TITLE: Scenes from an Unplanned Life
SPOILERS: Anything from the series is fair game here.
DISCLAIMER: I neither own nor claim to own anything relating to the show Drake & Josh. The powers that be from Nickelodeon and Schneider's Bakery own all. I am not making a profit except for the satisfaction of being able to play with words for a little while.

A/N: This story is meant to be a series of vignettes based on the characters from Drake & Josh. The first few deal with Drake since he's the one that lives in my head the most. Other characters will appear in later chapters. The chapters are also not necessarily in chronological order either, so don't be surprised if they jump around in time. I write about whatever idea comes to mind, regardless of where it fits in time. This is a future fic. And Drake did not receive a recording contract from Spin City Records. These two facts are vital to understanding this story.

Chapter 1: Morning Sickness

POV: Drake, 25 years old

The second Drake Parker opened his eyes, the phrase death warmed over popped into his head. He closed them again. A vague memory of a line of empty shot glasses standing sentry on the coffee table danced through his mind as he pried his tongue off the roof of his mouth.

Hangovers used to be old hat to him, but the severity of this one was a direct result of the length of time that had passed since his last one. It used to be that he could drink all night, work all day, play a gig, drink again, and not be bothered by more than a slight buzzing behind his eyes. Now, he swore that if he never drank again it would be too soon.

He hadn't planned to wake up feeling like a freight train was running through his brain. His friends had come over the night before, announced that he was too young to be such an old man, and had proceeded to ply him with copious quantities of what began as gin and ended up as god knows what. He vaguely remembered something involving a pair of shoelaces and an oven rack.

Ugh. Sitting up was proving to be a problem, so he gave up trying and took a deep breath to force the bile that was rising in his throat back down where it belonged.

He felt someone staring at him. On top of everything else, a flitter of guilt danced across his mind. He knew who it was; it was the last person on Earth he wanted to see. Correction: the last person on Earth he wanted to see him like this.

"You don't feel good." It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact.

"Go away," he croaked and winced as the sound bounced around inside his skull.

"Uncle Pete says you got a hangnail."

Drake cracked one eye open. John Jacob "Jack" Parker (formerly Hodges until Drake had it legally changed) stood staring back at him through his mother's eyes. He only knew that because the look in Kelly Hodges' eyes the day she showed up at his door five and a half years ago to tell him that she was done taking care of his son (a child she made clear she had not wanted in the first place) and that it was his turn now was something he wasn't likely to forget in this lifetime.

"It's hangover, Jack. And Uncle Pete's got a big mouth." He tried again to sit up. What he didn't mention to his son was that Uncle Pete was one of the main reasons why he was suffering with said hangover now. Just like riding a bike, Pete said, he thought. My ass. More like riding a bike that gets hit by a bus.

He looked at the boy. Six going on thirty, Jack Parker was much too clever for his own good. Based on sheer intelligence alone, Drake would swear that the kid wasn't his. Except that he had the DNA test to prove it. If he didn't know any better, he would think that some of Josh's DNA had managed to slip into the boy's blood.

Josh. Where the hell had that come from? Jesus, he hadn't thought about him in a long time.

He sniffed the air. "What's burning?" The smell was doing cruel things to his stomach.

Jack's gray eyes got wide. "Uh-oh," he said, looking sheepishly over his shoulder in the general direction of the kitchen.

"Jaaack." Drake tried his stern voice, but frankly, couldn't muster the energy. Besides, the combination of his throbbing head and his churning stomach was making him –

Scurrying off the bed, hand clutched over his mouth, Drake ran to the bathroom and fell to his knees, sliding across the tile to the toilet, where he emptied the contents of his stomach into the bowl in an array of interesting colors. He moaned miserably as he rested his head on the bowl.

The smoke alarm went off. Drake shielded his ears against the harsh wailing and muttered his son's name mournfully.

A few seconds later the alarm mercifully ceased, followed closely by Jack's arrival in the bathroom doorway. "It's okay now," he announced reassuringly. His entire front was soaked.

"What did you do?" Drake asked warily, fearing the answer. The kid could get into trouble without even trying. That was something he definitely got from him.

Jack shuffled his feet guiltily. "Well…"

Drake put his hand up to stop the flow of words. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

Jack shrugged. "Okay." He peered into the toilet. "That's really gross," he said, wrinkling his nose.

Reaching up behind him, Drake pulled the lever and winced against the whoosh of the toilet. "Yeah, well. That's what can happen when you drink too much a–" He stopped. "–apple juice."

Jack looked at him with that special expression reserved just for the occasions when he didn't believe a word Drake was saying. "Sure, Dad." Slipping past Drake in the space between Drake's feet and the wall, Jack walked to the shower and turned it on. He turned to his dad. "You don't look too good. Take a shower and I'll make breakfast."

