Trigger Warning: Mentions of death, depression, suicide, self-harm

In Sean's kitchen, Remington found a family sized bar of chocolate to take with him to the hospital, leaving a note on the table apologising for stealing it and promising to replace it the following day, and checked he had the money left for him on the table before leaving the house, locking it with the spare key, and walking down the driveway to the taxi. 

It wasn't a long journey, but would have taken around forty five minutes to walk, and outside the hospital, he paid the driver, thanked her, and walked up to the entrance, recalling the last time he had been there, writhing in Andy's arm with a stomach that felt like it was about to implode. 

He navigated himself down the halls to Andy's room, opening the door and closing it quietly behind him, chocolate in his hand. "Are you still alive?" He asked when he saw Andy, who was lying with his eyes closed, though they opened at the sound. 

"Only if you have chocolate," Andy mumbled. "They've been feeding me baby food, I swear. You get here okay?" 

"You're so stupid." 

"What?" 

"You're literally recovering from a stroke and you're worried about whether I can get in an out of a taxi without getting hurt." 

"It's called being over protective. Give me that." He reached for the purple packet, smiling when Remington placed it in his hand. "You know I have to say here for a fucking week," he complained, tearing the wrapper open. "As if I don't have enough to do, now I have to lie here and listen to doctors lecture me on avoiding stress. Clearly, they don't know me, because my very essence is stress." 

"You literally had a stroke, what do you want them to do? Give you a warning?" 

"Yes." 

Remington shook his head, sat down beside the bed. "What happened?" He asked. "You know, when your phone rang? Who was it?" 

"Someone tried to break into the office. Failed, but I had to go in to the station to file for a restraining order." 

"And then you had a stroke?" 

"Yes." 

"Jesus." 

"Why are you acting like it was a heart attack? It was just a stroke." 

"Are you aware what a stroke is? A blood clot in the brain, Andrew. A blood clot in the brain." 

"Don't call me Andrew." 

"Don't be an idiot." 

Snapping off a row of chocolate squares, Andy sighed, ate it without speaking. "How was your fourth wedding?" He asked eventually. 

"Not as good as my third." 

"Correct answer." 

"Sean's nice, though. Gave me a load of cash." 

"That's my job." 

"God, you're such a jealous husband." 

"I'm not even your actual husband," Andy said, putting a hand to his heart. "Heartbroken." 

"At least say it with some conviction." 

"Heartbroken." 

"Better." 

Andy hummed, offered a piece of chocolate to Remington, and the door opened. When he saw who it was, he made a point of folding his arms and scowling, saying nothing until his mother said, "You didn't tell me you had a stroke, Andrew." 

Remington looked at his lap, didn't dare lift his gaze to meet his husband's (not technically, but come on) mother's eyes. He felt like he was intruding on a very private conversation. 

In a mocking tone, Andy said, "Oh, hold on, before you take me to hospital, let me just call my mother and inform her of what's happening right now. Is that what you expect me to do? Because I love you and all, but come on." 

"No, of course not. But you didn't call me after you were stabilised." 

"I just had a stroke, can't you lay off for one minute? And I don't know if you've noticed, but me and my husband were in the middle of a conversation that didn't involve you." 

"I was wondering who this was. It's very nice to meet you, darling, please excuse my son's rudeness." 

"Actually," Remington said daringly. "I think Andy has a right to be upset with you." 

"Oh, you do, do you?" 

"Yes." 

"Andrew, what have you been telling him?" 

"What have I been telling him? So it's my fault that you're pissing me off, is it? My fault that he's observant enough to work out how unreasonable you're being? How nice." His voice was bitter, a tone Remington barely, if ever, heard him use. 

"You can't keep pushing me away, Andrew. I'm your mother." 

"Yes, well, maybe that's the problem," he muttered, then wished he hadn't.

"Excuse me?" 

"Maybe if you stopped being so overbearing then I'd actually want to tell you when I nearly die." 

"Overbearing?" 

"Yes. Overbearing." 

"I'm your mother, Andrew." 

"Well, now I know Abigail was right," Andy said. "Over-parenting. Ever heard of it? Because look in the mirror, and there's the definition. Go now, please. I want to eat the rest of this chocolate in peace." 

"Andrew-" 

"Saying my name isn't going to make me magically forget the shit you've said to me in the last few months. It's not helpful to call your suicidal son rude and selfish, you know? Really doesn't do a lot for me. Unless you're trying to make me try again. Just let me eat this fucking chocolate without feeling like I've done something wrong, because I haven't. I haven't done anything wrong. I know it, you know it, so stop trying to control everything I do. You know where the door is." After speaking, he returned his attention to the chocolate bar, breaking off a row, snapping it in half, and passing one of the halves to Remington. "Don't worry 'bout her, babes," he said, once she was gone. 

"Sorry," Remington said. "Shouldn't have spoken." 

"Are you kidding? You just made me love you, like, ten times more. Eat up."