Trigger warning: Suicide/depression, panic attack, anxiety 

You don't see enough of Andy dealing with shit in Remdy stories so I'm making him suffer :) 

Andy went to work the next morning despite Abigail telling him not to, and sat in his office ready to drop dead, and when Jon invited himself in and said, "There's a problem," he leaned back in his chair and sighed. 

"What problem?" He asked. 

"The recent online orders, the money hasn't been going through." 

"What do you mean, it hasn't been going through?" 

"I mean at least two hundred outfits have been shipped without being paid for." 

Andy closed his eyes, put his fingers between them. "Jon," he said tiredly. "Your only fucking job is to watch over the finances and to keep track of the payments. How the fuck has this happened." 

"I was watching over the finances Andy, but-" 

"It's Andrew, for God's sake. You aren't my friend, you're my employee. My name is Andrew." 

"I was watching over the finances, but I guess I missed it." 

Andy laughed but Jon knew it was out of a mixture of anger and irritation, not humour. "You know what else you'll miss?" He said. "Your job. Get out." 

"What- Andy-" 

Slamming the desk with his hand so that the pens in the pot rattled, Andy shouted, "My name is Andrew! Now collect your fucking things and get out."  

"You're serious?" 

"This is the fourth time you've fucked up and lost me money, so yes, I'm fucking serious. And you can tell anyone else out there that if they aren't doing their fucking jobs properly, they can go too. It's a fucking joke." 

Without another word, Jon left, and once the door had slammed, Andy put his head in his hands and battled with the first panic attack of the day. 

He checked the time. It was nearly midday. In three hours, he could see Abigail, and she'd tell him off for going to work but he wouldn't care, and he'd sit in the armchair and cry, and for that hour, he wouldn't have to act like everything was fine. 

During lunch, he made a mug of coffee in the kitchen and returned to his office before anyone had the chance to talk to him, and ate alone. 

By the time he was pulling up outside Abigail's building, he'd had two panic attacks and was furiously wiping at his eyes while he waited for her to call him in, and when she did, he barely made it through the door before sinking to the floor and sobbing. Abigail knew without asking that he'd been at work; he was wearing his usual red suit. 

She sat with him on the carpet for fifteen minutes, until he was calming down, and then helped him up.  

Andy slumped in the large armchair and closed his eyes, breathed deeply in. "I fired Jon," he said. "Then cried about it. Then had two panic attacks. Then cried some more. So I'm having a great day." 

"How are you feeling now compared to last night when we spoke on the phone? Better? Worse? The same?" 

"I don't know. Probably worse. But a different sort of worse, though. I don't know." 

"Worse than our last session?" 

"Yes." 

"Okay. And we were talking about considering suicide last night. Is that still the case?" 

"Yes." 

"Alright. What are you going to do once you get home?" 

"The same as normal." 

"Make dinner, eat with Remington, and go to bed?" 

"Yes. Something like that." He wiped the last of the tears from his face. "I don't know." 

"What don't you know?" 

"I don't know." 

"What time did you go into work this morning? And don't lie and say you didn't because you can't lie for shit." 

"I don't know. Some time after nine. I know you said not to, but I get so on edge when I'm not there when I'm supposed to be." 

"I get that, I do, but it's important to take care of yourself. How was your night after our phone call?" 

"It was fine." 

"Did you sleep okay?" 

"I think so."

"Andy, I'm gonna suggest something, and you're not gonna like it, but I think you need to hear it." 

He waited for her to continue, drawing his fingers back and forth over the seams in his jacket. 

"I think you need to consider hospitalization." 

Andy's eyes snapped up to meet Abigail's. "What?" 

"I understand it's not what you want to hear and that's completely okay, but with how much you've been considering suicide lately, it's my job to make sure you're safe." 

"Hospitalization," Andy whispered. 

"Just think about it. We can discuss it more next week." 

"I can't," he said. "I can't. I have things I need to be doing, Abigail. Work, and...and Remington. I can't leave him alone in the house, it's not...he'll think I'm planning on murdering him. I can't." 

"Andy, you need to prioritise yourself." 

"I can't." 

"You need to, Andy, I'm serious. You're not in a good headspace and you need to look after yourself." 

"I can't, Abigail, I can't. The company can't function without me, I'm fucking-I'm fucking married! I can't just disappear into a hospital and expect everyone to be fine with it. I have shit to do, Abigail!" 

"Hey, hey, take a breath. Look, I know it's a lot to process and I don't expect a decision yet, but I want you to think about it, okay? Write up pros and cons if that helps. But you have to put yourself first." 

"Why?" 

"Because you're suicidal, Andy." 

"I'm not," he said. "I'm not suicidal. I'm not." 

"Then what do you think the reason is for you wanting to kill yourself?" 

"My life, that's what! My life and everything in it!" 

"Andy. You're scared, and that's okay. Take some deep breaths." 

"No, I don't want to! Why can't you just...Why can't you just tell me what to fucking do to stop feeling like this? Why can't you just fucking tell me? Just tell me, fucking hell!" 

"Hey. Andy. Look at me. Look. Breathe. No more talking right now. Breathe." 

Andy stared at her, then looked away, then screamed and punched the desk.

Getting up, Abigail took his hands and held them still.  "Breathe," she repeated. "It's okay. You're okay. You're just scared and overwhelmed. It's okay. Breathe." 

"I'm not suicidal," Andy said weakly, letting her hold his hands. It had been a while since he'd had any sort of physical contact that wasn't part of a one-night stand, and he hadn't had one of those in months. "I'm not. I'm just..." He shook his head, didn't bother finishing the sentence, because he couldn't think of what to say, and the only word that came to his mind was, 'done'.