Trigger warning: Depression, suicide, self-harm/blood

It was nearly eleven pm and Andy was still in his office, though had done little work all day. He kept deciding he'd leave, but then convinced himself that he couldn't until he did something to make the time spent there worthwhile. 

Now, he was, as he had been for the past couple of days, too tired to focus on anything, but too anxious to get something done to allow himself the rest he needed. Everyone else had left hours ago, apart from the overnight security guard whose shift stared at ten. 

Andy opened and closed files on his computer, couldn't make himself give the words on the screen enough attention to actually read any of them, and with each document that he closed, he felt less like he was capable of his job, less like he should be in control of an entire company, less like he should be featured in magazines and invited to red carpet events and introduced to celebrities. 

Pushing the keyboard back, he dropped his head onto the table, his left arm beneath as a sort of pillow, though with it so near to his mouth, he couldn't help but press his teeth into his skin and push back tears by biting down until there was a warmth trickling down his arm and onto the table. 

The phone on his desk rang and made him flinch, and lifting his head, he answered, blood dripping down his chin like he was a vampire and not just a suicidal fuck-up. "What?" He asked into the phone, realised how rude he sounded, and swallowed back more tears. 

"Someone's at the gates for you," said the security guard. 

Andy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked at the red smear across his knuckles. "Who?

"Says his name is Remington. Your husband?" 

That was unexpected, and Andy did little to hide his surprise, said, "Really? Are you sure?" 

"Definitely Remington," the man confirmed. "Should I let him in, or..."

Andy hesitated. What did Remington want? To ask for a divorce in person? "Uh...yeah," he answered eventually. His arm had started to sting but he didn't mind, found it helped with keeping the tears away. 

The line went dead and Andy put the phone down, dropped his eyes to the new wound, didn't look away until there was a soft knock on his door. He said nothing, and after a moment, the door opened and Remington was there, wearing a dark pink hoodie and light grey tracksuit bottoms. 

He didn't say anything at first, stepping into the office and closing the door. It was clear what Andy had done to himself - there was blood on his face and his hand and, of course, his arm - and Remington sat on the black couch at the other end of the room. "You're supposed to be home by six," he said, and Andy could have laughed at the obscenity of how it sounded. They hadn't seen each other, it seemed, in days, and that was the first thing Remington said to him. 

"Still got seven hours until six am," he mumbled, not trying to sound like he thought his joke was funny, because he knew it wasn't.  

"Andy," Remington said. "Are you okay?" 

Tears spring to his eyes and he blinked until they went away. "Dandy." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Don't." 

"No, please. Listen. I'm sorry. I'm mad with Emerson and I'm sad that he doesn't want to talk to me right now, and I've been looking for anything that might be bad about you instead of just accepting that Emerson might not be as perfect as I thought he was. I've been so busy trying to convince myself that he's right and that you're not as wonderful as everyone knows you are that I haven't been here for you, and-no, please. Don't tell me it's fine. It's not. I haven't been here for you, and it's not something you should just be fine with. I'm not fine with it. I know you deal with so much with your job and everything, and you've been so good to my brothers and Shy and Larisa and all I've done is avoided you and made things harder." 

Andy opened his mouth to say something, the taste of blood strong at the back of his throat, but Remington went on. 

"You've done so much for me. You literally save my life. And don't say me getting sepsis was technically your fault because I swear to god..." Remington went quiet when Andy loudly sobbed, getting up and walking round the desk. "I'm sorry," he said again, this time in a much quieter voice. "Can I give you a hug?" 

Sobs coming like waves, Andy nodded, stood, wrapped his arms around Remington like he'd collapse if he let go. 

Remington did as he usually would - dragged his fingers up and down Andy's spine - and whispered, "I love you, please don't go anywhere." 

Andy couldn't respond, but he didn't need to, and after the hug, which was at least ten minutes, he let Remington convince him to go home, but not before tiredly fussing about anything he could think of that was worthy of fussing about. 

"Andy," Remington said firmly, picking up his husband's keys from the edge of the desk. "Stop it. You're way too tired to still be here." Then, when Andy still wouldn't let go of the computer mouse, he pried his fingers from it, kept a hold of his hand, and more-or-less dragged him out of the office, trying all the keys on the keyring until he found the one that locked the door. "Nope, this way," he said when Andy mumbled about an unfinished email. "I love your company, but there ain't gonna be no company if you don't get some fucking sleep. I swear you're about to pass out." 

Andy was, so he didn't argue anymore, let Remington pull him down the stairs and through the many doors and into the carpark. "Can you even drive?" He asked when Remington made him sit in the passenger seat. 

"I'm a very able man." 

They were home just ten minutes later (Remington fortunately could drive), and in Andy's bathroom, Remington cleaned the blood from him and rubbed antiseptic cream into the bites. It made Andy wince. 

In bed, Andy insisted that he'd never fall asleep, but Remington shushed him repeatedly, stroked his hair, and soon, Andy was out cold. Remington had never been more relieved to see someone sleeping in his life.