Also available on AO3 (link on my profile). Ugh, first fic I've written for anything in 3 years. Hope you enjoy! And Thanks for stopping by!

ONE

Michael was fucked.

And not in the leg-wobbling way he liked to be fucked. No, this was the kind of fuckery that usually started when Michael couldn't quite control himself, and then only ended after Amanda threatened divorce or a few dozen rounds of ammunition had found themselves into some well deserving targets. The later being the most probable outcome of what, Michael was sure, was to be a very regretful evening. Possibly his last.

The "retired" thief sighed as the 'Call Ended' notification flashed lazily on the cheap flip phone in his hand, the screen's hollow glow being the only light in the darkened Rocoto. It was well past sundown, and other than the patter of November rain, Los Santos lay quiet around him. He had been sitting alone for quite some time, the strain of the past few days threatening to put him to sleep. He was sure he'd be halfway through some night terror by then if it wasn't for the fact that he was technically working.

Folding the phone closed, Michael eased back into the passenger seat, staring at his reflection in the blackened window. He didn't know why he had made the call, he certainly knew he couldn't get out of this. Couldn't even try.

It didn't even matter, really, the call had gone straight to voicemail (which had secretly been a relief). Maybe if everything went to plan that night he could get a head start on explaining himself, and if not... well, he'd be dead anyway.

Michael sat up when the driver's door opened and Carina slipped back behind the wheel, water streaming from her plastic poncho. She pulled back her hood and slipped her headset into her ear, handing Michael his. Then she reached for the keys in the ignition, starting the SUV without trouble. Michael didn't miss the way the older woman was avoiding looking at him.

"We good?"

Carina only glanced at him, "Yeah, we're good."

"C," Michael warned.

"B's already in, we can't turn back now," Carina said, that south of the border accent pouring through.

"Oh-ho, yes we can," Michael insisted, "If he doesn't do anything, we can."

Carina stared hard at Michael, the lights from the dash lighting her face enough for him to see that fire that had caught him back at the studio. "It's now or never, M, and never doesn't end well for us."

Shit, Michael sighed, something sinking in his chest, "You owe me."

Carina smiled, "I know," then backed the car out of the alley and onto the streets, headlights on low.

Oh yeah, Michael was fucked.

…

Five Days Later...

Trevor did not own a cat.

At least he didn't think he owned a cat.

Was the cat even there?

Grant it, Trevor wasn't even sure if he was currently real. The last thing he remembered clearly was Chef coming over with a fresh batch for tasting, then Wade had shown up, then Ron, then some lumberjack, then maybe the cat. Or was that a raccoon? All he knew was that there had been some screaming and a flaming broom. Then nothing. Then today. Though that only explained the fuzzy, drained feeling that tingled through his limbs, and the pounding in his head - not the judgmental little shit looking down on him from the kitchen counter.

And if there was one thing Trevor Phillips was not fond of (on top of many other things), it was judgmental little shits.

"The fuck are you looking at?" Trevor growled, his eyes narrowing and his lip lifting in a snarl. The damn thing only narrowed its eyes back, "Well nobody fucking asked you!"

Mr.Fuckface didn't seem to take kindly to being yelled at, and stretched for an absurd amount of time before leaping over Trevor and trotting for the bedroom. The cheek!

With a growl, Trevor rolled himself onto his stomach, having every intention of going after the feline home invader, when he realized that the pounding in his head was mostly a pounding on the door. Could he not get a moment of Peace?

"Go away, Ron!"

"Fuck you Trevor Phillips!" Not Ron, "Open this fucking door!" Most definitely not Ron. In fact, that sounded an awful lot like-

Amanda? Trevor mouthed to himself. Was he still high? No, no gnome humping the couch leg... Then what...

Pushing off the floor, Trevor had to catch hold of the kitchen counter as the world righted itself. He quickly checked that he was wearing pants (he'd been warned one too many times about that), found some kind of candy striped jogging shorts that obviously weren't his, but judging by the fact Amanda somehow made her knocking sound as grating as her personality, he doubted he had time to change. He didn't really want to anyway.

Trevor turned for the door, almost falling into it, then hoping he hadn't actually peed himself earlier, he did as the lady asked and swung it open.

Although he hadn't meant to almost headbutt dear Mrs. De Santa, it amused him to no end to see her sent reeling back in repulsion and straight into the rail. If Trevor was honest - he was always honest - he wouldn't have minded seeing her fake tits go over, but he had at one point promised Mike he wouldn't be anymore antagonist towards the woman than he had to be. How either of them measured that limit, however, had never been discussed.

Trevor straightened himself, then leaned against the door frame to combat one hell of a dizzy spell. Meanwhile, Amanda just stood there, her hand suspiciously hovering over her purse while Trevor eyed her up.

"Amanda, Mandy, my main Mand, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Trevor lowered his voice suggestively, "Does Michael know you're here?"

"Ugh, what is wrong with you?" Ah, the plastic princess, "How can you even live in this dump? What am I saying."

"That's not very fair of you, Amanda," Trevor pouted, shaking his head in mock disappointment, "Why, if you had only called first, I might have had Ron clean the corpse out from under the stairs."

At this, both of them looked to the floorboards of the small porch. It hit him that neither of them knew if he was joking or not.

Amanda pinched the bridge of her nose with a small sigh, then actually looked Trevor in the eyes, "I don't care, okay. I just want to know where Michael is."

Trevor frowned, "Mikey?"

"Yeah, you know, my husband, your 'best friend', the man you keeping dragging away from me, and into your – crazy shit!"

"Ohh, that Michael," Trevor looked contemplative for a moment before he shrugged, "Nope, haven't seen him," then slammed the door in Amanda's face.

