I would love to read a oneshot where a driver (I don't have a preference which one) takes care of a sick y/n. Lots of fluff and caring please.
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader(y/n)
Warnings: oscar flinching cause of sneezes, flu, protective oscar, fluff
Summary: When the winter break brings a brutal bout of the flu, McLarenâs stoic driver Oscar Piastri trades telemetry for tracking fevers. Stepping into full, protective pamper mode, he navigates medicine schedules, makes homemade broth, and hilariously battles his own lightning-fast reflexes every single time his sick girlfriend sneezes.
Authorâs note: I really hope this is what you had in mind! Used Oscar cause i havenât written anything about him yet and felt like he could fit the plot. Enjoy!! xx
The transition from the frantic, high-octane blur of the Formula 1 season to the absolute stillness of the winter break always felt like a sudden decompression. One week you are surrounded by the deafening roar of V6 turbo-hybrids, flashing cameras, and a sea of papaya orange; the next, you are staring at a gray London sky from the window of a quiet apartment, the silence so heavy it almost makes your ears ring.
For Oscar, that transition was usually seamless. He was a creature of baseline calm, a man whose heart rate seemed to remain stubbornly low whether he was taking a corner at three hundred kilometers an hour or choosing between sourdough and rye at the local bakery. He didnât do drama. He didnât do frantic.
It began on a Thursday in early December. The last of his post-season debriefs and PR commitments had finally wound down, leaving them with a clear, uninterrupted stretch of weeks before the simulator work for the next car would inevitably drag him back to the MTC. They had planned a thoroughly lazy fortnight, no flights, no packed schedules, just pure, unadulterated domesticity.
The first sign that something was amiss didn't arrive with a dramatic flourish. It arrived with a cup of tea.
Oscar was sitting on the plush cream sofa, his iPad resting against his thighs as he reviewed some telemetry data from the final race, ld habits died hard, and his brain never fully shut off. You were sitting on the other end, curled into a tight ball beneath a heavy knit blanket that you had dragged from the bedroom.
"You're quiet," Oscar noted softly, his eyes not leaving the screen but his head tilting slightly in your direction. His voice had that characteristic Melbourne cadence, even, low, and laced with a gentle, dry warmth.
"Just cozy," you murmured. Your voice sounded thicker than usual, a little raspy around the edges, like dry autumn leaves scraping across pavement.
Oscar paused. His thumb hovered over the glass screen. He didn't say anything immediately, that wasn't his style, but his internal radar, normally tuned to the subtle mechanical vibrations of a racing chassis, suddenly recalibrated itself entirely to you. He looked up, his calm, dark eyes locking onto your face.
You were pale, save for a high, unnatural flush that bloomed across the bridge of your nose and the tops of your cheekbones. Your eyes looked glassy, heavy-lidded, reflecting the dim afternoon light with a strange, watery sheen.
"Are you warm enough?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual as he set the iPad down on the coffee table.
"Mhm. Perfect." You pulled the blanket tighter around your chin, shivering despite the fact that the apartmentâs heating was humming away at a comfortable twenty-one degrees.
Oscar stood up, his tall, lean frame moving with that unhurried, deliberate grace that defined him. He walked over to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and set it to boil. He didn't ask if you wanted tea; he just made it. He chose a chamomile blend, adding a generous, heavy-handed dollop of honey, the way his mother used to do when he was a kid back in Australia.
When he walked back into the living room, carrying the steaming mug, you chose that exact moment to let out a sudden, sharp sneeze.
Oscar flinched. It wasn't a massive, dramatic leap backward, but a highly visible, full-body twitch, a sudden tightening of his shoulders and a sharp intake of breath, his hands instinctively steadying the mug so the hot liquid wouldn't spill. He stared at you, his eyes wide for a fraction of a second before his expression flattened back into its usual carefully guarded composure.
"Bless you," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
"Thanks," you wheezed, reaching a hand out from beneath the fortress of wool.
When your fingers brushed against his to take the mug, Oscar froze. Your skin wasn't just warm; it felt like a radiator that had been left on high for hours. Your fingertips were burning against his naturally cool hands.
Without a word, Oscar didn't let go of the mug until it was safely in your lap. Instead of returning to his side of the couch, he dropped to his knees on the floor directly in front of you. The sudden proximity made you blink heavily.
