"Stay the fuck in bed. I'll see you later."
You sighed as Trevor left the trailer, annoyed that he was so busy with work and wouldn't even let you come with. Gang activity had been rising dramatically in Los Santos lately, and with it came a rise for what Trevor Philips Industries was known for - guns and drugs. The past two weeks since Trevor's 'birthday', both you and him had barely been at home, instead busting your asses on getting shipments taken care of.
You didn't really understand why he was so insistent on keeping the business when he was so rich, but his reasoning was that he didn't want to get old and slow. It seemed that secretly, the whole birthday thing had gotten under his skin and he was now involving himself in the business more and more.
Maybe it was the stress from the business, maybe you'd caught a bug, maybe you'd even developed allergies, but you were running a fever. It was only a minor amount higher than your normal temperature, but you felt as if you were sweltering. After you mentioned it yesterday morning, Trevor made you stick a thermometer in your mouth, declared you sick, and made you stay home from work.
The hot feeling was bad yesterday, but even worse today. Medicine wasn't helping cool you down nor was it decreasing your temp. It felt bad enough that you considered going to the doctor, but maybe it was too dramatic of a decision. After all, it was only a fever. You decided to call Gabi to hear her thoughts.
"Hey, where are you?" Gabi asked as soon as she picked up. "I'm at Liquor Ace and I just saw Trevor pull up, but you aren't here again."
"Yeah, I've got a fever," you sighed. "I feel hotter than Satan's asshole and Trevor's 'banned me' from going to work until I'm feeling better."
"At least he's thoughtful about something," Gabi muttered. "Are you feeling okay besides that?"
"Yeah," you told her. "I had a stomachache last night, but it went away. I think Trevor used spoiled milk in the mac n' cheese without realizing it, it tasted really off."
"Huh."
There was a pause. Maybe it's a stupid idea to go to the doctor. Gabi'll put it straight, though. "Do you think I should go to the doctor?"
"Wouldn't hurt," Gabi hummed thoughtfully. "Call the doctor and take their earliest appointment. I know I haven't established a doctor here, I doubt you have either. Maybe get a physical while you're at it, I don't know."
"I probably won't get a physical right now, but I'll get an appointment. Thanks."
"Eeyup." Gabi hung up. You groaned in annoyance, not looking forward to the hassle of going to the doctor. You looked up the phone number to the nearest care center; it was a just a few blocks away on Zancudo Avenue and unsurprisingly conjoined with the police station.
You called the number and a very unenthused man picked up after five rings. "Sandy Shores Medical Center, how can I help you?"
"Hi, I'm [F/N] [L/N] and I'm running a bit of a fever. It's not too high, but I feel a lot hotter than average. When's your soonest appointment?" you asked.
Silence hung awkwardly over the phone as the receptionist looked at available times. "We have Dr. Braithwaite available an hour from now."
"Yeah, I can do that," you hurriedly agreed. "I'll see you then. Goodbye."
You took a quick shower and threw some makeup and clothing on before heading to the medical center. There were only two other people in the waiting room; a young woman with hollowed cheeks, no teeth, and an arm wrapped in gauze, along with an older man holding a cane.
As soon as you sat down after filling out the basic information form, the woman stood up and moved to sit beside you. She shoved her wounded arm in your face and asked, "Ya think this is infected?" What wasn't contained by gauze was pus-filled and stank.
"I'm no doctor, but yeah," you said with a curled lip while scooting away from her.
"What're you scoochin' away fer?" Her gaze turned cold.
"I may be contagious," you quickly explained. "You look like you have a lot on your plate, you don't need what I have on top of what you have." Hopefully that calms her down.
Her face twisted into a scowl. "How do you know I'm sick?"
"We're both in a hospital...?"
"Oh."
She glanced away, posture relaxing, when the receptionist stood up, stared at you, and cleared his throat. "[F/N], Dr. Braithwaite is here to see you." You wordlessly stood up and made your way to the door he escorted you to. "His room is second on the left," the man said briskly before returning to his desk.
You crept into the room and sat on the examination table, wincing at the obnoxious crinkling of the paper. It wasn't long before an older man entered and closed the door. "Hey, [Y/N]," he said with a smile, "I'm Dr. Braithwaite. I heard you've been having a fever?"
"Yeah." Your head nodded to confirm. "It's not super hot degree-wise, but I feel really, really hot."
"I see," Dr. Braithwaite said. "Any other symptoms?"
"I felt sick last night, like, nauseous, but I think that was just food poisoning. I've had the fever since early yesterday, though," you told him.
