[For once, Trevor doesn't argue with the notion of a bath. Not that he has the strength to refuse it at this juncture, but he's not genuinely thrown off until Adrian's last question.

Would he be acting the same? Why should he act any differently? But the answer's as immediate as it's asked. Because while they terrify Trevor in equal measure, he still seems to be under the impression that Adrian wouldn't care if anything befell Trevor. Or that he wasn't important enough for anyone to warrant mourning. Or that they were both better off -- more effective -- without him anyway. Adrian and Sypha make Trevor better, and make him want to be better. But he doesn't believe for a second that he's more than a whining child to either of them, and he's only himself to blame for it.

Adrian is a vampire prince. Sypha is a magickal powerhouse. Trevor can throw a punch. Useless.

Trevor sighs, and rolls his head forward again, trying to find the words to put to this.]

You don't think you'd handle it better than she would? Not that I'd wish it on either of you, but if one of you were to find me gone...

[He'd want it to be Adrian. He'd trust Adrian to do what needed to be done, were he turned into some monstrosity, raised or forged or however the fuck these bastards toyed with their dead. But that's not permission to be reckless, and Trevor realizes -- perhaps a beat too late -- that he shouldn't treat it as such.]

We'll go together from now on, all right? All three of us. You have my word.

[But rather than conviction, it comes out dull. Defeated.]