He didn't answer. He simply raised his right hand, the back of his knuckles smooth and cool, and pressed them gently against your forehead.
The contrast was instantaneous. You let out a soft, involuntary sigh at the cold relief of his skin, leaning into his touch. Oscar, however, felt his chest tighten. Your skin was radiating a dry, baking heat. The fever wasn't just creeping in; it had already set up camp.
"Right," Oscar said, his voice entirely devoid of panic but carrying a new, absolute authority. He withdrew his hand, already mentally organizing a checklist. "You're burning up."
"I'm just a little tired," you tried to protest, but the words were cut off by another sudden sneeze.
Again, Oscar flinched, his head jerking back slightly as if dodging an invisible blow in a boxing ring. It was an involuntary, physical reaction to your illness, a bizarre manifestation of his sudden, overwhelming desire to shield you from the very air you were breathing.
"That's the second time," he murmured, his eyes tracking the way your shoulders shook. "And you're shaking. Stay here. Don't move."
"I wasn't planning on running a marathon," you muttered into your tea, but the humor was weak, drowned out by the heavy lethargy settling deep into your bones.
Oscar vanished down the hallway. You could hear the distant, methodical opening and closing of cabinets in the master bathroom. He wasn't rummaging; he was selecting. When he returned, he was armed with a digital thermometer, a fresh bottle of ibuprofen, a box of tissues, and a massive, oversized McLaren team hoodie that he practically lived in during travel days.
He dropped the hoodie onto your lap. "Put that on. Your clothes are too thin."
"Oscar, itâs huge on me."
"Good. More insulation." He turned on the thermometer, waiting for the digital beep. "Open up."
You obeyed, slipping the plastic tip under your tongue. Oscar stood over you, his hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his sweatpants, looking for all the world like a race engineer waiting for a crucial telemetry reading during a red-flag stoppage. His face was a mask of calm, but his eyes were scanning every detail, the dark circles under your eyes, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your hands trembled slightly against the ceramic mug.
The thermometer beeped. Oscar took it, tilting the small screen toward the light.
A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch formed at the corner of his jaw. It was the only outward sign that his internal alarm bells were suddenly blaring at maximum volume. A driver who spent his life managing tire degradation and brake temperatures knew exactly what numbers meant. And this number meant danger.
"Okay," Oscar said smoothly, his voice dropping into that rhythmic, soothing register he used over the team radio when things were going sideways on track. "The couch is done. Weâre moving you to the bed."
"But I want to watch the show-"
"I'll move the iPad. I'll move the tea. I'll carry you if I have to, but you're getting into bed." He didn't give you a choice. He reached down, carefully setting your mug on the table, and then extended his hands toward you.
When you tried to stand, your knees felt like spun sugar. You swayed, a sudden wave of vertigo washing over you, and you instinctively reached out for him.
Oscar caught you before your brain could even register the fall. His arms wrapped around your waist and back, pulling you flush against his chest. He was solid, unyielding, and incredibly grounded. Without a single grunt of exertion, he lifted you cleanly off your feet, tucking you into his side as if you weighed nothing at all.
You buried your face into the crook of his neck, your hot breath ghosting across his skin. Oscar swallowed hard, his grip tightening as he carried you down the dimly lit hallway and into the bedroom.
The sheets were cool, but Oscar didn't just dump you there. He laid you down with an almost comical level of precision, ensuring your head hit the center of the pillows perfectly. He pulled the thick duvet up to your chin, tucking the edges beneath your shoulders until you were practically mummified.
"Oscar, I'm going to melt," you complained weakly, though you didn't actually make any move to break free.
"You need to sweat it out. And your hands are still cold," he countered, his logic unassailable. He popped two ibuprofen tablets from the blister pack and handed them to you alongside a fresh glass of water he had seemingly conjured from thin air. "Drink. All of it."
You swallowed the pills, the cool water soothing your raw throat. When you set the glass down, Oscar was already moving around the room with singular focus. He closed the thick blackout curtains, cutting off the drab London twilight and plunging the room into a warm, gentle gloom. He plugged in a small humidifier by the nightstand, filling it with water and a few drops of eucalyptus oil until a fine, fragrant mist began to curl into the air.