Drake just nodded. There went the guilt again. He was supposed to be the mature one here, the one taking care of Jack. Not the other way around. "Right." Using the toilet for support, he pushed himself up on wobbly legs. He pulled off his shirt and threw it in the general direction of the hamper. Fumbling with the button on his jeans – he still wore the clothes he was wearing last night – he noticed Jack still standing there.

"I think I can take it from here, bud," he said.

Jack cracked a smile. "Just makin' sure." Then he turned and walked out of the bathroom.

Something the boy said earlier popped into Drake's mind. "Jack!" he called, wincing at the slice of pain that shot behind his eyes at the sound.

"Yeah?" Jack asked, peering around the doorframe.

"Only cereal for breakfast," he commanded, regaining some of his parental authority. "Cold cereal. With milk." He pointed his finger at the kid. "No cooking."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah." Then he disappeared.

When Drake stepped out of the shower twenty minutes later, he felt noticeably more human. Evidence that Jack had returned to the bathroom was everywhere – Drake's clothes were in the hamper, there was a clean towel folded up neatly on the toilet lid, and his toothbrush with toothpaste already applied was propped on the edge of the sink waiting for him.

Drake smiled despite the lingering pain behind his eyes. He dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and stepped to the sink. Picking up the toothbrush in his right hand, he wiped the steam from the mirror with his left. He studied his reflection closely as he cleaned his teeth – the bloodshot eyes and two days' worth of stubble made him look older than his twenty-five years. He frowned critically, then stopped brushing when he spotted what looked like a gray hair hiding among the unruly wet spikes of brown that edged his forehead. He leaned in for a closer look, the toothbrush hanging from his mouth unattended.

There it was, mocking him. He grabbed it between the index finger and thumb of his right hand and plucked it out, grimacing at the pain. He turned it under the light, glaring at it as though it would change color through sheer force of will. He was too young to have gray hair. Wasn't he?

"Jeez, Dad. I thought you died in here or somethin'. I was starting to worry."

Drake jumped at the unexpected sound of Jack's voice right behind him, expelling the toothbrush from his mouth in a spray of minty foam. He cast a dark look in the boy's direction. "I'm gonna start making you wear a bell," he said, toothpaste dripping down his chin.

Jack just grinned. "You got a little somethin' right here," he said, pointing to his chin.

"Thanks," Drake replied sarcastically, then bent to rinse out his mouth, wiping it on the hand towel hanging next to the sink.

"Hurry up. Your cereal is getting soggy," Jack declared, then turned and exited the bathroom once again.

Drake emerged barefoot from the bedroom ten minutes later to find Jack seated on the couch watching one of those daily morning shows where everyone was so cheery he wanted to puke. He leaned against his arms along the back of the couch behind his son. A woman with plastic blonde hair and a smile too wide for her face was explaining in bubbly tones how to make valued treasures out of everyday items. Jack was watching it intently.

Drake rolled his eyes and reached for the remote that was lying on the cushion next to Jack. Pointing it at the television, he changed the station to the cartoon channel.

"Hey! I was watching that!" Jack exclaimed indignantly, twisting his head to look at his father.

"Jack," Drake said, straightening up. "You're six years old. It kinda freaks me out when you watch the news."

"Dad," Jack replied. "It wasn't the news. She was makin' stuff. Cool stuff."

"Do you really think you're gonna need a wind chime made out of measuring cups?" Drake asked skeptically. He started walking towards the kitchen with Jack in tow.

"Well, Father's Day is coming up," the kid replied and Drake could hear the laughter in his voice.

"I'd rather –" Drake began, but the sight before him made him stop mid-sentence. He stood in the kitchen doorway. The entire floor in front of the sink was covered in wet paper towels – an entire roll, apparently, by the looks of it. Also, the sprayer from the sink was pulled out to its full length and was dangling over the edge of the sink halfway to the floor.

It was only when Drake spied the microwave that he remembered the smoke alarm he'd heard earlier. What had been a fully functioning appliance just the day before now looked as though it had seen combat – and lost. The inside was charred and the glass was cracked. Something unidentifiable was on the turntable. Water pooled underneath what was left. The smell of smoke still clung to the air.

"Jack Parker. Come here please." His voice was calm through clenched teeth.

The boy was no longer behind him and had instead retreated to the safety that the edge of the living room offered. "A-Are you mad?" he asked softly, sounding every inch the little boy that he was. He took a few cautious steps towards Drake.

"What happened?" Drake asked his son as he looked down at him.

"Well," Jack began and Drake could see him visibly swallow. "I was drying my shirt in the microwave and it…kinda caught on fire."

Drake closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The throbbing behind his eyes instantly became more intense. When he opened them again, he saw Jack staring up at him with wide eyes. "Why were you drying your shirt in the microwave?"

Tears welled up in the little boy's gray eyes. "'Cause it was wet," he answered softly.

"Why was it wet?"

"'Cause I washed it."

"Where did you wash it?" Drake asked patiently, his anger beginning to ebb. When Jack was scared, he needed a little prodding.

"In the sink." Sniffle.

"Is that how the floor got all wet?"