Christ, that woman was annoying. She would drive two hours just to bitch at him, all because Michael probably couldn't keep it in his pants. Honestly, those two. If they weren't fighting, they were making up so they could at least get laid before they fought again. Then they pushed their misery on everyone else. So no, he hadn't seen Michael. In fact, he hadn't seen anyone outside of Sandy Shores for well over a week. That fuck hadn't even called, or texted him since that Halloween fiasco.

...Huh.

Trevor reached for his phone from where he had tossed it on the couch before Chef's arrival however-many-days-ago.

I mean, he thought, it wasn't that bad. If anything, it was a damn success. He vividly remembered Michael being doubled over in hysterics. Oh sure, maybe Amanda chewed him out later, but that shouldn't have been enough to keep Michael from texting him at least. Well, there was the crystal. Maybe he just hadn't registered the noise.

Turning on the phone, Trevor quickly shifted through his apps, finding not a single new notification. Weird. Even if Michael hadn't called him, the last year had proved busy for TP Inc., especially with their new cash flow, new territory, new competition - the stupid thing was almost always going off anymore. Trevor was opening his contacts, quicking sliding down to Michael's name, when his fucking front door was blown off its hinges.

Being forced to floor by a flimsy piece of metal had not, in fact, been Trevor's plan for the day. But what would you know, he hadn't even had breakfast. So when he very calmly, and very collectively, picked himself up off the floor, he was very, very certain that someone was about to change that. Of course, it couldn't be some irate customer in his now completely open doorway, or even some unfortunate police officer. No, it had to be the one and only lovely Mrs. Amanda Townley. Former stripper, Mother-wannabe, and apparent martial artist, because he'd be damned if she wasn't lowering her foot in surprise. OH, she was surprised?

"What the fuck, Amanda?!"

That awe quickly morphed to outrage, however, "Me? What is your door made out of, cardboard?"

"It's quality. American. Steel!"

"Whatever," she rolled her eyes, "I'll pay for it."

Trevor looked down right disgusted, "I don't want you to pay for it, I want you not to have not done it – oh, oh, and there goes the cat!"

Amanda looked confused as she watched the little critter slink pass her, "I didn't know you had a cat."

"I don't anymore, now do I?"

"Maybe you should have answered me-"

In one simple step he was towering over her, because enough was enough, and he had long ago mastered that eery boiling calm of his. To Amanda's credit, she didn't back down, though something imperceptible entered her eyes. When Trevor spoke, he spoke very carefully, "I already told you," he said, "I don't know where little Mikey ran off to. Did you check the whore dens? All of them? Because usually fucking a set of tits bigger and faker than yours helps him get over the regret of having bought the last pair."

A tense silence settled over the trailer. The two just stared at each other, breathing. Amanda seemed to be searching for something in Trevor's face, but whatever she found there caused her to take a step back. Trevor thought she might start crying then, she certainly looked it, or yell at him, or do something that would get Michael mad at him, because he was pretty sure he just pushed his limit.

Amanda didn't do any of that though, which was sort of making Trevor uncomfortable, and unless he wanted to stalk off to the bedroom he didn't exactly have a way out. Fortunately, Amanda finally decided to speak.

"You think," she began, and Trevor heard the tears before he saw them, "You think I'd drive all the way out here, to you, to yell, at you, for Michael's whore mongering? Never mind that we've been good, but honestly, you think I would voluntarily put myself in your company, Trevor? Look at us, no."

Amanda took another step back, shaking her head, "Neither I nor the kids have heard from Michael in four fucking days, not a single fucking thing, and you think I'm out here because he was wearing some hooker's perfume? Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck everything about you. Since day fucking one you've been a fucking nightmare."

Four days? Trevor knelt down to pick his phone off the floor where it'd been knocked.

Amanda could have kept going, but Trevor hadn't really heard past that. Instead he had opted to look down his contacts until the highlight was sitting over Michael's name. He pressed dial and put the device to his ear. There was that dumb familiar jingle, and Trevor watched as Amanda pulled the blue cased iFruit from her purse. She waved it a little so he could see his name and pictured plastered across the screen, before she made a show of pressing the green accept button and answered it.

"Hey," she echoed through.

Trevor sneered, hanging up.

Four days.

Four fucking days.

"What do you mean, four days?"

"You really haven't seen him?" At his look, she held her hands up, "Okay, okay, I just... Well I wasn't hoping he was holed up with you, but if you two had gotten into some trouble, at least I'd know where he is.

"Anyway, the last I saw Michael was Thursday night. He had some kind of emergency at the studio," Amanda stalled Trevor's question, "Yes, I already looked there. I'm not an idiot."

Trevor sighed through his nose, Too easy. He ran a hand down his face. That fat fuck.

"Look," Amanda started, wrapping her arms around herself, "You and I, we don't like each other. We never have, but god help us, we've put up with some shit for Michael. He might have gotten into some trouble, and for once left us out of it. If that's the case... Just let me know if you hear anything, okay? I'm not asking much."

No, Trever thought, but you knew exactly what you were doing coming here. Since obviously the police were out of the question.

Trevor cursed, and Amanda fully backed off, easing her way down the porch steps when he swung out the doorway and shouted, "RON!"

Almost as if he had been waiting for it, the door to the neighboring trailer banged open, the scrawny man in a bucket hat wincing against the sudden sunlight.

"Ron, you miserable excuse for a living, breathing creature," Trevor stepped out onto the porch, "You haven't fixed my fucking door yet, have you."

"I-I'm real sorry about that T," Ron squinted in Trevor's vague direction, "I didn't even know it was broken-"

"No excuses!" Trevor slammed his fist against the side of his trailer, "Now find me some pants." Trevor turned to head inside, but poked his head back out, "And some cat food."

Amanda didn't follow him in. She didn't need to. She had gotten what she came for.

Now, he had a snake to find.