He was a man who optimized systems for a living. Now, he was optimizing your recovery.
"Are you staying?" you asked softly, your eyelids already feeling as heavy as lead weights as the medication began its slow work.
Oscar looked down at you from the side of the bed. He had already changed into an old t-shirt and shorts, his hair a little messy from where heâd rubbed his hand through it.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said simply.
He climbed into the bed beside you, moving with immense care so as not to disturb the blankets he had so meticulously arranged. He didn't lie down properly; instead, he propped himself up against the headboard, his long legs stretched out beneath the covers, placing himself like a silent, protective sentinel right next to you.
You shifted, dragging your blanket-wrapped body closer until your head rested against his thigh. Oscar didn't hesitate. His large, warm hand found its way to your shoulder, his fingers gently kneading the tense, aching muscles through the thick fabric of his oversized hoodie.
For a long time, the only sounds in the room were the soft hum of the humidifier and the rhythmic, heavy sound of your breathing. Oscar stared straight ahead, his mind calculating timelines, how long the fever would take to break, when the next dose of medicine was due, what groceries he needed to order to keep the kitchen stocked with liquids.
Suddenly, your chest hitched.
Oscar's entire body went rigid. His hand stopped moving on your shoulder. He froze, his eyes darting down to your face just in time to see you let out a violent, muffled sneeze into the pillow.
Oscar flinched so hard his back hit the headboard with a soft thud. He closed his eyes for a brief second, letting out a slow, controlled breath through his nose, before opening them to look down at you with a mixture of profound concern and mild, exasperated trauma.
"You really have no warning with those, do you?" he murmured, his voice laced with that dry, deadpan Aussie humor.
"Sorry," you mumbled into the pillow, your voice sounding even worse now. "Did I scare you?"
"I don't get scared," Oscar lied smoothly, his hand resuming its gentle, rhythmic stroking of your arm. "I was just... checking the structural integrity of the headboard."
"Go to sleep," he whispered, his tone softening into something so tender it made your heart ache more than your throat. "I've got you."
The middle of the night was when the flu truly showed its teeth.
Sometime around three in the morning, the fever peaked. You woke up in a state of confused, disoriented misery, your skin drenched in a cold, sticky sweat while your core felt like it was being scorched by an open flame. You were shivering violently, your teeth literally chattering together, a low, pathetic groan escaping your lips before you could stop it.
The moment that tiny sound cut through the silence of the dark bedroom, Oscar was awake. He didn't stir slowly or blink away sleep; he was instantly, totally alert, as if a green light had just flashed in his mind.
"Hey," he murmured, his voice rough and deep from sleep but entirely present. "Hey, look at me."
He shifted, sliding down the pillows until he was level with you. In the dim light filtering through the crack in the curtains, you could see the intense, unwavering focus in his eyes. He reached out, his hand instantly finding your face. His knuckles met your cheek, and he let out a sharp, quiet breath.
"You're boiling," he muttered.
"Oscar, it hurts," you whispered, tears of sheer physical exhaustion pricking the corners of your eyes. "Everything hurts."
To anyone else, Oscar Piastri was a brick wall, unreadable, stoic, cool under immense pressure. But to you, in the dark of a fever-ridden winter night, that stoicism transformed into an absolute, unshakeable anchor. He didn't panic. He didn't get overwhelmed by your distress. He simply became the calm center of your storm.
"I know. I know it does," he said softly, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear that had escaped down your temple. "The fever is just fighting it off. You're okay. I'm right here."
He threw back the heavy duvet, ignoring your small cry of protest at the sudden influx of cool air. "We need to get your temperature down. Just trust me."
He left the bed for less than a minute, returning with a clean, soft washcloth and a bowl of cool water. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his long frame casting a protective shadow over you. Very gently, with the patience of someone handling a priceless, fragile artifact, he pressed the damp cloth to your forehead.
You gasped at the cold shock, but within seconds, the relief washed over you. Oscar didn't stop there. He wiped down your face, your neck, and the pulse points on your wrists, his movements slow, deliberate, and endlessly patient.
Every time you shivered, his jaw would tighten, but his hands remained perfectly steady.
"Better?" he asked quietly, his eyes searching yours.
"A little," you croaked. "Can you... can you just hold me? I'm so cold."
