Trigger Warning: Physical/emotional abuse, depression, anxiety, injury, PTSD

Remington's apartment was on the second floor of the complex, and the walk there was slow, what with Andy's obvious pain and struggled breathing. In the lobby, they waited for the lift, and were quiet as they stepped in. It seemed to take an age to rise to the second floor, and Remington was worried Andy's legs would buckle beneath him. 

At his front door, he pushed the key in turned until it clunked, pressed down the handle, and let Andy in first. The man was hesitant and shaking, stepped in as though he thought there might be a bomb under the floorboards. 

"Can I get you anything?" Remington asked, closing the door behind them. "Water?" 

Andy stared at the ground. 

"Come and sit down, I'll make the sofa-bed." 

"I'm sorry." 

"You don't need to be sorry for anything, none of this is your fault. Come through, I'll get you a glass of water. Do you want any painkillers?" Remington showed him into the living room, noticing how he flinched at the smallest movements. "Make yourself comfy. If you want a shower, it's through there." 

Sitting on the edge of the couch, Andy stayed quiet, couldn't keep the tears down. He lifted his head when Remington returned with a glass of water and a container of ibuprofen, said, "Thank you." 

"That's okay. Here." Remington tipped two of the pills onto the coffee table and kept a hold of the container. "Can I get you anything else?" 

Andy took the painkillers, swallowed them with a gulp of water, shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said again, voice filled with tears. He was still trembling. "I just...I'm sorry." 

"You're not to blame for any of this. You're okay. Let me pull this bed out, and I'll find something you can sleep in." He drew the curtains, and when he turned back around, Andy was standing, having taken the words 'let me pull this bed out' as an immediate order that must be followed at all costs. Remington cursed himself for not being more careful with the words he used. 

The bed fitted into place with a loud clunk, and covered most of the living room. Once he was sure it was safe and wouldn't fold in on itself as it had done on his big brother one Christmas, Remington stepped away and said, "Alright. It's all yours. Uh, if you want to talk about anything, or whatever, I'm here. But it's up to you. If you'd rather sleep, that's cool, too."

Andy had an expression of blatant confusion, as though he'd no idea what it was to be given a choice. His eyes remained wet and his hands unsteady. He didn't dare sit on the bed, had to be told he could. 

"Anyway, uh, I'll go find something for you to sleep in. Sit down, if you like. Or lie. I don't mind. Be right back." 

Andy watched him leave the room and turn into a doorway a few feet down the hall. He cautiously sat on the edge of the bed, rubbed his eyes, thought about Holden and how he'd be looking for him, dialling his phone until it died, planning the beating of a lifetime. "Thank you," he said when Remington returned with a small pile of clothes, which he put on the bed. 

"Course. I hope they fit alright. I'll go make some tea, let you change. If you need anything, just let me know." 

"Thank you." 

Alone in the room, Andy undressed down to his underwear, thighs and torso mosaicked with purple and blue, the most recent injury from the restaurant bathroom glittering with torment. He didn't want to look at it, but couldn't stop himself, and the more he stared, the worse it hurt. He lay back on the bed with the intention of sitting back up in a few seconds to put Remington's clothes on, but found little strength to move, and faded into sleep like a star into daylight.

Remington made tea in the kitchen, sat and sipped it for half an hour before going to check Andy was okay. He assumed he must have fallen asleep, but knocked on the door anyway, waited, knocked again, and slowly opened it. 

The colour of his skin was what took the air from Remington. The combination of new and old bruises, the most tender ones making his body hurt just from looking at them.

He made himself avert his eyes, took the corner of the blanket and covered Andy. In the doorway, he stopped and turned back, tears in his eyes as he considered the weight of the poor, poor man's situation, the things he must have seen and done and had done to him. If he could, he would have taken his sharpest knife and sawed off Holden's head. 

He turned the light off and left the room, closed the door, and tried to take himself to bed as though he had any chance of sleeping. 

From his bedroom, he began hearing what he knew was crying, contemplated letting him cry alone. His heart wouldn't allow him.

The door opened as soon as he knocked, and he felt guilty for it. "I'm sorry, I don't want to disturb you," he started. "I just, I heard you crying, and I wanted to come tell you that if you need anything - to talk, a hug, I don't know - then I'm here, okay?" 

Andy was dressed now. "I'm-I'm sorry. I shouldn't-I shouldn't cry, it's-it's..." 

"It's perfectly okay and you're allowed. That's not why I'm here, I'm sorry if it came across like that. I just came to make sure you know that I care and I'm here if you need anything. That's all." 

"Oh. I'm sorry. Thank you. Sorry." 

"You've done nothing wrong, it's okay." 

Andy rubbed his eyes, mumbled, "Sorry," and started again properly to cry.