Back with an abuse fic since you guys seem to like these. This time it's Andy in trouble, since there aren't enough of them. Don't forget to comment (I LOVE READING COMMENTS) and vote and I'll love you forever :) 

Trigger Warnings for the whole story: Physical + emotional abuse/manipulation, blood/injury, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, alcohol, strong language 

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The last client of the day was almost an hour late. Growing frustrated, Remington begun slowly to pack up for the night, to decide that, if they weren't there in fifteen minutes, he'd lock up and go home; there was no need to hang about until midnight waiting for someone who didn't have the common decency to show up to their tattoo appointment on time. 

It was already dark, the street lights beyond the shop windows glittering in the drizzling rain, and at the sound of a car pulling up outside, Remington leant his bag against the reception desk chair, stood with his elbows on the table, and watched the door. When it opened, a gust of cold, damp air attacked him, and he stayed quiet as the two stepped over the threshold. Then, he said, "It's great to finally see you," and smiled, almost sarcastically. 

He wasn't sure which of the men he was tattooing, as their only prior conversation had been through online messaging, and the slimmer of the two spoke. "Hey," he said. Remington waited for his name, but got nothing. 

"I'm sorry, which of you is Andy?" He asked, sliding a clipboard across the desk. "Please could you fill this in, and then we can check the stencil is right for you." Sitting in the desk chair, Remington waited, glancing up at the men. The slim one - Andy, he assumed - was writing on the form with notable concentration, pen gripped tightly, while the other was looking around the shop in a mildly disapproving manner. "Alright," Remington said, once he got the clipboard back. "Great. Thanks. You said you wanted it on your chest? Would you be able to take off your shirt?" 

Now, the broad one spoke. His voice was what Remington had expected Andy's to be - light, fairly high - "He wants it on his arm." 

"Really? We discussed the design a couple times on Instagram, I'm sure you said you wanted it on your chest. It's fine if you've changed your mind, but I'll have to alter the design so that it fits without seeming out of place." Holding the printed stencil up, he added, "Just put this against wherever you want it, check it's right. I can change anything you don't like." 

With an unmissable hesitation, Andy stepped towards the desk and took the paper, though made no move once he had it, just looked at it as though he'd never seen anything like it before. 

"I really need to know where it's gonna go," Remington urged. 

"His arm," said the broad man, again. 

"I'd like Andy to show me. It's not your skin or your tattoo, you don't have a say in it." 

"Excuse me-" 

"Look," Remington began. "It's very simple. You're not the one getting tattooed. Andy is. I'd like to hear, from him, where he wants his tattoo, because if it goes somewhere he doesn't like, he'll be stuck with it for the rest of his life. I don't mean to be rude, but it's not cool to decide for him, when it's nothing to do with you." 

"You've completely misunderstood. Andy told me he wants it on his arm. He has social anxiety, he wanted me to tell you. I'm not deciding anything for him, thank you very much." 

Remington didn't like his tone, but it wasn't his place, and turning his attention towards Andy, he asked, "Does it all look good to you?" 

Andy nodded, smiled.  

"Alright," Remington said. "If you'd like to follow me, I've got everything  more-or-less set up already. Is your friend coming too? For moral support, though I can see you already have a lot of tattoos, so it shouldn't be anything you haven't felt before." 

"I'm coming." 

Remington nodded, already irritated by his 'I'm better than you' way of talking. He lead the two into the back of the shop, where the actual studio was, and told Andy to take a seat while he printed the stencil and finished cling-filming the surface of the metal table he used for the ink. 

When it came to applying the stencil, there was again confusion and hesitation. He asked if it was going on his arm or his chest, and though the other man man answered, Remington wanted to hear it from Andy, so he persisted, until finally, Andy said, "Arm. Please." 

"Perfect," the artist replied with enthusiasm, keen to be done with it so he could go home. "Alright. If you could show me where exactly. If you don't like how it looks with the stencil, I can change it. Please tell me if something isn't sitting right with you." 

Andy didn't tell him, and the needles came out, the machine turned on, the ink poured carefully into the caps. Remington tattooed him without conversation. He tried to initiate some sort of small talk to make the time pass faster, make the pain seem like less than it was, but was met with non-answers, and gave up.