you're proactively planning your fertility like a responsible med student. dr. abbot, however, would greatly prefer you planned literally anything else.
pairing: jack abbot x angel reader
warnings: just a short lil drabble, fluff, anxiety and overthinking, age gap mentioned, reader is twenty something, reader is a med student, mentions of fertility, flirting in the workplace, implied sexual content, questionable reproductive proposals, basically just angel reader asking abbot to be her baby daddy
wc: 0.5k
“— and it’s not even like she means to do it, you know? Like she calls and it starts normal, totally normal, we’re talking about groceries or whatever, and then BAM, like clockwork, it’s ‘so how are your evaluations going’ and ‘have you thought about residency yet’ and I’m just sitting there like… yeah, mom, funny you mention it, I think about it all the time, constantly, obsessively, in a way that is probably not healthy for my long-term psychological stability.”
You cast a sidelong glance at Dr. Abbot, brows arched expectantly, silently imploring him to jump in and extinguish the slow, smoldering anxiety that has spontaneously combusted in your mind and body and soul.
He doesn’t bite.
Instead, he offers you his trademark stoic gaze, effectively deflating your balloon of expectation on impact.
“Your evaluations will be fine,” he says shortly. “You’ll match. Now type, please.”
“Sorry, charting, right. Doing that now,” you mumble, snapping dutifully back to the glowing screen like a golden retriever who briefly forgot what sit meant.
Your fingers move with genuine, industrious purpose for approximately three whole seconds before inevitably, you’re speaking again.
“But, then she mentions marriage and having children, multiple children, as if one isn’t intimidating enough, because why wouldn’t she? Perfect natural segue. And now all I can think about is this random fertility rabbit hole I fell into afterward. Which, by the way, was a lot. That was a lot of information. Like I’m literally sitting here as we speak, losing eggs by the second, practically fossilizing before your very eyes.”
You hear him release a short huff of air. Can picture him pressing his forefinger into the space between his browsz
“Kid, you’re — what, all of twenty-something?”
You wave a dismissive hand, not looking up. “Twenty-something with eggs dropping like New Year’s confetti at midnight. Tick tock.”
“You’re not even close to egg depletion,” he says dryly, nudging your chair slightly with his foot. “Trust your attending on this.”
You roll your eyes, immensely grateful he can’t see your face.
“Easy for you to say. Your biology lets you remain fertile until, like, the heat death of the universe.”
“Wasn’t aware you’d taken such a keen interest in my reproductive potential.”
You swivel around in your chair without warning, knees knocking lightly into the desk as you tip your chin up at him.
“Well, listen, I was actually thinking that if I hit a certain age and still have no romantic prospects, we could make a pact,” you muse. “You generously contribute your objectively excellent genetic blueprint, I carry the resulting small human. Voila, instant legacy preserved. It's a win-win.”
The words have barely left your lips when Abbot nearly sputters coffee all over his pressed white coat. His hand shoots up swiftly, coughing discreetly as his gaze flicks sharply, incredulously, up at you.
“Jesus — at least give me a heads-up before you proposition me for genetic samples,” he mutters under his breath, eyeing you cautiously now, like you’re a lab specimen who’s suddenly started speaking fluent Latin.
You gasp, pulling a hand to your chest. “Dr. Abbot, please — I was referring exclusively to a very professional sperm donation arrangement. Entirely above board, paperwork involved, sterile conditions, the whole thing.”
“Of course,” he drawls, skepticism coloring his voice. “Nothing questionable about that.”
“It’s all part of my incredibly thorough contingency plan. That I created last night,” you assure him, nodding fervently. “Proactive and forward-thinking, exactly the qualities you’re always nagging me to develop. See? I listen.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, fixing you with a stern, pensive look. “Face the screen.”
You obediently face the screen, fingers tapping out a half-hearted sentence once again, before your curiosity inevitably gets the best of you again, eyes flicking over your should to peer at him through lowered lashes.
“Not hearing a hard no,” you hum.
“It is a hard no,” he starts, leaning in to talk against your ear, “because If I decide to help you out with that particular problem, it’s going to be the old-fashioned way.”
He straightens smoothly, unbothered as he walks away, leaving your heart stumbling over itself in dizzy little circles.
Awards Buzz talks with Shawn Hatosy about his recent Emmy Nomination, what it means to be part of The Pitt, and what he is looking forward to seeing happen in season 3. pt 4/4
BABY LOGIC
jack abbot x f! reader | 1.5k
fluff, suggestive themes, no use of y/n
ft baby abbot and robby
Jack had always thought your daughter would grow up to be a genius. You were an emergency medicine resident, he was an attending, the knowledge transfer was bound to happen. That’s what anyone would’ve thought. But, boy was he wrong.
His adorable little pocket sunshine of a daughter is currently nibbling on his scrub top. Jack wants to chastise her, tell her it carries the worst of the hospital in it, but she’s six months old and incapable of comprehension.
