Trigger warning: Mentions of anxiety, self harm.

Remington sits in the car not wanting to get out. He feels his heart sink right out of his body when Abigail steps down the front steps and towards the car in which he sits.

She opens his door and crouches so she's level with him. "What's going on?" She asks, "you've been hiding here for ten minutes."

Remington looks down and stays quiet.

"We've missed two sessions in a row now, Remington, and I'd be stupid to believe it's just a coincidence. Are you alright?"

He says nothing.

"Come on, come inside. Let's talk about this."

"I don't want to," Remington tells her flatly.

Abigail sighs. "Has this got something to do with Phoebe?"

"No."

"Remington," she begins, "I know it's upsetting."

The boy just huffs.

"We can talk about it, okay? But only if you come inside."

"I don't want to," he repeats, as though he's a toddler refusing to go to bed. He folds his arms and stares, so intently that it hurts his eyes, at his lap.

Abigail frowns. "Why's that?"

Remington pulls the two bracelets from his wrist and throws them at the ground beside his therapist.

"I get it, Remington, I do. I know Phoebe does and says questionable things, but-"

"No."

"You're scratching."

The boy just scratches harder to piss her off.

"Remington, hey, listen. You can't let this get in the way, alright? I understand it's upsetting and it's okay if you don't wanna talk to me right now, but please don't give up on recovery because of it."

"I'm going home," he says, and doesn't say another word.

Abigail lets him go, but not before picking up the bracelets and dropping them safely into the pocket on the inside of the door.

When Remington loudly slams enters the house and kicks his shoes off, agitated, Andy comes to see what he's making so much noise for, and to work out why he's home an hour before he should be. He picks up the discarded shoes and sets them down by the door, turning to his husband, who huffs and throws his arms in the air.

"What?" He snaps, and Andy raises an eyebrow.

"So therapy went well, huh?"

"Fucking fantastic, I'm having the best damn day!"

"I can see that."

Remington just looks down and scratches at his wrists again, until Andy takes his hands.

"Come now, tell daddy what's wrong."

The boy looks up and scrunches his face into a dissatisfied expression. "EW."

Andy just smiles.

"Okay, fine. I didn't even get out the car."

"That's not good, sweetheart."

"Duh." He pouts. "Confusion."

Andy pulls him into the living room. "Did you talk to her at all?"

"She came out and I just told her I don't wanna talk to her."

"And took off the bracelets?" Andy asks, seeing the boy's bare wrists.

"Don't like them anymore."

"I see."

Remington nods. "Hug?"

"Hug," Andy agrees, and the two hold each other for a few quiet minutes, until the man's phone begins ringing in the other room.

"Bet it's Abigail," Remington mumbles.

Stepping away, Andy goes to pick up the phone, putting it on speaker and answering.

"Andy, hi."

Remington huffs at her voice.

"Rem's fine," Andy says, knowing why she's calling. "He's freaked out but he's safe."

"Okay, that's alright."

The man smiles when Remington wraps his arms around his neck and jumps up so his legs are around his waist, steadying himself and putting his hands to the boy's thighs. "Thanks for checking," he says, and Remington giggles into his neck "What?" Andy asks, hanging up once he's said goodbye.

Remington just giggles again.

"The hell's up with you?"

The boy strains to look at his husband's confused, amused expression. "Just thinking about when I dumped you that one time."

"And why is that funny?"

"Dunno, just is."

"Right," Andy says sceptically, "I'm glad breaking my heart is funny to you."

Remington hums. "Breaking hearts is what I do," he says playfully before licking his lover's neck, yelping when Andy lets go of his legs and gripping the man tightly.

"You're a monkey," Andy decides, amused, "but seriously, you gotta get off me, sweetie, I need'a make lunch."

"Nope."

"Yep."

The boy huffs, straightening his legs and standing up, letting Andy go, but not before grabbing his face, kissing him, and whispering about how much he loves him. Andy whispers it back with a smile.

Andy leaves Remington in the living room to make lunch, coming back to tell him it's ready half an hour later and finding him manically scratching his wrists, his fingers sticky with blood. Kneeling in front of him, Andy pries his hands apart, holding them. "Take a breath," he encourages, his husband seeming to be in some far away land. "It's alright sweetheart. Take a nice deep breath for me."

Remington's eyes are wide, mouth slightly open. He tries to pull his hands free.

"Just breathe," repeats Andy, trying to keep from touching the harmed skin of the underside of Remington's wrists. He wants to put a hand to his cheek but knows the boy will just resume scratching.

Remington whimpers. He doesn't want to admit it, but the absence of his regular talks with Abigail have left him in a dazed, confused state.

Andy rubs his knuckles. "It's alright," he says softly, "it's okay."

The boy closes his eyes, focusses his attention on the feeling of Andy's hands. He opens them only when he feels a little calmer, looking at Andy with silent suffering.

"Good boy," the man whispers, "you're doing so good."

Remington can't deny the way he always feels a bit better when Andy says something like that. It's important to him that he knows he's not letting him down.

Andy kisses his hands one after another.

"Sorry."

"Shh, no need for that. Let me make it better."

Remington nods. He can't be sure exactly how Andy intends on making it better, though makes no attempt of finding out because he has complete trust in the man. He doesn't move his gaze from Andy's eyes, not until they aren't visible anymore because he's being engulfed in what he swears is the warmest, safest hug he's ever received. He could cry at the feeling.

Andy has pulled him off the couch and into his chest, the younger's legs loose around his waist. He lets one of his hands go, keeping the other in his own as he uses his free hand to trace up and down Remington's spine, which is, as usual, bumpy beneath his hoodie. "You're such a sweetheart," he murmurs, his face pressed to Remington's neck.

"Love you," the boy says in response, Andy's breath comforting on his skin. "Lunch now?"

"Lunch now," Andy agrees, "but first, we need'a clean your arms, 'kay?"

Remington just hums, unwrapping himself from the protective arms and getting to his feet, waiting for Andy to follow suit before beginning up the stairs, doubts still heavy in his mind.