Request— will smith x reader
Will getting the dreaded norovirus and getting really sick. He tries to play it off at first, thinking he just ate something bad and tries to hide how bad it is until he starts throwing up etc.
Super sweet caretaking, fluff and comfort, Will just wanting you to comfort him because he’s feeling so bad but he’s also embarrassed he’s so sick. Thanks so much !!
Under the weather
summary: When Will starts feeling sick after practice, he tries to brush it off as bad food and pretend he’s fine. But once the norovirus hits hard, he can’t hide how miserable he is anymore. Embarrassed and vulnerable, Will lets you take care of him through the worst of it, finding comfort in your steady presence, soft touches, and quiet reassurance.
wc: 2.8k
warnings: Norovirus/stomach bug, vomiting, nausea, fever, sickness, caretaking, mild embarrassment, comfort/fluff, very soft Will.
masterlist// imagines masterlist
Will was a terrible liar when he was sick.
Not because he didn’t try. He did. He tried with the same stubborn focus he brought to everything else, jaw set, shoulders squared, acting like sheer willpower could bully his body into cooperating. But you knew him too well. You knew the way his smile usually came easy, bright and crooked and boyish, and you knew the difference between that and the thin little curve he gave you when he walked into the apartment after practice.
His hair was still damp from his shower, hoodie pulled up even though the apartment was warm, and he dropped his keys into the bowl by the door with less noise than usual. That was the first sign.
The second was that he didn’t immediately come over to you.
Usually, Will came home like he had been waiting all day to find you again. Sometimes he wrapped around you from behind while you were cooking. Sometimes he flopped onto the couch with his head in your lap. Sometimes he came in talking before the door was even shut, telling you about practice, about something Macklin said, about a ridiculous chirp someone threw at him that he was absolutely going to reuse later.
Tonight, he just stood there for a second, blinking too slowly “Hey,” you said, lowering your phone. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Too quick. “I’m good" You stared at him, he avoided eye contact by pretending to look through the mail on the counter, even though most of it was junk and none of it had his name on it.
“Will.”
“What?” He glanced up, and the smile he gave you was painfully unconvincing. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Tired,” you repeated “Yeah. Hard skate.” He moved toward the kitchen like he was going to prove something, opening the fridge and staring inside with absolutely no intention of eating anything. His face had a washed-out look to it, the color in his cheeks uneven, and when he swallowed, his throat moved like even that took effort.
You stood, watching him carefully. “Did you eat after practice?”
“Not really hungry" that was the third sign, Will was always hungry, you crossed your arms. “You’re not hungry?” He shut the fridge. “I had, like… something earlier. I think it just didn’t sit right.”
“What did you eat?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged, too casual. “A sandwich. Maybe it was weird.”
“A weird sandwich?”
“Yeah.”
“From where?” He blinked at you, you lifted your brows, he sighed. “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember where you got the allegedly stomach-destroying sandwich?” “Babe,” he said, and there was a faint whine in it now, “don’t interrogate me.” You softened immediately, because beneath the stubbornness, he looked miserable. “Come here.”
“I’m okay.”
“Will.”
“I’m serious.” He tried to step around you, probably aiming for the couch, but his face changed halfway there. It was subtle at first—the quick press of his lips together, the way his hand went to his stomach, the sharp inhale through his nose.
Then he froze, your stomach dropped. “Will?”he didn’t answer, he just turned and moved fast toward the bathroom.
You followed close enough to hear the awful sound of him getting sick before you even reached the doorway “Oh, honey,” you murmured.
Will was on his knees in front of the toilet, one hand braced against the floor, the other gripping the edge of the seat. His shoulders shook as his body forced up whatever was left in him, and every bit of his earlier act disappeared. He looked young and pale and completely wrecked.
You moved behind him without hesitation, kneeling on the bath mat and gathering his hoodie away from his neck. He made a small, embarrassed sound, trying to turn his face from you “Don’t,” he rasped between heaves. “Don’t look.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“It’s gross.”
“You’re sick.”
“It’s still gross.” You rubbed slow circles over his back. “I’ve seen worse.”
“No, you haven’t.” You almost laughed, but he looked so pitiful that it came out as a soft breath instead. “Okay, maybe not. But I still love you.”
That only seemed to make him more embarrassed. He groaned, resting his forehead against his arm when the wave passed. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I thought it was just food.”
“Maybe it is,” you said gently, though the suddenness of it, the pallor, the way he was starting to tremble told you it was probably more than a bad sandwich. “Or maybe you caught something.” He made a face. “No.”
“Will.”
“No. Don’t say it.” You brushed damp hair back from his forehead. “The stomach bug has been going around.” He groaned again, this time with pure dread. “Don’t call it that.”
“Okay. I won’t.”
“I hate throwing up,” he mumbled, sounding so defeated that your chest ached. “Like, I actually hate it.”
