You were a doctor, a hell of a good one too. But you had a medical condition, you took Vicodin to lower the pain but mostly to get a short buzz. Cuddy, your boss, took you off them. The deal was a week off Vicodin, a week off clinic duty. You agreed.

You literally smashed your hand in to put a pain Input somewhere else beside the one spot, it hurt. It hurt like hell and you didn’t even have anything to soothe it. You sat in your office, nausea growing as you threw up into a trash can from the withdrawal.

Foreman walked in, door closing behind him as you wiped saliva from your mouth, “cafeteria. Stay away from the sushi.” You lied as to why you were throwing up- and not seen eating previously either.

“And what happened to your hand?” Foreman quirked an eyebrow, voice firm

“got it stuck in a drawer.”

“Yeah, right. You’re growing through withdrawal.” Foreman crossed his arms before continuing, “I took this job to work with you. Not cover your ass.” He took out a bottle of pills from his pocket, sliding it onto your desk, “Vicodin.”

“And your solution, is to give me drugs. That’s interesting.” You respond, glancing down at the bottle.

“No. Now I’m covering my ass. Take your pills, before you kill this kid.” Foreman responded before walking away and through your office door before you could respond, leaving you alone, sitting at your desk to take the pills and save the kid that supposedly needed a new liver. You were more angry, not able to focus due to the withdrawal. He needed you to get the job done and save the kid.