Oscar paused. The rational, analytical part of his brain, the part that understood viral loads and contagion, knew that getting too close to a flu patient during peak fever was a surefire way to ruin his own training schedule. If he got sick, his winter fitness regimen would take a massive hit.
But Oscar didn't look at you like an athlete calculating risk. He looked at you like a man who loved you.
Without a word of complaint, he set the washcloth aside and climbed back under the sheets. He didn't care about the sweat, he didn't care about the germs. He pulled your shaking body directly against his chest, wrapping his long arms and legs around you until you were completely enveloped in his warmth. He was like a human furnace, his steady, slow heartbeat thumping right against your ear.
"You're going to get sick," you mumbled against his collarbone.
"Then I'll get sick," he replied, his chin resting gently on the top of your head. "But right now, you're the priority. Shut your eyes."
He began to trace slow, meaningless patterns on your back with his fingertips, circles, lines, the invisible tracks of circuits he knew by heart. Silverstone, Monaco, Spa. He mapped them out across your skin, a silent, rhythmic language of comfort that slowly, surely, began to lull your panicked, feverish mind back into the twilight of sleep.
Just as you were about to drift off, a sudden tickle in your nose made your eyes fly open. You tried to turn your head away, but you were locked tight in his embrace.
Oscar didn't just flinch this time; his entire torso jolted backward against the pillows, his breath catching in his throat as if he had just survived a major broadside collision on track. He stared down at the top of your head, his eyes wide in the dark, his heart rate visibly spiking against your cheek.
"Sorry," you mumbled sleepily, too exhausted to even feel guilty.
Oscar let out a long, slow exhale, his fingers restarting their slow sweep across your back. "That's too many," he muttered dryly. "I'm going to develop a permanent reflex if this keeps up."
"You're brave," you whispered.
"Incredibly," he agreed, his voice dropping to a soft, affectionate rumble. "Now sleep."
When morning arrived, the gray London light filtered through the edges of the curtains, bringing with it a dull, freezing rain that splattered against the glass.
You woke up feeling as though you had been run over by a very large, very heavy truck, but the suffocating, terrifying heat of the night before had finally receded into a dull, manageable ache. The fever had broken.
Oscar was gone from the bed, but the space beside you was still warm.
A few minutes later, the bedroom door creaked open. Oscar walked in carrying a large wooden tray. He looked slightly disheveled, his hair was sticking up in odd directions, and there was a faint smudge of something dark on his forearm, but his expression was one of total, focused determination.
On the tray sat a bowl of steaming chicken broth, a plate of dry toast cut into perfect triangles, a fresh glass of orange juice, and a neat array of cold medicines.
"You're awake," he said, setting the tray down on the nightstand. He immediately reached out, the back of his hand testing your forehead. He let out a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh of relief. "Temperature's down. Still warm, but you're not a radiator anymore."
"Did you make that?" you asked, nodding toward the broth.
"I ordered the ingredients express at six AM," Oscar admitted, pulling the pillows up behind your back so you could sit up. "And then I spent the last forty-five minutes ensuring I didn't burn the apartment down. It's from a recipe my mum texted me. She told me if I messed it up, sheâd fly over here and do it herself."
You smiled, the movement stretching your chapped lips. "Thank you, Osc."
He picked up the spoon, blew on the broth with painstaking care, and held it up to your lips.
"Oscar, I can eat by myself," you laughed weakly, reaching for the spoon.
He pulled it back slightly, his expression remaining completely deadpan. "I've entered full pamper mode. It's a non-negotiable directive from team management. Open up."
You couldn't help but chuckle, which turned into a slight cough, but you obeyed. The broth was warm, salty, and incredibly soothing. Oscar fed you the first few spoonfuls with absolute gravity, his hand perfectly steady, his eyes watching you to ensure you were swallowing properly.
Once he was satisfied that you weren't going to collapse, he handed over the spoon and sat back on the edge of the bed, watching you eat.
"Did you sleep at all?" you asked, looking at the faint shadows under his eyes.
"Plenty," he lied effortlessly. "I'm an elite athlete. I can sleep anywhere, under any conditions."
"You were awake every time I moved."
"That was just my fast reaction times," he countered, a tiny, rare smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Gotta keep the reflexes sharp during the off-season. Sneeze defense training."
