Chapter Text
“We’re getting a divorce…and we’re both happy about it?” Amanda narrows her eyes suspiciously, her manicured hands resting on the table in front of her, fingernails no longer drumming impatiently, still as she waits for Michael to finish speaking. She looks good, but then, she always does. She’s wearing a green blouse, a bright, emerald colour that stands out against her creamy skin. Green always suited her so much, he used to tell her it complimented her hair colour, a cheesy line he had stolen from one of her trashy magazines, but it was true, nonetheless.
Michael exhales slowly. He sinks back in the dining table chair, shifting in the seat, making a mental note to replace them as soon as possible. Sitting at the dining table was saved for awkward family dinners once in a blue moon. He hadn’t realised just how uncomfortable the damn things were.
It hadn’t actually occurred to him that this would be the first thing that happened after the Big One, calling Amanda and telling her to meet him at the house. Well, the first thing following the mass killing of their collective enemies, a series of events that peaked his adrenaline and made a smile threaten his face every time he thought of them. But it felt like the right decision. And he hadn’t felt like that about many of the decisions in his life, particularly in recent months. Scratch that, years. Had he ever actually made a good decision in his life? Perhaps it was best not to think of that at the moment.
“I guess so, Mand. I guess so,” he says quietly, watching her pretty face, lips fuller than they were last time he saw her. Amanda nods slowly, like she still doesn’t quite believe him. She stares at him, eyes narrowing further.
“So…you haven’t gotten a stripper pregnant? You don’t have to fake your death again? You’re not in debt to a mobster?” she asks the questions in quick succession, as if she doesn’t quite believe him, like she’s just waiting to yell at him for doing something wrong.
“God, no!” he actually laughs, more relieved that she isn’t mad at him, and she smiles too. It’s a good smile. One he hasn’t seen in a long time. Honest and bright. It strikes him just how pretty she is when she looks happy. He hasn’t made her smile in a long, long time.
“It’s just…when we were at Friedlander’s office, what you said. I don’t want us to cheat on each other and argue with each other and hate each other until we’re dead but stay together because of a fucking obligation to bury each other. There has to be more to our lives than that. Fuck, Mandy, you deserve better than that.”
“You’re right. Jesus, I never thought I’d say that,” she sounds so sceptical, eyebrows rising up to her hairline, that Michael laughs again, happy when she laughs too.
“I promise I’ve still got you and the kids, okay? Anything you want, baby.” Michael says earnestly, and Amanda nods, eyes beginning to sparkle. She leans forward, closer to him, relaxing now. He had been on the receiving end of her ‘we need to talk’ call often enough, so it must have worried her when it was Michael’s turn to say it.
“You owe me that much…oh, God, the kids. Do you think they’ll be mad?” her brow creases with worry, and Michael reaches over to hold her hand, something he hasn’t done in a while. She holds his back, and he looks down at it, looks at her soft smooth skin, glossy nails, rings that she’s bought herself over the years. He thinks of the crappy ring he married her with. Sterling silver with a stone that almost sparkled in the right light. She made him promise to actually buy her a ring instead of stealing one, and to earn money from an honest means to buy it. He had sold his shitty old car for it. He hadn’t told her that he’d actually stolen the car, so technically the ring was still dirty, but it was the best he could do in the short time before their shotgun wedding. It still hadn’t been enough to buy her the ring she deserved.
“I think they’ll be okay. We’ve thrown…fuck, I’ve thrown worse at them.” Guilt bubbles in his chest, the familiar self-loathing in there too. She squeezes his hand, face sympathetic instead of angry. Michael’s recent awareness that he’s a pretty shit father had been weighing uncomfortably on his mind. He doesn’t particularly want to give Tracey and Jimmy another reason to hate him, but he hopes that they’ll see things the way Amanda is.
“They love you. I think they know you’re different now. God knows I do.”
Nodding slowly, he lets out a long sigh. “When do you wanna tell them?”
Amanda lets out a humourless laugh, “honestly, Michael, the sooner, the better.”
Michael nods in reluctant agreement, “fuck, I just…I hope it doesn’t…I dunno, set them back or whatever. I mean, Tracey’s at college.”
“Honey, she was held at gunpoint in her bedroom. I think she can handle it.”