"No. That was after."

"After what?" Drake could guess the rest, but he needed the kid to tell him in his own words.

"Well, remember this morning when you smelled something burning?"

Drake nodded. "Yeah." He knelt down so that he was eye level with Jack.

"Well, I went to check and I could see smoke coming from the microwave. I looked through the front and saw the fire. So I opened the door, but there was more smoke and then the alarm went off." He sniffled again and wiped fiercely at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I used the sprayer thing to put the fire out. That's how come the floor's wet."

"Jack," Drake sighed, shaking his head in slight exasperation.

"You're mad." Jack's voice sounded so tiny.

"A little," Drake admitted. "But I'm mostly relieved. You could've been really hurt, you know."

"I'm know." Fat tears rolled silently down the boy's cheeks.

Drake brushed the tears away with his thumb. "What would I do without you? Who'd take care of me?" He smiled.

Jack managed a smile. "I'm sorry," he said and threw his arms around his dad's neck.

Drake pulled the boy to him, felt the last of his tears soak into his t-shirt. "I'll buy a new one," he heard Jack say, the words spoken into Drake's neck.

He pushed Jack away and held him at arm's length in front of him. "A new what?"

"A new microwave," Jack stated matter-of-factly.

Suppressing a smile, Drake asked, "With what money?"

"My allowance," Jack answered in his duh tone of voice. "I've already saved twelve dollars and fifty-eight cents." When Drake just smiled instead of responding, he tilted his head to the side and asked, "How much do they cost?"

"More than twelve dollars and fifty-eight cents."

"How much more?" the boy asked earnestly. He was serious about the subject.

"Well, you'd need about seventy more dollars to get one like ours."

Jack frowned, then started counting on his fingers – the surest accounting method known to six-year-olds. When he ran out of fingers, he paused, looked unseeing into the distance for a moment, then started counting again, starting with his left thumb.

Laughing, Drake covered Jack's hands with his own. "At five dollars a week, it would take you 14 weeks to save up 70. And that would mean you couldn't buy any books or candy or anything for three months." He squeezed the boy's hands. "Besides, we can't wait that long to get a new microwave. We'd starve to death." He stood up.

"But I want to do somethin'," Jack insisted. "I mean, I broke it."

Drake pretended to give it a lot of thought. "If you clean up the kitchen the best you can, we'll call it even. When you're done, you can bring me a bowl of cereal. Okay?"

"But I already made you cereal," Jack said, pointing towards the living room. "How 'bout I make you some chocolate milk?"

"Deal," Drake said, holding out his hand. When the two shook hands, he said, "Now get to it. And don't touch the microwave."

Jack disappeared into the kitchen. Drake walked back into the living room and sank into the couch, resting his head against the back. The noise of the cartoons aggravated his headache, so he picked up the remote and pressed the MUTE button. At least his stomach felt better. Remembering the cereal Jack had made for him, he sat up. A tan-colored mass of what used to be Cheerios filled one bowl, while another bowl sat empty with a small puddle of drying milk in the bottom.

Drake tried a bite of the cereal. It was mushy and room temperature, but he was hungry. He scooped up the bowl, rested his feet on the coffee table and watched cartoons in silence. Several minutes later, Jack stood in front of him, holding a glass filled with dark brown liquid. He spied the empty bowl on the cushion next to Drake and seemed pleased.

"Here you go, Dad." He thrust out the glass.

Drake seized the glass in his right hand and peered warily into it. Close up, whatever it was looked suspiciously unlike chocolate milk. He looked at his son, who stared guilelessly back at him. "What is it?"

"Just drink it. You'll feel better." He smiled. "I promise."

Drake cautiously brought the glass to his lips. Giving Jack one last look over the rim, he tipped the glass back. The thick brown sludge slid past his lips and onto his tongue. Twisting his face into a grimace, he sat up, spitting the concoction back into the glass and setting it on the table, as far away from him as he could get it.

"What the fuck is that?" he gasped, wiping his tongue on his sleeve.

"Bad word, Dad. You owe me a dollar."

"Put it on my tab," Drake quipped, eyeing Jack darkly. He pointed at the glass. "That is not chocolate milk."

"Sure it is," Jack said. "There's just other stuff in it, too."

"Like what, raw sewage?" Drake made another face. He'd have to brush his teeth again. And use mouthwash to get the taste out.

"No," said Jack. "Like vinegar, cinnamon, wush…wooshter…" He was ticking off the ingredients on his fingers.

"Worcestershire sauce?" Drake asked incredulously.

"That's it!" the boy answered happily. "I followed a recipe."

"A recipe? For what?" He was almost afraid of the answer.

"A drink. For hangovers. I found it on the Internet," Jack said cheerfully. "But we didn't have Tabasco, so I used ketchup instead."

Drake felt his stomach do a somersault. Suddenly he regretted the boy's reading prowess. Most kids his age watched cartoons and played video games. His son watched CNN and looked up hangover remedies on the Internet.

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