What she was trying to reach? Milk. Your little one does not understand biology. That he can let it slide, no half-year old kid would know it. But shouldn’t she know by now that only her mom will be able to feed her?
How many times in the middle of the night has Jack woken up to find her screaming her ears off, only to wake you up and deposit the bundle of sweetness into your lap with a kiss to your forehead and an apology in his mouth?
Gladly Jack would feed her if he were able to produce milk. But humans and other mammals alike, males are not genetically evolved to nourish their offspring. Because if he could, he would.
“Bug, there’s nothing here,” he tries telling her. Which does nothing good, except earn a chuckle Jack knew very personally. The voice and its owner — a perpetual pain in his butt since the first year of med school — make themselves known with another chuckle. To which Jack can only groan, “what’re you doin’ here?”
“Here to see my goddaughter.” Robby and his insane timing. Why must he choose this specific moment to display his affection? Of every low point Jack has quietly accumulated throughout his life, Robby has been there. It is impossible to figure out how Robby knows these embarrassing moments and decides to pop up, but he always does.
The statistical probability of this is insulting. Of all the rooms in this hospital, of all the moments in a day, Robby walks in for the exact one where Jack is being actively suckled at by his infant daughter. He could’ve walked in when Jack was skillfully changing her diaper — wait that’s not better. Thing is it’s unfair, with drool on his shirt and a six-month-old clamped to his pec, is when Robby decides to be a present and loving godfather.
“How did you know I was here?” Jack prods, all the while trying to keep your baby from latching onto his nipples through his shirt, it not being much of a barrier at all.
Robby completely ignores Jack’s question — like he usually does, like that one time when Jack asked him, directly, in plain English, whether he'd eaten the rest of his leftovers from the fridge, and Robby held eye contact with him for four full seconds and then asked if Jack had seen the new attending in neuro — and nods towards the baby, “she good?”
“Yeah, she’s — she’s just —” Jack cannot bring himself to say out loud that his daughter is gnawing at his muscles in hopes of quenching her thirst. Some things you just don't say. Some things you carry alone.
“God. Is she trying to — feed from you?” Robby throws his head back in a bashful laugh. Jack feels his hands itch to put him in a chokehold, the only thing keeping him away from doing that being his current object of affection, his lovely daughter. The laugh alone tells him this is a story that'll be recounted many years to come. Told at every bar they ever drink at, Christmas, at the next three people's weddings, at Jack's funeral probably, Robby having outlived the former purely out of spite. “Told you to go easy on the weights,” Robby continues, pushing past Jack’s glares. But the latter can only seem so intimidating with little sunshine on his arms, babbling with spit oozing from the corner of her mouth.
“You know what, why don’t you take her?” Jack practically shoves the baby into Robby’s arms, the latter immediately straightening up to hold her without missing a beat.
As Jack sorts out the spit situation, little bug has found residence in Robby’s chest, pawing at his scrub — worse condition than Jack's — as she tries to figure out a way to milk. So, the shape and geography of the area wasn’t the problem; your daughter is. If she’s that hungry, shouldn’t she latch onto the bottle? Apparently bottles are beneath her, as she pays them no mind, only snuggling deeper into Robby’s embrace now.
"See, it's not just me."
Like always, Robby ignores Jack's tantrums and rocks her, swaying from left to right as he eyes Jack, who now seems very victorious about establishing the fact that his daughter needs to be latched no matter the anatomy and physiology, and maybe is a little dumber than he’d thought. That is a terrible thing to think about a baby — much more, to think about his own baby — but that’s where Jacks head is at.
Thank god you decided to walk in that exact moment, confusion painting your face as you raise one eyebrow at the situation. Like a sunflower finding sun, your baby slots herself against Robby, straining her neck to find you, her own North Star. “What’s going on here?”
Jack has never felt luckier. That’s an overstatement, he knows. He’s felt lucky everyday since you came into his life, but particularly now with you glancing up at him with smile laced lips, and soft sighs from working for four hours straight without feeding.
“Our beloved daughter missed you, is all.” Missed you and your boobs, and tried to burrow into mine and Robby's, is what he doesn't say. Like she was summoned, your baby raises her arms from Robby’s hold, babbling a string of bah-bah-bah, exact to her social development, the little genius she apparently is, now that she has you in her sights.
The same child who spent twenty minutes trying to nurse from two men with no relevant equipment is now performing perfect developmental milestones on cue. Fine. She'll be fine.
Walking closer to both men, your own arms open, reaching in the air, a laugh bubbling up from your throat, the soft kind, the honest kind, the full kind. Jack sees your body sense little bug, smell, sound, and everything heightened. Coupled with the laughter, your letdown reflex makes itself known as two perfect patches of wetness coat your blouse, the warmth of it you register almost immediately, eyes darting between both Jack and Robby, a little insecure, a little flustered.
