robby didn’t want to believe it.

he had searched your locker, after a tip off from a nurse, who swore that she saw you stealing benzos from patients and taking meds from the cupboard. he didn’t want to believe it when he opened it and saw the packets. he didn’t want to believe that you, his best resident, was a drug addict.

but the proof was staring him in the eyes.

he had pulled you into a meeting. tried to give you the chance to explain before he was forced to go to gloria. you had been defensive immediately, but he had seen it in your eyes finally. the guilt. the struggle. he didn’t know what to feel. anger, that you’ve been using drugs and treating patients. guilt, that he didn’t realise. sadness, that you’ve struggled enough to turn to drugs. sadness, that you didn’t come to him.

he asks how long. you say months.

he makes you leave. you argue, shout, so unlike you. and that’s when he sees it, the addiction that’s had its grips in you rearing its ugly head. he makes you leave. you try to explain that you’re not an addict, that an addict couldn’t do the work that you do.

robby wonders how he was so blind to my high functioning addiction. how there was clearly signs: the hyperactivity, the sweating, the snapping. he thought you was burnt out. he wishes you was just burned out

he makes you leave. you do.

but then it happens. pittfest. you come back— no, sneak back in. treat patients. he has no choice but to allow it. and then after it’s died down, he finds you in the ambulance bay, head in hands. his anger wars with his sadness. he approaches. crouches beside me.

“you shouldn’t have come back.” robby says, too sharp. “i can’t— rely on you.”

you nod. sniffle. say you’re sorry. that you know you need help.

so that’s why robby spends the next twelve hours driving you to a rehab the next state over, in maryland. he stops halfway through when you clearly start struggling with withdrawal symptoms, grabbing you water and some snacks from a gas station before hitting the road. he wheels the window down, and watches as you take a sip of water.

“better?” he asks.