As if on cue, a sudden, sharp tickle hit your sinuses. You didn't even have time to put the spoon down before you let out a massive, unannounced sneeze.
Oscarâs smirk vanished instantly. His entire body leaped backward about six inches, his shoulders hunching up toward his ears, his hands flying up in a defensive, half-formed guard. He stared at you, blinking rapidly, his chest heaving with a sudden burst of adrenaline.
You froze, the spoon hovering in mid-air, before you burst into a fit of breathless, raspy laughter.
"It's not funny," Oscar said, though the tips of his ears were turning a distinct shade of pink. He lowered his hands, smoothing down his t-shirt with an effort at reclaiming his dignity. "You're like an unexploded ordnance. Thereâs no countdown. No warning lights. Just... boom."
"I told you I was sorry," you giggled, wiping your nose with a tissue he quickly handed you. "You look like you're dodging a crash."
"I've avoided multi-car pileups at Spa that were less stressful than sitting next to your nose right now," he muttered dryly, though he was already reaching out to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
His fingers lingered on your cheek, his touch incredibly soft. The humor faded from his eyes, replaced by that deep, steady warmth that he rarely showed the rest of the world, but kept entirely reserved for you.
"How are you really feeling?" he asked softly.
"Better," you said honestly, leaning into his hand. "Still weak, and everything tastes a bit like cardboard, but the fire is gone."
"Good." He leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the center of your forehead, right where the fever had been raging just hours before. "Because you're stuck in this bed for the next three days at least. I've already cancelled the grocery run and ordered everything to be delivered. You're doing nothing but resting, watching rubbish television, and letting me take care of you."
"Is that a team order, driver Piastri?"
"Strict compliance is required," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. "No exceptions."
For the next forty-eight hours, Oscar was true to his word. He became a ghost in the apartment, always present but moving with a quiet, efficient purpose that ensured you never had to lift a finger.
He monitored your medicine schedule with a precision that would have made the McLaren garage proud. Every four hours on the dot, he would appear by the bedside with a fresh glass of water and the exact dosage required. He kept a running log in the notes app on his phone, temperatures, times, symptoms, treating your recovery like a crucial engineering problem that required a perfect solution.
When you grew tired of the bedroom, he executed a flawless transfer back to the living room, building an elaborate, multi-layered fort of pillows and blankets on the sofa that he deemed "aerodynamically optimized for maximum comfort."
He sat with you through hours of terrible reality television, shows he would normally never have tolerated for a single second. He didn't complain once. He just sat there, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, letting you rest your heavy head against his chest while he occasionally offered dry, devastatingly witty commentary on the contestants.
And through it all, his "sneeze reflex" remained fully active. By day three, it had become a running joke between you. You would feel a tickle, take a sharp breath, and Oscar would instantly stiffen beside you, his eyes darting toward you like a soldier spotting a flare in the night.
"You're getting better at the dodge," you remarked on the third afternoon, curled up against his side as the credits rolled on another episode.
"I'm adapting," Oscar said, his tone perfectly even. "It's all about anticipating the apex of the sneeze. If I can predict the trajectory, I can minimize the splash zone."
"I'm effective," he corrected, turning his head to look down at you.
The color had finally returned to your face. The glassy, watery look in your eyes was gone, replaced by their usual brightness. Your skin was cool to the touch, your breathing deep and easy. The flu had run its course, defeated by time, medicine, and the absolute, unwavering care of a boy who refused to leave your side.
Oscar looked at you for a long moment, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. For all his stoicism, for all his quiet, reserved nature, the look in his eyes right now was entirely transparent. It was pure, unadulterated relief.
"You're back," he whispered softly.
"Thanks to you," you said, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. "You're a really good nurse, Osc."
"Don't tell Logan or Lando," he murmured, a genuine, soft smile finally breaking across his face as he pulled you close, burying his face in your hair. "They'll start asking me to look after them when they get a cold, and I don't think my reflexes could handle Lando sneezing."
You laughed, the sound clear and bright, echoing through the quiet apartment. Oscar held you tight, his heart beating a steady, calm rhythm against yours, completely content in the quiet safety of the winter break, where the only race that mattered was the one he had just helped you win.