While Jack has seen you in everything and nothing, Robby hasn’t — of course, why would he? — and a redness climbs up his face, tinging his ears pink, as he tries to divert his gaze from your chest to the baby in his arms, who is now oblivious and content now that she has you within grasp.
Jack watches this unfold in real time. Robby, undone by a biological reflex. The ears going first, embarrassment creeping up from behind him, working its way forward.
Robby hands her over to you, immediately taking a step back, putting distance between you both as he rubs the nape of his neck with his hand, stuttering, “uhmm — I think— I should go.”
Not waiting for a response, Robby walks past you both, still completely red. Jack had never thought a biological response would petrify his friend, what with the countless number of bizarre things they've collectively and individually witnessed during their careers. A man who has genuinely seen everything emergency medicine has to throw at a person, walking very quickly away from a breastfeeding-adjacent situation like it might follow him into the hall.
Little bug throws her arms over your face, trying to grab your attention from her godfather.
“Poor Robby.” You mutter as you start feeding your daughter.
“He’ll live,” Jack replies instantly, though he knows the image of Robby's ears going full red while he stared intensely at the crown of the baby's head will sustain him through at least two more shifts. Maybe three.
When your baby is almost done, Jack takes that opportunity to ask you one thing that's been plaguing his mind forever. Forever would be a stretch, let's say almost six months. Six months of being in the general vicinity of a thing and very much not included in it. Watching his daughter treat this like the most obvious arrangement in the world, and Jack, who understands the oxytocin, the prolactin, the whole cascade, understanding perfectly well why, and still experiencing what he can only describe, clinically, as being left out. “You know, now that she's old enough to start complimentary feeds…” He looks at you expectantly.
“Mhmm?”
“It’s only fair I get a taste… since she's this addicted.”
A swat lands on his arm before he can close his mouth. But your face tells him a different story. And he knows exactly what it means.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x Resident!Reader
Warnings: pure fluff, teasing, flirty Abbot.
Summary: You decide it’s finally time to pay him back for all his flirting.
The air conditioning was aggressive on a good day but today it felt personal cause they didn't turn it down when the weather outside turned cold. By 8:00 PM, you were a shivering human held together by a thin scrub top.
You had checked the weather this morning.
But nobody mentioned the temperature would drop when the sun hided.
"You're shivering 'cause of a new medical condition or are you happy to see me?" a familiar voice spoke behind you.
You didn't even have to look up from the chart you were frantically finishing.
"I'm cold, Jack," you muttered, in a slight bad mood.
Jack leaned against the desk. He looked annoyingly comfortable in a dark hoodie. He was starting his night shift just as you were reaching your breaking point.
"Tragic," he reached out, his hand briefly brushing your arm. His skin was warm against yours. "You’re freezing. Where’s your jacket?"
"In a parallel universe where I actually check the night temps before leaving the house."
"Well, next time, just consult me. I’m an expert in... keeping pretty girls warm."
"God, shut up, Abbot," you cringed and he smirked. He headed towards the staff room, giving a small squeeze to the back of your neck, a gesture of affection that had become routine.
Minutes later, you stumbled into the staff locker room. You just wanted your bag, your keys and the heater in your car turned up to the max.
You reached your locker, but stopped short when you opened it.
Inside it was an oversized black hoodie.
You looked around, the room was empty.
You glanced at your keypad lock. You hadn't told Jack your code.
But he’d watched you enter it enough times while leaning casually against the lockers, chatting you up before rounds.
He was observant; it was part of his charm, and his curse.
Pinned to the fabric was a scrap of a pad with Jack’s messy writing:
Don’t freeze to death on my watch. It’s rude.
P.S. 0-1-2-3? Seriously, doll? Change your password. Too easy.
— J.
You pulled the hoodie off your locker. It was massive.
When you pulled it on, the scent of him wrapped around you like a physical embrace.
You felt your face heat up thinking of him.
You swung your bag over your shoulder and headed for the exit.
You passed the nursing station. Jack was there.
You didn't plan it.
Maybe it was the sudden rush of warmth or the sheer audacity of him guessing your locker code.
But as you walked past, you stepped into his personal space.
Jack started to look up, a witty remark already forming on his lips but you were faster. You leaned in, your hand momentarily grazing his shoulder, and pressed a quick peck right to the corner of his mouth.
"Thank you, handsome," you murmured.
By the time he actually processed the contact, you were already heading toward the sliding glass doors of the ER.
Jack froze, his hand hovering over the keyboard, the smirk he’d been wearing since the locker room now replaced by a look of wide eyed surprise.
Behind the desk, a couple of the night shift nurses started whispering, their eyebrows raised in unison.
"Did she just—?" Dr. Shen started.
"Yeah," he breathed, finally turning back to the screen, though he didn't seem to see the words on it at all. "Yeah, she fucking did."
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