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Well, isn’t this just fucking hilarious?
Trevor’s survived overdoses of whatever he could get into a vein or a nostril or his mouth, gunshot wounds, stabbings, bank robberies, crashing planes, riding a motorcycle on top of a fucking train, more shootouts with cops than he can count. Ludendorff, the Big One, his fucking childhood.
But now his fingers and toes have all gone numb and Wade is on the phone, telling Michael in his idiot simpleton voice that, “The baby’s fine, but I think something’s not right. He’s bleeding real bad, uh, down there. Ron’s trying to put pressure on it, but it ain’t really stopping . . .”
Ron’s crying like some little bitch omega instead of the alpha he’s supposed to be. First his hands press down on Trevor's abdomen, but fingers move into his cunt once it’s clear the bleeding isn’t slowing, all of them rooting around for some vein or artery or tear to hold together, like Ron would even know what something like that feels like in the first place.
The kid nearly drowns out his pathetic bawling, lying there by Trevor's head where he’d been placed after he’d torn his agonizing way out of him, ripping him open like no cock or any other foreign object has ever been able to do.
“Aren’t you fucking fat?” he manages, even as his teeth involuntarily come together to chatter in time with a shiver. The baby keeps screaming. “And a whiner. Guess I have to call you Michael Junior, then, if you’re gonna take after him so goddamn much. Michael, uh, Patricio. And if anyone ever gives you shit about that one being girly, you rip their legs off, you hear me?”
The kid’s face has scrunched up and he really does look like his father, so selfish and puffy and bratty. Trevor’s vision might be blurring at the edges, but he’s sure he doesn’t see much of anything of himself in him.
“Townley,” he adds, managing to cough it up past a thick lump that’s developed in his throat. Or maybe even further down, in his lungs. “De Santa’s just the fat snake’s fake name. Faker than Mandy’s fucking tits—”
He blanks out for—well, he doesn’t really know how long, but it must’ve only been a few seconds because he comes around with Ron still trying to apply pressure in his cunt and Wade still on the phone, yelping, “—a seizure!! And his lips are turning blue! Is that, like, normal?”
The fucking moron. Even Wade's useless excuse for a tiny-dicked alpha cousin had had infinitely more brains than him.
“Y’know,” he tells Michael Junior, “I’d been trying to break up your shitbag dad’s marriage to that fake beta she-troll since 199-fucking-3. So I guess you’re really proof of my greatest accomplishment. Not that you look like much compared to Trevor Philips Enterprises right now. Better make me goddamn proud.”
“Ambulance?” Wade’s saying. “But he said he’d gut us and drag our intestines behind the Bodhi if we—okay. Okay.”
Sure, Trevor hadn’t wanted to go to hospital. And he hadn’t gotten any prenatal care before that, because what could the useless, underfunded, redneck clinics in Sandy Shores do anyway? And yeah, maybe he’d been kind of dizzy and oddly weak in the third trimester, but he has warrants out for him all over the tristate and he sure as hell wasn’t going to set foot in one of the pretentious as fuck LS doctor’s offices Michael had suggested. It was probably just due to the sudden reduction of meth and various other teratogenic substances, anyway. Or so he’d thought.
“He says he’s nearly here!” Wade announces, before his eyes land on the puddle of blood that’s soaked through the blankets and started to seep down the edge of the mattress to the trailer floor. He dissolves into a distressed omegan whine. “A-and he’s bringing Franklin with him!”
What does it take, two, three hours tops to get from Rockford Hills to Sandy Shores? Less, given how Mikey drives. How could the whole thing already be over in that time? The internet said it might take days of the kid leisurely torturing him before it got it over with, given it’s the first time Trevor’s doing this.
'Course, the internet also said the kid would probably be retarded because Trevor’s ovaries are old and dried up by omegan standards, but he seems fine. Goes to show the word vomit on there.
Speaking of, Trevor rolls weakly to the side and pukes, his stomach seeming to pulse and contract in time with the erratic flopping of his heart in his chest, more off rhythm than meth’s ever made it. Once all the water and mucus and stomach acid stops coming, he notices his fingertips are tinged blue when he manages to raise a hand to drag the back of it along his mouth.
“Trevor,” Ron sobs, his face all wet and snotty and ugly as it contorts in a grimace. He’s seemed to have given up on squeezing anything shut, his gory hands tugging at his own hair.
“Shut the fuck up.” It doesn’t come out as strong as he’d wanted it to, more of a whisper than an order.
And Ron just keeps on going anyway, because why should he be afraid of what Trevor’ll do to him anymore? He’s obviously dying.
“Guess he got me in the end,” he tells the kid. He can’t taste any blood, but it’s all he can smell, even over the stench of the vomit and the trailer. “Your ratbag turd of an alpha father. Don’t let him fuck you up like he did your siblings.”
Tracey and Jimmy . . . the little screwups are finally starting to get their shit together, one teensy tiny baby step at a time. They’d warmed up to the idea of their father spawning again over the last nine months, and Trevor had been so eager for them to hold it for the first time, because finally, finally—
There had been so many times he’d damn near wanted to die, wouldn’t have given two shits about it. Nine straight years of it, and plenty more before that, each new stepfather and foster home and that fucking bitch telling him he was too much of a crazy little omega to be a pilot. Even seven months ago, when he’d called and left a message for his mother telling her she was finally going to have a grandchild. He never got a call back, and when it finally occurred to him that he never would, the worthlessness had crushed him down into such a tiny smear of nothing he couldn’t help but curl up on the floor with his glass rose pipe and let the meth drag him back up into some semblance of functionality.
But now . . . now he’s staring at his own kid, who might be all shriveled and whining and kind of ugly for the time being, but he’s his and he’s Michael’s, the only alpha whose brat he ever would’ve tolerated carrying (fat, traitorous fuck though he is).
And for the very first time in his entire goddamn near fifty years of life, as his mind starts to go just as fuzzy as his vision, head tingling and numb like his extremities have become at an alarming pace, he wonders how his mother ever could’ve treated him the way she did. You bitch, how, how could you have looked at me like I’m looking at him and decided I wasn’t worthy of anything, any of your—your love—
He wants to raise this kid. He finally has that fucking bite mark on his mating gland he’s wanted for so long, and now he has someone who’ll love him unconditionally, who he can teach all the ends and outs of the business and be proud of. He can play at happy family for the first time in his life and even though it could very, very easily implode in a hail of flames and bullets, he’s really fucking eager to try at it.
But he’s getting so damn cold. It’s summer in the desert in a tin can trailer with no air conditioning, but the only heat he can feel at all is the blood running down his legs.
“They’re here!” Wade says, somewhere at the edge of his consciousness. Trevor’s not sure who he means, because there are ambulance sirens getting closer and over them, the screech of brakes and slam of car doors.
Outside in the yard, Franklin yells something. Michael yells back. And that’s nice, that he’s here. Trevor’d like to see him.
But everything gets further and further away, and soon Trevor isn’t aware of anything at all.