He winces at the memory. It’s not something he’s ever going to forget.
“I know, Mandy. I just don’t wanna hurt them more than I already have.”
“Look at us, Michael. Don’t you think they’ll be happy knowing we’re actually getting along?”
Michael nods again, “so, say this Friday? Rip off the band-aid?”
She squeezes his hand, “this Friday.”
They sit in silence for a moment, still holding hands, lost in thought, until Michael speaks.
“What are you gonna do now?”
She smiles, “I’m going to call our lawyer, Michael.”
“Oh.” He hadn’t thought of that. Of course. Paperwork was usually left to her anyway. All he really had been good for as a husband was throwing money her way every now and again.
“And then,” she pauses, smile growing wider, “you’re going to buy me a house. I’ll take the money you’re going to give me, and I’m going to make the best damn home in the city.”
“What kinda house do you have in mind?”
“A small one. Not tiny, of course. Just…just not as big as this,” she waves the hand that isn’t holding Michael’s around her, gesturing at the room, “remember when we first came here? It seemed so huge,” she pauses, sad smile on her face, “we all slept in the living room until we got used to it, remember?”
The memory hurts Michael’s heart. The kids had been so young, they hadn’t really understood much. To be honest, neither had Michael or Amanda. Everything had happened so fast. Too fast for him to realise that he had made the wrong choice.
“I remember. And I get what you’re saying, this house always seemed so…”
“Empty. I know. I want a cute little house. One with enough room for the kids to stay over. One I can decorate all on my own. And then,” she pauses, biting her bottom lip before continuing, “I think I wanna set up something. A centre, maybe. Something to help girls who had the same start in life that I did.”
“Mand, that’s…that’s really damn nice.”
“Yeah, I know,” she glares at him suddenly, “I want to teach girls like me that they don’t need to find men like you to get them out of trouble.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” he says dryly. She lets out a laugh and stands up. He watches her as she picks up her handbag.
“You’re leaving?” he asks, standing up too. Amanda looks at him and smiles.
“We’re divorcing, honey. This house was always more yours than it was mine.”
Michael nods and looks at her as she slips her cell phone into her handbag after checking it.
“I have coffee with a friend in an hour. I’ll call our lawyer first, get the paperwork over with as soon as possible,” they’re by the front door now, the sunlight streaming through the stained glass over her face.
“Thanks, Amanda. I mean it,” he pauses and looks at her, before reaching his arms out and taking her in a hug, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her familiar luxury perfume and hairspray smell. She hugs him back, toned arms tight around him.
“I love you,” he tells her, and he honestly can’t remember the last time he said that to her. She pulls away from him, his hands still on her waist.
“I love you too, Michael,” she replies, face radiant and perfect.
“Get back to the hotel safe, okay?” he says as she’s opening the door. She turns back to look at him as she’s entering her car.
“I’ll call you,” she says, smiling at him, glossy lips exposing the perfect veneers he paid for, “don’t get killed, okay?”
Michael smiles back at her, leaning against the doorway, “I won’t.”
Her eyes narrow and the sweet smile turns mischievous, “good. I’m counting on that divorce settlement.”
He laughs as she gets into her car and exits the driveway of what once was her home, beeping twice at him and waving out of the window. He watches her leave before going back inside, letting out a long, slow whistle, hearing it echo around their empty house. His empty house.
He walks to the kitchen where his phone rests on the dining table, opening up his contact list. He scrolls to near the bottom, hesitating over the familiar name.
It’s been three days since he last saw Trevor. He hasn’t heard from him in that time. He did send him a text, asking if he was back in Sandy Shores or if he was staying in Los Santos. There hadn’t been a reply. He had sent one more text, a simple ‘beer?’ but that had remained unanswered too. He had tried to call twice but both times he had been sent to voicemail.
He supposes he should call him again. But if he isn’t answering, he’s probably on a bender. A celebratory one. Michael remembers the way Trevor handled a job well done back in the day. And killing Devin Weston was probably one of the best jobs they had ever done, so Michael didn’t even want to imagine what Trevor was up to right now. So, he scrolls up, and clicks on Franklin’s name instead, relieved when he hears the ringing over the line.