"Okay. I'm gonna look down your throat and get your heart rate here, then we'll go from there." The doctor looked at the back of your throat with a flashlight, then put his stethoscope to your heart. His brow furrowed the longer he listened. "It seems you've got quite the heartbeat, there. Any history of a high heart rate?"
"Nope." You let out a grunt of annoyance knowing you were sick. "How long will I be out of work for? And how long should I take the antibiotics?"
Dr. Braithwaite said, "Well, there's something going on here for sure, but I'll need to take a blood sample and get down to what the exact virus or bacteria is before I can prescribe anything. Certain illnesses don't respond to certain antibiotics." You bared your teeth at the thought of getting your blood drawn. "I know," the doctor said sympathetically, "but if you want me to get the car over the hill, I'm gonna need some fuel." He gave a weak smile after the joke.
"Alright," you said with a dry chuckle. He left momentarily and returned with the vial and needle. The drawing process was quick and relatively painless as long as you didn't look.
"See, that wasn't so bad! Now, give me about thirty minutes to narrow down what exactly is ailing you. You can go into the waiting room and I'll just call you back in here once the test results show," the doctor said, opening the door and gesturing toward the hallway.
"Okay, thank you," you said with a smile as you returned to the waiting room. The woman was gone, but the old man was still there. You pulled out your phone and began to scroll through social media, trying to ignore his stare from across the room.
"Do you happen to know a man named Arnold Rayno?" he finally asked.
The question caught you off-guard. "I, uh... no, no I don't," you stuttered in confusion.
"Yes, you do. He's all around town, he's everywhere, and I've seen you with him!" the old man exclaimed.
The receptionist butted in, "Mr. Ramirez, this patient doesn't know Arnold. Nobody you've talked to today knows Arnold."
A pang of pity went through you as you realized the old man probably had dementia. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, sir," you said kindly.
The man sighed. "It's fine. Coulda sworn..." he began mumbling something about Arnold when Dr. Braithwaite opened the door to the patient rooms and gestured for you to come back in.
"We're gonna head in the back to my office, just follow me," he explained as you both walked past the room you'd originally been in.
"What, are you going to tell me I have cancer or something?" you joked.
"We'll discuss your ailment once we're both sitting down," he said gently.
Your stomach dropped when he said that. Oh my God, I have cancer, you thought as tears began to prick your eyes. It's those fucking cigarettes I smoke with Trevor, I fucking know it-
"Take a seat." Dr. Braithwaite's gentle voice interrupted your thoughts and you sat in a rather comfy chair across from him. "So, we have a rapid testing machine in the back that goes through various parts of your blood and determines what you most likely have from that. How it works is..."
You tuned him out as he explained all the technical jargon. Your brain felt fuzzy as you imagined worst case scenario after worst case scenario. How long do I have? A year? A month? A week?
"...so, shall I offer my congratulations or my condolences?" He gazed at you curiously.
"What?" you asked incredulously. What the fuck would be congratulated upon in regards to cancer?
"Do you want me to repeat the important part?" Dr. Braithwaite inquired. "I know this type of thing can be scary, I understand if some of it didn't quite register."
"How long do I have left to live?" you asked weakly. Your stomach churned even harder. "What stage is it?" A familiar feeling rose in your throat and you quickly scanned the room for a trash can. Luckily, you spotted one and grabbed it just in time to vomit.
"Vomiting is a common symptom," Dr. Braithwaite said. "You've still got a long life ahead of you as long as you eat an apple a day. You don't have cancer."
The fog left your head as soon as he told you it wasn't cancer. "Okay, then what is it?"
"...Um, according to test results, you're pregnant."
You felt your heart stop as you stared at the doctor in utter disbelief. Pregnant? You were on the pill, you weren't even showing symptoms, it was impossible!
You scoffed and let out a hearty laugh at what he'd said. "No, I'm not."
"A certain hormone in your blood, hGC, has risen to that of the average pregnant person at around four weeks gestation. Tell me, are you sexually active?" Dr. Braithwaite asked.
"Well, yeah, but I'm on birth control," you said, not wanting to believe this doctor genuinely thought you were pregnant, of all things. "Besides, I use protection." Sometimes. Okay, not that often, but still, it was the thought that counted.
"Sometimes, it can slip through all those cracks. I've been using these tests for the past ten years and in all that time, there's only been one false positive."
"Well, you're about to have two," you muttered while frowning at him. "...So, I'm assuming you're not going to give me any-"
"Nope," Dr. Braithwaite interrupted. "No antibiotics. My professional recommendation is to have a serious conversation with the father and figure out what the next steps are, whether that be aborting, adoption, or keeping it."
"Look," you huffed while standing up, "I'll see where I'm at in a couple weeks. If you're somehow right- which you're not- I'm sure I'll be back. The receptionist will bill me, right?"