“I know, baby.” the pet name slipped out soft, and he didn’t protest. That was another sign. Usually, if you babied him too obviously, he’d give you that playful little look and say something like, I’m a professional athlete, you know. Tonight, he just leaned slightly into your hand when you touched his cheek.
His skin was clammy, you reached for a clean washcloth, wet it with cool water, and pressed it gently to the back of his neck. Will exhaled shakily “That feels good,” he whispered.
“Yeah?” He nodded once, eyes squeezed shut, for a while, you just stayed there with him. You rubbed his back through each wave, murmured quiet reassurances when he apologized again and again, flushed the toilet, rinsed the cloth, brought him water to swish his mouth out with. He tried to insist he could handle it, but the moment he stood up, his knees wobbled.
“Whoa.” You caught him by the waist. “Slow.”
“I’m fine,” he said automatically, then immediately looked like he regretted speaking “You are not fine.”
“I’m…” He swallowed hard and leaned against you, all six feet of stubborn hockey player suddenly heavy and boneless. “Okay, maybe I’m not fine.”
“There we go. Progress.” His laugh was weak and short-lived. “I feel awful.”
“I know.”
“And disgusting.”
“You’re not disgusting.”
“I’m sweaty.”
“You’re sick.”
“My stomach hurts.” You guided him carefully toward the bedroom. “We’re going to get you changed, get you into bed, and I’m going to take care of you.” He looked over at you with tired, glassy eyes. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you to get sick.”
“I’ll wash my hands. I’ll clean everything. I’ll be careful.”
“But—”
“Will,” you said softly, stopping him beside the bed. “Let me take care of you.” His face crumpled just a little.
Not dramatically. Not like he was going to cry. But enough for you to see the fight go out of him, enough for the embarrassment to loosen its grip. He nodded, small and miserable, and let you help him out of his hoodie. He was burning hot and shivering at the same time.
You found him a clean T-shirt, one of the soft old ones he liked sleeping in, and a pair of sweats. He moved slowly, pausing every so often with his eyes closed, one hand pressed flat to his stomach. When he finally sank onto the bed, he curled instinctively onto his side.
You tucked the blanket around his hips, but not too high in case he got overheated. “I’m going to get you a bowl, water, and some stuff from the cabinet.”
His hand shot out and caught your wrist, you looked down, he was staring at your hand like he hadn’t meant to grab you but couldn’t quite let go. His fingers were warm and a little shaky “Can you stay for a second?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Your heart melted completely. “Of course., you sat on the edge of the bed, and he shifted closer, pressing his forehead against your thigh with a tiny, embarrassed sigh “Sorry,” he mumbled, you ran your fingers through his hair. “Stop apologizing.”
“I don’t like you seeing me like this.”
“Why?”
“Because.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m supposed to be, like… cool, that startled a laugh out of you, soft and fond. “Cool?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I really don’t think norovirus cares how cool you are.” He cracked one eye open. “You said it.”
“Sorry.”
“You said the word.”
“I did.” He groaned and hid his face against you. “I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying.”
“Feels like it.”
“I know.” You scratched gently at his scalp, the way that always made him go quiet. “But you’re going to be okay.”
For a few minutes, he let himself be comforted. Really comforted. He let you stroke his hair and press the cool cloth to his forehead. He let himself curl closer until his arm wrapped loosely around your leg, like keeping contact with you was the only thing anchoring him. Every once in a while, his stomach cramped and his whole body tightened, but you kept your voice low and steady until he breathed through it.
Then his eyes flew open, “Bowl,” he choked, you grabbed it just in time.
The next few hours blurred into a rhythm neither of you wanted but both of you fell into. Will got sick, you cleaned him up. He shivered, you adjusted the blanket. He overheated, you took it away. He muttered that he was sorry, and you told him, every single time, that he didn’t need to be.
At some point, you changed the sheets because he had sweated through them. At another point, you convinced him to take tiny sips of water, then an electrolyte drink, then stop when his stomach protested. You texted the team staff from his phone when he was too out of it to argue, letting them know he was sick and absolutely not coming in the next day.
He opened one eye when he heard the whoosh of the sent message “Traitor,” he whispered.
“You’re welcome.”
“They’re gonna chirp me.”
“They can chirp you from a safe, germ-free distance.”He looked pale against the pillow, lashes dark on his cheeks, but there was the faintest hint of a smile. “You’re bossy when I’m sick.”
“I’m bossy when you’re stubborn.”
“Same thing.”
“Exactly.” He made a weak sound that might have been a laugh, then immediately grimaced and curled tighter. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
“Sorry, baby.” His hand found yours under the edge of the blanket. He laced your fingers together and held on.
That was how you knew he was really feeling horrible. Will was affectionate on a normal day, but this was different. This wasn’t teasing touches in the kitchen or pulling you into his lap on the couch. This was quiet need. This was him too tired to pretend he didn’t want comfort. This was him squeezing your hand every time another wave of nausea rolled through him, breathing unevenly until you leaned close and whispered, “I’m here.”