“Hey, Frank. You heard from T lately?” he asks, then cringes. That hadn’t been the first thing he planned to say. God, how needy is that? Fuck, he can’t even ask how his buddy is doing before he’s worrying like an old mother hen about Trevor?
“Nah, man, can’t say I have - Chop! Get your ass down, dog! - sorry, M. But, no, haven’t heard from him. You worried?”
Michael shrugs to himself, “nah, not worried. Just curious. Wanna grab a drink?”
“Sure. You cool if Lamar’s there? Damn fool won’t leave me alone lately. Think the lanky motherfucker’s getting lonely.”
“Sure. I’ll come pick you up.”
“Aight dog, see you soon,” Franklin hangs up with a familiar beep, Michael checking his text messages to Trevor one more time before putting his phone in his pocket. No updates. There’s a strange, niggling feeling in the back of his mind, a suspicious whisper that tells him that perhaps something isn’t quite right, but he ignores it.
By the time he picks up Franklin and Lamar, he’s put Trevor to the back of his mind, having convinced himself that the younger man is probably living his best life, drunkenly table dancing or lying in a field, high out of his mind, surrounded by his strangely loyal minions. Or dead bodies. That’s a possibility too.
“Hey, it’s the creepy dude!” Lamar says in greeting as he clambers into the backseat, breaking Michael out of his thoughts. Franklin sitting in the front beside Michael.
“The creepy dude?” Michael raises his eyebrows, looking at the young man in the rear view mirror. Lamar grins back at him.
“Yeah! You the creepy dude! Yo, where’s the crazy dude? Ain’t ya’ll married or some shit?”
Michael rolls his eyes, “no, we are not married, no one here is married.”
“Actually, Mike, you are,” Franklin says helpfully. Michael lets out a laugh, neck twitching as he prepares to say it out loud for the first time to someone else.
“Fuck, okay, I guess we’re leading on that,” he says, shaking his head, turning to look at Franklin, “we’re over.”
“Shit, man, seriously?” Franklin asks, immediately sounding concerned.
Michael nods, “yeah. It’s not official yet. Actually, we just decided it. Not even an hour ago.”
“So that why you called us? Want us to be yo’ wingmen? Get you a girl to forget all yo’ rich white man problems?” Lamar grins, clapping a hand down on Michael’s shoulder. He stares at it for a moment before looking at Franklin.
“You okay? I mean you and Amanda go way back, dude. I thought ya’ll had figured it out?” Franklin asks, and Michael shrugs before pulling out of Franklin’s driveway, checking the road is clear before he does so.
“It was time,” he says, and that’s just about the best thing he can think to say. He’s not quite sure how to articulate it, how to actually say that it had been such a long time coming but their divorce came from a place of love rather than hate. Something he never thought he would say. He had pictured the exact moment the two of them would divorce often, imagined them screaming at each other over the island in the kitchen, hurling insults and glassware at each other. He hadn’t exactly pictured a gentle conversation that ended with a hug and the two of them stepping away with more love for each other, just in a different way.
“Yeah, it was just time,” Michael says softly, staring ahead at the road thoughtfully. Franklin places a hand on Michael’s shoulder gently, a soft gesture Michael appreciates. There’s silence for a few moments as Michael navigates the evening Los Santos traffic.
“So we gettin’ you some pussy tonight or what?” Lamar asks, breaking the quiet. Michael mouth twitches and he lasts until he catches Franklin’s eye, and the two of them burst into laughter, Lamar looking at the two of them in confusion.
“No, Lamar. But thanks,” Michael chuckles, shaking his head. Lamar nods slowly.
“Man, I don’t understand you. First thing I’d be doin’ after a divorce would be getting out there and gettin’ laid,” he says, looking at Michael suspiciously.
“You’d have to convince some poor lady to marry yo’ dumbass first,” Franklin says, shaking his head.
Michael remains quiet for the rest of the journey, Franklin and Lamar bickering until they’re all at a bar, beers in front of them. Something about their arguing is almost soothing, less stressful than hearing his kids whining at each other. Lamar’s ridiculous statements being combated with Franklin’s more logical arguments, Lamar frequently just saying the stupidest things until Franklin shakes his head and sighs in resignation.
