here are my questions for you (of course same rules apply, if you don’t want to answer something, ignore it):
1) How could you afford to donate such a huge amount of money, like what do you work as?
2) Are you a man? (Judging by your name I figured that you are, but if I am mistaken please tell me and I’ll go hang myself)
3) What is your first language? (You said it wasn't English, so I am curious.)
Pretty boring I know, but unfortunately you don’t have a story as cool as mine. I feel bad for you. Kidding.
But I’m looking forward to hearing from you again :)
Kindly,
Jericho
Over the next couple of hours, Jericho checked her phone again and again for an answer.
She told herself it wasn’t because she necessarily wanted to hear from Charles as soon as possible, but just because she was so insanely bored. What else was she supposed to do?
To her disappointment the longed for ping never came, not when she went to sleep either. Or the next day.
When Sunday came and she still hadn’t heard a peep from Charles, she regretted basically calling him boring.
Then she didn’t anymore, when she reminded herself that it was a man she was texting with and if his feelings were hurt that easily, then it was probably for the best that he didn't respond.
Then the boredom took over again and she considered sending an apology. Pride kept her from doing that and instead convinced her to still send another email, but one without the words “sorry” or “I’d like to apologize”.
Dear Charles, who is too busy to be my personal entertainment (kidding),
I hope you’re alright. Haven’t heard from you in a while.
Please tell me you haven’t gone out and acquired some kind of heavy injury, because I said you don’t have a cool story like me. (If you actually did that, then you’re really stupid and I’m not sure we can be friends any longer.)
No in all seriousness, I hope you’re okay and that you’ll reply soon. Sorry if this is clingy.
Best wishes (and hopes and prayers),
Jericho
Okay, maybe there was one sorry in there, but not in the context her pride had forbidden her to use it in.
Now all she could do was wait again.