Sometime after midnight, the worst of the vomiting slowed.
He was exhausted by then, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, cheeks flushed with fever. You sat beside him with one hand on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing while you watched for any sign he was going to be sick again “You should sleep,” he murmured.
“So should you.”
“I can’t.”
“Still nauseous?”
“A little.” He swallowed. “Mostly just feel gross.”
“You’re not gross.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep being wrong.” His mouth twitched, you leaned down and kissed his temple, careful and light. “You’re sick. That’s all.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, in a voice so small it made your throat tighten, he asked, “Can you lay with me?”
“You’re worried about getting me sick, remember?”
“I know.” His brows pulled together. “But I want you.” There it was. No joke, no deflection, no attempt at pretending he was okay, just Will, miserable and feverish and embarrassed, wanting you close.
You hesitated only long enough to grab hand sanitizer and make sure the bowl was within reach. Then you climbed carefully into bed beside him, staying over the blanket at first. Will immediately shifted toward you, but stopped himself halfway “I’m sweaty,” he warned.
“I don’t care.”
“I smell like sickness.”
“You smell like toothpaste and sadness.” That earned you a real laugh, weak but genuine, before he winced and pressed his face into the pillow. “Ow.”
“Sorry.”
“Worth it,” he whispered, you settled beside him, letting him decide how much contact he wanted. After a moment, he tucked his face against your shoulder, one hand bunching lightly in your shirt. He didn’t fully cuddle you the way he usually would. He was too uncomfortable for that. But he pressed close enough that you could feel the heat of his forehead against your collarbone.
You stroked his back in slow, steady passes “You’re doing so good,” you murmured.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re surviving.”
“Barely.”
“My brave hockey boy.” He made a noise of protest. “Don’t call me that.”
“You love it.”
“I’m too sick to fight you.”
“Convenient for me.” His fingers tightened in your shirt. “Don’t tell anyone I was this pathetic.”
“You’re not pathetic.”
“Babe.”
“What?”
“I asked you to lay with me because my tummy hurt.” You bit your lip to keep from smiling too hard. “And that’s very serious.”
“I’m never living this down.”
“I’ll take it to my grave.” He was quiet for a few seconds, then mumbled, “Macklin can never know.”
“Macklin will never know.”
“Or Barclay.”
“Especially not Barclay.”
“Or Reavo.”
“Absolutely not.” He sighed, satisfied, and melted a little more into you.
You kept rubbing his back until his breathing slowly evened out. Every few minutes, he startled awake, afraid he was going to be sick again, and every time you were there, brushing his hair away from his damp forehead, telling him he was okay. Eventually, he stopped fighting sleep.
By morning, he looked like he had gone several rounds with a truck, but the fever had eased a little and the nausea had settled enough for him to keep down a few sips of water.
He blinked awake to find you sitting against the headboard, one hand still resting in his hair, his voice was rough when he spoke. “You stayed awake?”
“Most of the night.” his face softened with guilt. “Baby.”
“Don’t start.”
“You should’ve slept.”
“You were sick.”
“You still should’ve slept.”
“You would’ve done the same for me.” He didn’t argue, because you both knew he would have. Will would have panicked quietly and hovered sweetly and done every single thing in his power to make you feel better. He would have slept on the floor beside the bathroom if he had to.
Instead, he dragged your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles “Thank you,” he whispered.
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m sorry you had to see all that.” You looked down at him, at his messy hair and tired eyes and the faint embarrassment still clinging to him even after everything. “Will, I love you when you’re scoring goals and being annoying and eating half the kitchen. I also love you when you have the world’s most dramatic stomach virus.”
His expression warmed, sleepy and soft. “Dramatic?”
“Extremely.”
“I was fighting for my life.”
“You told me norovirus ruined your career.”
“I was delirious.”
“You also said you were going to retire and become a lighthouse keeper.” He stared at you. “No, I didn’t.”
“You did.” His cheeks flushed, which was impressive considering how pale he still was. “Please forget that.”
“Never.” He groaned and turned his face into the pillow, but his hand stayed wrapped around yours. A few seconds later, muffled, he asked, “Can you still stay?”
You smiled, leaning down to kiss his hair. “Yeah. I’m staying.”
He shifted carefully, making room for you beside him again. This time, when you lay down, he didn’t hesitate before curling into you, head tucked beneath your chin, arm loose around your waist. He was still warm. Still exhausted. Still embarrassed in that sweet, boyish way that made you want to protect him from the entire world.
But he wasn’t pretending anymore.
He let you hold him. He let you comfort him. He let himself be sick and soft and needy, because with you, he didn’t have to be anything else.
Just Will.
Your Will.
And when he fell asleep again, his fingers were still tangled with yours.
