The Paddock Baby
Dad!Oscar Piastri x Sick!Daughter!reader
Summary: In which Oscar Piastrias daughter is unwell in the paddock but Oscar still has to attend to media duties but it's okay because all she wants is her daddy
Warnings: Mentions of stomach bug, fever, clingy, fluff, use of the names 'darling' and 'sweetie'
Oscar's heart was racing—not because of the usual tension of qualifying, or the anticipation of race day—but because of the little bundle of energy in his arms, the one that wasn’t so energetic today.
Three-year-old you, his child, were clinging to him like a koala on a tree. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, and your tiny little hands were gripping the collar of his shirt as if it were the only thing holding you to this world.
Oscar couldn’t help but chuckle softly as he glanced down at you, noting how you looked pale and slightly flushed from whatever bug had decided to strike you in the middle of a race weekend. You were still adorable in your tiny Mclaren-themed onesie which Zak had bought and insisted you wear at least once this weekend, your golden curls slightly damp from a nap he’d tried to coax you into. But now, the fever had set in, and all you wanted was your dad.
"Hey, little champ," he murmured softly, adjusting your position in his arms as he walked through the crowded paddock. “Feeling better?”
You sniffled into his neck, not answering, only curling in tighter. He could feel the heat from your forehead press against his skin, making his heart ache a little more.
"I know, I know," he said, trying to reassure you, though his own nerves were starting to creep up on him. The interviews were next, and there was no way he could skip them. It was one of the busiest weekends of the season, and he had to be at his best for his team and his sponsors.
He smiled as a couple of photographers waved at him, but when they saw the little one in his arms, their expressions softened. It was well-known that Oscar was a family man, but seeing him carrying his child in the paddock, his typically composed demeanor now a bit more fragile with a sick little one in his arms, was a different sight.
"Sorry, mate, she’s a bit under the weather today," Oscar said to one of the photographers who gave him an understanding look. He felt an unspoken wave of support and respect as they backed off, giving him some space.
As Oscar made his way toward the interview area, he could hear the voice of his team’s PR manager, Sarah, calling to him from behind. "Oscar, we're on in five minutes. Is she alright? Should we reschedule?"
He shook his head, trying to mask his concern with a smile. "No, no, we’re good. I’ll manage."
You let out a soft whimper, and Oscar felt his heart tug. "It's okay, darling. Daddy's got you." He whispered it over and over like a mantra, feeling like he was walking a fine line between being the Formula 1 driver everyone expected him to be and the dad he knew he was.
When they reached the media area, Oscar had to pause for a moment, adjusting your position in his arms so you weren’t pressing too hard against his chest. You were so small—he could easily hold you in one arm, but with how sick you were, you weren’t just heavy in weight, but emotionally heavy too.
“Alright,” he muttered to himself. "Let’s get this over with.”
As he sat down for the interview, you rested your head against his shoulder, the soft whimpers still escaping your mouth as you tried to fight the drowsiness the fever brought on.
The first couple of questions were normal enough. The reporters asked about the weekend, the car, his thoughts on qualifying, but they kept glancing at you. It was clear the baby in his arms was taking more attention than the typical line of questioning.
"Looks like you’ve got some company today, Oscar," one of the reporters remarked, chuckling lightly. "Your daughter doesn’t look too well."
Oscar gave a half-smile, nodding. "Yeah, she’s not feeling great. Poor thing’s got a stomach bug. But she’s a trooper."
He adjusted you slightly as you let out a tiny whine, causing a few of the reporters to give each other concerned looks. One of them, a woman with a kind smile, spoke up. “Do you want to take a break? We can reschedule, Oscar. You don’t have to do this right now.”
Oscar paused, his eyes darting between the interviewer and his daughter, who had now settled into the crook of his arm.
He could feel his own worries surfacing. He loved racing, but you—his little one—came first. And this moment wasn’t just about him; it was about showing that balance between his career and his life as a dad.
"No," he said softly but firmly, "We’re almost done here, and I promised my team I’d be here. Besides, she seems to like being close to Daddy right now. I think we’ll be okay."
Another reporter asked a question, but Oscar was no longer entirely focused. His eyes were on you—your little face pressed against him, still hot with fever, but now calm in his embrace. His heart ached, but it also swelled with love. You were his world. You were the only constant in his life, even when racing seemed to take over everything.
He answered the next couple of questions with a professionalism that had taken years to perfect, but internally, his mind was a whirl of concern for you.
The cameras flashed, and one of the photographers caught a candid shot of Oscar gazing down at you, looking both tender and tired. It was a raw, unpolished moment. The kind of shot that would go viral.
As soon as the interview wrapped up, he stood and immediately took a deep breath of relief. Sarah, his PR manager, was waiting nearby. "You did great, Oscar. But seriously, let’s get her checked out. You can’t work with her like this."
Oscar nodded, already starting to walk toward the medical area. You were still in his arms, though now your eyes were closed, and your little breaths were more shallow, as if sleep was trying to claim you.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” he whispered. “Daddy’s got you. Just hang in there a little longer.”
After a short consultation with the paddock doctor, they confirmed it was just a mild stomach bug, and thankfully, there was nothing more serious to worry about. They gave Oscar some fluids for you and suggested he keep you hydrated.
By the time they left the medical area, Oscar felt a sense of relief wash over him. You were still drowsy, but at least you were no longer too hot to the touch. He cradled you against him as he walked back to the team’s garage.
"I think someone’s ready for a nap," Oscar murmured, brushing a lock of hair from your face. You shifted slightly in his arms, now clinging to him in your sleep, but the tension had left your little body.
Oscar’s phone buzzed with messages from his manager and sponsors, but for the first time all day, he felt the weight of it all slide off his shoulders. As he walked through the paddock, he realized something. His world wasn’t just here in the garage, or on the track, or under the spotlight—it was also right here, in his arms.
His daughter.
His little champion.
The team would have to wait for a bit. He had the most important thing in the world to focus on right now.
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