Trigger warnings : Mentions of depression, sadness. :)

"Alright, Remington," Dr Sanchez says, the following morning.

Remington looks up from the magazine he's been trying to focus on all morning. His head is on Andy's lap and the man is asleep.

Keeping her voice down as to not wake Andy, she goes on. "How do you feel? No aches?"

Remington shakes his head .

"Good. How did you sleep?"

"Fine."

"And you asked Andy to lie with you?"

He nods.

"Do you remember doing that? Can you tell me what you said?"

"I, uh, remember being upset, and he was trying to, uh, to make me feel better. Then I might've hugged him, but I'm not sure." He glances at the man. "And then I told him I love him. I think. No, I definitely did."

She smiles. "Alright, that's great. Now, I'd like to talk to Andy about this later, too, just in case you forget, but I'm going to find you a therapist, okay?"

Remington frowns. "I don't know what that means."

"A therapist is someone who you can talk to about your day, your feelings, whatever you need to talk about. They'll give you advice, perhaps some activities to do to help with whatever you're dealing with."

"Oh. Why?"

"Why do you need one?"

He nods.

"I believe it'll encourage you to really think about what you've done recently, to properly talk about things that you otherwise don't think about."

"But...but I can talk to Andy."

"Of course, but it's important to know that sometimes people can get overwhelmed or stressed by taking care of someone the way Andy does."

"So I should... Not talk to him?"

"No, not at all. Of course you should talk to him. But just be mindful of how he's doing, okay? Sometimes he might need taking care of."

"I'm confused."

"That's okay, we can back track. What're you confused about?"

"Just..." He shrugs. "Never mind. It's never mind."

Doctor Sanchez furrows her brows. "That's why you need a therapist," she says. "I know it's difficult to admit to being confused or to having forgotten something that's just been said, but talking to someone about it regularly will be great for your confidence and for stimulating your mind, which is what you need. Does that make sense?"

"Uh..."

"Alright. Don't worry about it. I can see you're getting a little worked up. I'll mention it to Andy and your brothers later."

"Okay," he says, even though he isn't quite sure what he's saying it 'okay' to.

Andy wakes soon after. He sits up and rubs his eyes, looking over at Remington, who has the same troubled expression as last night, before he started crying. "Hey, love," he says gently. "What's up? You okay?"

The boy looks at him and shrugs.

"D'you want a cuddle?"

He shrugs again.

"What's wrong, huh?"

"Nothing. It's nothing."

Andy frowns. "Did someone say something?"

"How would I know?"

"Hey, it's okay."

"I don't even know what anything means anymore."

"Remington, love, it's okay."

"How is it okay if I can't fucking remember a, uh, a conversation I had an hour ago?"

Andy puts a hand on his shoulder. "You're just unwell, that's all."

"Well I'm sick of it!"

"Remington, look at me. It's okay. There's nothing wrong with it, okay? I promise."

"I don't want to be like this anymore."

"I know. I know. And I'm sorry you're having to deal with it, but I promise no one thinks you stupid or anything for it, love. No one."

"No. I do. I do." He folds his arms and looks away. "I do."

"Look, I get it. God knows I couldn't handle it, but you need to know that what you're dealing with isn't your fault and there's no shame in what you're feeling."

"Please just..." Remington sighs and blinks away irritating tears.

Andy rubs his shoulder and says nothing more. He wishes he could do more, but he wouldn't know where to start.

Doctor Sanchez returns in the afternoon, greeting them both and telling Andy about the therapy, too. He agrees it sounds like a good idea and Remington listens but stays quiet because things keep getting fuzzy in his head, like all that's being said can't maintain their original clarity, that they liquify inside and melt into one another, so that nothing is clear anymore. It's all just mush.

"I'll contact Dr Hicks. He does home visits which I think would suit Remington and you better," she tells Andy. "He specialises in depression and anxiety as well as brain injuries, and I'm aware Remington suffers with those, so it should definitely help."

Andy nods. "Okay, great."

"Obviously, he will explain how he does things, but I recommend meeting him with Remington the first time he comes, just to avoid confusion and lost information."

"Of course."

"Hey, Remington," she says now.

The boy looks at her.

"Did you hear any of that?"

He shrugs dismissively, sick of not only feeling stupid, but of being treated as though he is, too.

"It's important you communicate, Remington."

"There's no bloody point!" He shouts, immediately tearing up and looking away.

"Hey, listen. I know you're having trouble with it and that's okay, but please do your best to listen and reply when someone talks to you. It's important for your brain to engage."

Remington stares at his hands.

"Can you tell me what I just said?"

"No, Jesus Christ! Because I can't fucking remember, alright? And I don't know who you fucking are or why the fuck I'm here but fucking leave me alone!"

Andy and Doctor Sanchez share glances.

Wiping his eyes, Remington sniffles.

Later, Andy drives them home and makes dinner, checking for the email she said she'd send regarding the therapist. Remington doesn't eat much. He pushes the food around and snaps again when Andy asks if he doesn't like it, even though he knows he does. Later, Andy finds him in his podcast room, sitting with his knees against his chest beside a chest of drawers, head down.

Andy sits beside him quietly.

Remington lifts his head to look at him. His eyes are wet. "I got lost," he mumbles. "Don't know why."

"D'you know where you are now?"

"Some weird room. I dunno. It feels safe in here."

"Yeah?"

He rubs his eyes. "What is it?"

"This room?"

Remington nods.

"I make videos and stuff sometimes in here. It's a good background."

"Oh. Okay." He plays with his fingers. "I know you, at least. You're Andy."

"That's right, love."

"Just don't know nothing else."

"No? That's okay, we can work it out together."

"Okay."

"Are you hungry? You didn't eat much earlier."

"I didn't?"

Andy shakes his head.

"Oh, why?"

"I don't know. Let me get you something now."

"I stay here," the boy decides. "It's safe here."

"Of course, you stay here. I'm glad it makes you feel safe." Andy stands up.

Remington rubs his eyes again. "Thanks, Andy," he says quietly. "You're safe, too."

When the man returns, he has a bowl of warm cake and ice cream, handing it to Remington and sitting beside him again. "It's chocolate cake," he tells him.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

"Not for the cake," Remington says. "Well, a little bit for the cake. I like cake. But, uh, but for just...for being nice all the time. Makes me feel better."

Andy smiles. "You don't need to thank me."

"Accept the, uh...appreciation." Remington offers his husband a spoonful of the desert, and Andy takes it with a comforting, familiar smile.

He ruffles the younger's hair and kisses the side of his head, says, "I love you, doll."

"I love you, too, doll."

"You're not supposed to say 'doll'. You're the doll."

"Oh, cool."

"You okay?"

Remington hums. "Still don't know anything," he replies. "But you're Andy and I'm a doll and this room is weird, but safe."

"You're my doll," Andy corrects. "This room isn't weird."

"Yes it is, there's weird stuff everywhere. Like that...thing." He points at the cut-out of Andy's face stuck on the wall.

Andy chuckles. "Oh, I forgot that was there. That is a little weird."

"But safe," Remington concludes. "Like you. Safe."