“Still think we’d be better off at Trevor’s place,” Lamar says sourly as they sit down, looking around the dimly lit room in disappointment, filled with other patrons in various states of drunkenness instead of scantily clad women.
“And risk running into Trevor? No thanks,” Michael takes a drink, cool liquid soothing after the long day.
“You still ain’t heard from him?” Franklin asks.
“Nothing since we dropped ol’ Devin off,” Michael shrugs, and he has to supress a smile at the memory, “I figure he hitchhiked home with some poor bastard or called one of his minions to come pick him up. I guess he’s been on a celebratory bender for the last few days.”
“He ain’t done that in the time we known him,” Franklin says, and Michael hesitates at that.
“Yeah, he wasn’t really ever one for celebrating without-” without me, Michael almost adds, “without friends,” he finishes, picking the label on the bottle of beer.
“You worried cause he still ain’t returned your calls? Man, you sound just like him,” Lamar grins, finishing his own beer and reaching for Franklin’s, the younger man not even protesting, just rolling his eyes and sighing defeatedly.
“You think he’s okay?” Franklin asks. Michael shrugs again.
“I guess so. I mean, I could ask Ron, but…” Michael stops talking as he realises exactly how he must sound, a bored old housewife worrying about her son who’s perfectly capable of handling himself, “he’s fine. I’m sure he’s fine.”
“You know him best,” Lamar says, and there’s a glint in his eye as he winks at Michael, making him clench his jaw at the implication.
“I do,” he says curtly, before relaxing, “God fuckin’ help me.”
“Look, man, call him tomorrow, and if he ain’t answer, we can call Lester,” Franklin says, voice reassuring, “but tonight, just fuckin’ celebrate, aight?”
Michael nods, smiling widely, raising his bottle up in a toast.
“Oh, I’ll drink to that.”
It’s after midnight by the time he gets home, staggering and slurring words and songs to himself as he makes his way into the living room, shedding his shoes and coat on the way. Once he’s suitably comfortable on the couch, remote in hand, he checks his cell, surprised to see that he has a voicemail notification. The timestamp shows that it was left sometime during his night out, probably unnoticed thanks to the loud music that began playing sometime after ten.
He mutes the television, and once he makes it past the annoying automated message, is surprised to hear Trevor’s voice. So surprised, in fact, that he sits bolt upright, drunken head spinning as he moves too quickly, gripping the edge of the couch to keep himself upright.
“Hey. It’s me, heard you were missin’ me, something like that. I’m fine. Don’t visit. I’ll see you soon,” there’s a pause, and the sound of shuffling, “I’m just a little under the weather. Bye, Mikey.”
Michael listens to the message once more, before frowning, running his hand through his hair. He’s too drunk to properly pick apart Trevor’s message. He sounds stressed, voice only softening to say Michael’s nickname, and the shuffling in the background sounds like bedding being moved. Maybe he’s sick, Michael thinks. Or maybe he’s just violently hungover or temporarily withdrawing from God only knows what, likely only telling Michael so he doesn’t make a surprise visit and interrupt his bender.
Taking a deep breath, trying to focus his eyes, he opens up Trevor’s contact details, thumb hovering over his contact picture. He changed it after the Big One, set it to the selfie Trevor sent him that has the charred remains of an LSPD cruiser in the background, Trevor’s grin wide, eyes bright. Unseen in that photo is Michael in front of him, hissing at him to hurry the fuck up as he keeps the stolen car running. Trevor had rolled his eyes before jogging over, sliding into the seat beside Michael, breathlessly telling him to step on it, Michael unable to resist and grinning alongside him. Los Santos Rock Radio had been playing loudly, Trevor singing along in a stupidly high pitched voice once the sirens were behind them. Michael smiles fondly. That had been a good day.
His unsteady thumbs somehow concoct a text without any spelling errors, aided by the spell check that seems to be on his side for once.
“Call me when you can. Got some news.”
He sends the message before leaving his phone on the coffee table, sinking back onto the couch, losing himself in a movie before he falls asleep. His body is heavy from the alcohol, but his mind feels unusually light, a feeling he’s hoping he’ll get used to. There’s another fleeting worry about Trevor, but sleep overcomes him before the thought fully forms.