"Yes," the doctor said with a sympathetic look of concern. "I'll see you soon, [Y/N]. Thank you for coming in."
"Yeah," you grumbled as you left, "and thanks for taking my money." As you drove home, you mulled over Dr. Braithwaite's diagnosis. There was no way, no fucking way in hell. It was a ridiculous concept to you, the idea of having a baby right now, let alone with Trevor. You could barely trust him to be responsible with your animals, for godsakes.
You pulled into the driveway to see that Trevor was already home. "Hey," you called out once you opened the door. Trevor was sitting on the couch with a bouncing knee gazing at you with concern.
"Gabi said you went to the E.R.," he said.
"No, not the E.R., the little hospital down the street," you clarified.
"What doctor did you see?"
"Dr. Braithwaite."
Trevor nodded his head. "He knows what he's doing. So, did he figure out what's wrong with you?"
You snorted in amusement. "If he knows what he's doing, then I know quantum mechanics."
Trevor raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "Really? I've seen him a number of times and he's never done me dirty. What did he allege was wrong with you?"
Your mouth twitched at Trevor's attest to Dr. Braithwaite's expertise when it came to diagnoses. What if he was actually right? What if you really were pregnant? "Um, he said that I need to just walk it off and come back in another couple weeks if I'm still feeling like shit."
"Doctors always treat women like their pain means nothing," Trevor muttered with a frown. He stood up, walked over to you, and gave you a kiss on the forehead.
"Why are you home so early, anyways?" you asked as you leaned into his affection.
Trevor stated gruffly, "I was worried about you, sugar plum. Couldn't focus knowing you feel ill." He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close to him, resting his chin on the top of your head. "You'll feel better soon, I know it."
"I hope so," you muttered, unconvinced.
The rest of the day was relatively uneventful; you and Trevor watched a few random shows in bed while eating some fast food Ron had brought over. The mindless binging of Kung Fu Rainbow Lazerforce got your mind off what Dr. Braithwaite had told you earlier. Eventually, you got bored of the mindless consumerism and shut the TV off, instead electing to rest your head on Trevor's shoulder.
That turned out to be a bad idea. As soon as you closed your eyes, you instantly began worrying about if what the doctor had said was actually true. Symptoms plus only one false positive in his career plus Trevor vouching for his credibility made you question yourself. What if you really were pregnant? You opened your eyes and glanced at your boyfriend to find him picking his nose and examining the fruits of his labor before shrugging, stretching and wiping it on the wall. You loved Trevor, but you'd met newborns more mature than him. Sure, he'd love the kid, but would he be a responsible father?
"What're you lookin' at?" Trevor's gruff voice forced you to pay attention to the here and now.
"You," you said honestly with a shrug.
Trevor grinned and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Like what you see?" He put a hand to your face and tenderly tucked your hair behind your ear, then moved his arm downwards so he could cop a feel of your breasts.
Goddammit. Another symptom to check off the list - you were quite tender there. "Don't do that," you hissed.
The happiness on Trevor's face instantly disappeared, replaced with frustration. "Why? I thought you liked it when I did that."
"I'm not in the mood," you answered. This whole pregnancy scare had put you off of any intimacy whatsoever for the near future.
"What do you mean?" Trevor's eyes narrowed. You rarely said no to him for anything, much less sex. Although his drive was higher than yours, he was able to get you into the mood most of the time and always made sure you were the first to orgasm if you weren't the one initiating sex.
"I don't wanna have sex." Your eyes darted across his face, which was turning angrier by the minute.
"The fuck? What did I do wrong?" His lip curled in anger and confusion.
"Nothing. I just... I don't want to," you said. You didn't want to reveal the reason behind why in fear it would cause a nuclear reaction.
"Seriously? We've been together, what, eight months and now you don't want anything to do with me anymore?!" Trevor exclaimed in rage, beginning to get off the bed. The look in his eyes was dark.
"Wh- no, not at all! I love you, Trevor, I'm just not in the mood right now," you hurriedly exclaimed.
"You... fuck, seriously? What the hell, [Y/N]? I didn't even do anything!"
"Seriously."
"Seriously," Trevor mocked. "I'm gonna take a fucking walk, you're pissing me off!" He stormed out of the room and out of the trailer, the door slamming shut behind him with a thudding echo. You hopelessly stared after him with your mouth agape; once he was gone, you buried your head in your arms and began to cry.
