Your husband is grumpy by nature… but when he's sick? He's an absolute drama queen nightmare. Lucky for him, you love the whiny little asshole anyway.
Tags: Fluff, drabble (~700 words), established relationship, married couple, gender neutral reader, pet names, sick fic, hurt/comfort (light), Patrick Bateman being a dramatic baby, grumpy x sunshine vibes, domestic fluff.
Imagine managing to marry the grumpiest, most dramatic dork in all of NYC—the kind of guy who’s ready to draft a will the second he catches a cold. Always exaggerating, always pouting, always dropping thousands on unnecessary specialist visits just because he felt a “small tingle” somewhere he insists it shouldn’t be.
One night, Patrick’s knocked out cold from ibuprofen, sleeping like the dead while you read under the soft glow of the nightstand lamp. Then he snorts—loud, sudden, obnoxious enough to jolt himself awake. His face cycles through sheer panic, disgust, and existential dread, as if the idea that a man like him (perfectly groomed, manicured, immaculate) could possibly snort is a personal betrayal.
“Did I—” he stutters, bare chest heaving, sweat gleaming in the moonlight. “Oh my God, I have to—I need an ENT. It could be a deviated septum. I’ll probably need surgery, Jesus Christ!”
You sit frozen, book clutched like a shield. “You’re a fucking paranoiac, Patrick,” you finally say, though you don’t dare touch him yet. “A paranoiac with a tiny flu. A small one. The doctor told you this twice—or maybe ten times.”
“I know what I’m feeling—” He coughs with theatrical agony, as if death is knocking. “You… don’t understand… my body doesn’t work… it’s burning—”
“It’s a fever.”
“I’m fucking dying, you heartless—”
He cuts off when you shift closer on the bed. “Heartless what? Go on.”
Patrick presses his lips together and flops dramatically back onto the pillows. His face is flushed from fever, soft grown-out bangs falling into his eyes, but you know he’s watching you—red-rimmed, pitiful. Your poor, ridiculous baby.
“I just… I guess I want to die because I feel like shit,” he rants, voice cracking toward a sob. “I’ll miss the opening of the—” another cough, “—new yacht club next week.”
You shake your head and stand to grab another pill, but the second you move, he panics.
“Where are you going?!”
“Meds. I’ll get you more—it’ll help,” you reply, calm and affectionate in that way reserved only for your husband. “Clean your nose with the sea-water spray on your nightstand. I’ll be right back.”
Patrick tries to sit up, leaning against the pillows, but he slumps immediately, whimpering and pressing a palm to his forehead, grumbling curses under his breath. You roll your eyes and return to help. He’s heavy—all muscle, long limbs—but you manage to prop him upright. He doesn’t thank you, but the relief in his eyes is obvious.
“Don’t… leave me for long,” he murmurs as you step away. “I’ll be here.”
You cackle. “I know you will.”
Dear God.
Even from the bathroom, rummaging for meds, you can feel those pleading doe eyes following you in the mirror. At some point, you’re half-convinced he’s manipulating you with guilt… but you still feel bad for him.
When you return, Patrick’s slipped sideways again, hugging a pillow like a lifeline, eyes closed, breathing hard through his mouth. You approach slowly, balancing a fresh glass of water, the upscale pharmacy’s white pill bottle, and a damp white linen towel to cool him down.
He exhales shakily as you press the cold fabric to his forehead; a tiny smile tugs at his dry lips. “Thank… you.”
“You’ll be fine,” you whisper, sitting on the bed’s edge beside him. “I know it sucks right now, but you’ll get better soon. I love you, my grumpy babyboy.”
Patrick cracks one eye open, thinking you’re not looking. “You won’t sleep in another room? I could infect you.”
You smile and peck his red nose. “Too late. If we both get sick, we’ll have to call your brother to take care of both of us.”
He almost chokes. “Fuck—no, no, no, no, no. No Sean. No.”
You seize the moment to pop the pill into his mouth like he’s a stubborn child. He frowns at the bitterness but swallows anyway. You hand him the water; within fifteen minutes, he’s drifting off in your arms—limp, vulnerable, like a small wounded lamb.