What kind of day is this? You thought between sniffles. "God, I can't be... don't let me be." You couldn't even stomach saying the word itself. The p-word. You enjoyed your life well enough as it was, and even if you did want this baby, it couldn't possibly fit into your lifestyle. The guns, the drugs, the people - you didn't want it to be attending its parents funeral the same year it graduated kindergarten! Not to mention you'd effectively be a single mom if Trevor decided to stay with you once he found out you were having his kid-
Wait. Wait. You thought back to the double date night gone upside down with Michael and Amanda. What if it wasn't even Trevor's? What if it was Michael's? "Fuck!" you screamed at the top of your lungs while punching your pillow. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..."
You turned around so your head was buried in your pillow and began sobbing violently, clutching it tightly as you began to comprehend the predicament you were in. Pregnant with a baby you couldn't fit into your life whose father you were unsure of. It was truly something for a reality TV show season finale.
You didn't know how long you had been crying for when a gentle knock sounded on the front door. "Hello?" The voice belonged to Wade. "[Y/N]? I heard you yell 'fuck' and not in a good way."
"Yeah," you called out weakly. "Just found out some... news." You kept thinking about the 'news'. How could you not? It kept digging and digging and digging into your head, making you feel sicker and sicker to the point where you barely made it to the toilet when you vomited for the second time that day.
"That was a really good death metal scream," Wade called through the door. "Can I come in?"
"Give me a moment." You flushed the toilet and wiped the tears and snot off your face, opening the door once you were finished and letting Wade in.
"You okay?" Wade's face creased with concern. "You look like you've been cryin'."
"Yeah, I'm just having an allergic reaction." It was Wade, he'd buy it, right?
"Oh. I get that same reaction on my thingy whenever latex touches it, it gets all red and weepy-"
"I get the idea," you interrupted. "What do you need?"
"Well," Wade explained, "I heard the screamin' and it sounded like you was upset. I figured since you're always nice to me when I'm upset, I could do the same to you."
"That's really sweet, Wade," you said sincerely. "Thank you."
Wade sat down on the couch and patted for you to sit next to him with a smile. "Talk to me."
You were hesitant to sit down; Wade would definitely tell Trevor if he knew what you were really upset about. Maybe you could not lie, but twist the truth so that you could get it off your chest while Wade would still remain peacefully oblivious.
"I'm- I have a friend who found out she's pregnant recently," you told Wade. You were simultaneously relieved to be telling somebody, while also terrified he would figure it out.
"I wish I could get pregnant," Wade wistfully sighed.
"What?" You blinked in confusion at Wade's confession.
Wade beamed as he spoke, "I think it'd be nice to have a big belly and soft pillow boobies and make milk. I'd drink my own and it'd make my bones extra strong."
"...Okay," you said slowly. There was so much wrong with that statement. "Anyways, my friend's pregnant and it's an accident, she's only, like, four weeks into the pregnancy. She's in a relationship with the baby daddy, but he'd be a terrible baby daddy. Plus, my friend's a little bit of a slut and banged another guy the same time the baby was conceived. My friend is just really stuck and overwhelmed and doesn't know what to do." It all tumbled out of your mouth quickly.
"Who's your friend?" Wade asked. It was nice confessing to somebody nonjudgemental, but you knew this question was coming.
"Uh, she wants to remain anonymous." Please leave it, please just fucking leave it-
"Is it Gabi?"
"You know what?" I'm so sorry, Gabi. "You guessed right, good job."
"Ooh!" Wade seemed more excited he got his guess right on the first try than the fact that 'Gabi' was pregnant and didn't know the sperm donor. "Do I get a prize?"
"Yeah." This was where it'll all come together. "You get to shadow cooking under Chef for the next two months with free lunches!" Trevor never really interacted with Chef whenever he was making meth anymore, so this meant Wade and Trevor would have minimal time to talk with each other and possibly spread the whole Gabi pregnancy scare rumor.
"Oh, that's awesome! I love hangin' out with Chef," Wade exclaimed. "He always tells me to stand in the corner whenever I try to help, though."
"Well, that's why you're shadowing. You watch only unless Chef says otherwise."
"That sounds f-" Wade was interrupted by Trevor coming back into the trailer.
"Out, Wade." Trevor jerked a thumb at the door and Wade nearly tripped over his black JNCO hems getting out. "[Y/N]?"
"Yes?" you said timidly. Hopefully he'd taken the time to cool off instead of heat up even further.
"I didn't mean to be so pushy," Trevor finally sighed. "And I didn't mean to make you cry. Work's just been getting to me."
"It's fine," you said. "I'm really tired, can we go to bed?"
"Sounds good, sugar."
You barely slept that night or the following nights, and what little sleep you did get was plagued with odd nightmares consisting of trying to catch frogs only for them to wriggle out of your grasp. You looked the meaning of frog dreams up on EyeFind for it to tell you frog dreams were related to pregnancy. Fucking fantastic.