Title: A Small Life
Author: GatorGrrrl
Rating: T+
Warnings: Bad words, angst
Disclaimer: I do not own Drake & Josh. I just like bending them to my will.
Author's Note: I had a bit of inspiration tonight. Threw in a teensy bit of Drake's past for good measure. It's not much, but I want to start meting out bits and pieces of his life over the last 14 years. Anyway, I hope you like it.
Chapter 3: Good for the Soul
By the time Drake steps through the automatic doors and into the warm night air, his right hand is throbbing. Stopping outside the doors, he steps aside to let an elderly couple past, then finally takes a look at his hand. His knuckles and fingers are covered in drying blood and when he flexes them, he winces.
"Shit," he says, shaking his hand gingerly, sucking air through his teeth. He looks at the sky – it's dark, but the lights from the hospital soften the shade to more of a blue-gray. The moon is hiding behind a bank of clouds, its light diffuse and wispy.
He sighs irritably. He could really use a cigarette.
Looking around, he spots a short, chubby woman in dark scrubs leaning against the building about 20 feet away, her right arm crossed over her chest, holding a cigarette in her left hand. He watches her take a long drag, the tip glowing bright orange, then tilt her head back and blow the smoke upwards in a narrow stream.
Walking over to her, he pastes on his best smile and says, "You know, those things'll kill ya."
She looks at him, her eyes scanning his face. He can't tell what color they are, but they look light. Blue, maybe. "We all have to go sometime," she says.
His eyes flit to her nametag, but the hand tucked under her arm is obscuring it. "That's a great attitude for a nurse," he says. "Very compassionate." Close up he can see she's got kittens on her scrub top. She's also wearing a sweater despite the warm night.
She smirks as she flicks ash carelessly onto the sidewalk. "Then I guess it's a good thing I'm not a nurse."
"So, what? You just like dressing like one?" he asks.
"Yeah," she says, taking another drag then dropping the butt on the sidewalk. "I really like the shoes."
He looks down at her feet and smiles. She's wearing black clogs, the toes of which barely peek out from beneath the cuffs of her loose pants. "I can see why," he says. He looks up again and sees her still looking at him.
"What?" he finally asks, willing himself not to squirm.
She shakes her head slightly, her brow wrinkling in concentration. "Nothing," she says. "You just look familiar."
His heart seizes at that and he tries to laugh it off, but the sound is shrill. "I've just got one of those faces, I guess." When he takes a closer look at her, he guesses she's just about his age. Old enough to remember. Maybe.
She narrows her eyes for a moment, then her face clears. "I guess," she says, shrugging. She digs in the pocket of her sweater and pulls out a pack of Salems.
Drake takes the opportunity to read her nametag – Gill. He grins. "Gill, huh? That must suck."
She flips open the box and pulls out a cigarette, tapping the end lightly against the pack. She's wearing a resigned, almost bored look as she scans his face again. "It's pronounced, 'Jill'," she says. "And yeah, it does kinda suck. But I've gotten used to it."
"I'd go by something else if I were you," he says and the smell of burning lighter fluid as she lights her cigarette actually makes his mouth water.
"That's easy for you to say," she says without annoyance. She seems to have had this conversation before. "You've probably got some normal name. Like Bob."
"Bob?" he says, laughing. "Do I really look like a 'Bob' to you?"
Gill looks at him like she's really considering the question. "Maybe a little around the eyes," she finally says, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"Gee, thanks."
She laughs. "So, Bob. What's your real name?"
Drake takes longer than he should to answer her and when he does, it's with a lie. "Josh," he says. "With a 'J'."
"Gosh," she says with emphasis. "I never would've guessed that."
The frivolity passes in an instant and Drake reaches up and kneads the back of his neck with his left hand, staring off into the distance. It's been a fucking long day. And it's not over yet.
After a moment, he looks back at her. "Hey," he says softly, nodding at the half-smoked cigarette she's holding in her hand. "Can I have one of those?"
She meets his eyes for a second, then reaches into her sweater pocket and pulls out the pack, holding it out to him. "Those things'll kill ya, you know," she says.
Drake smiles half-heartedly at her as he takes the pack from her hand and opens it, shaking one out. "Not quick enough," he mutters under his breath as he places the cigarette between his lips. "Got a light?"
Gill studies him for a moment, then fishes in her pocket for her lighter, holding it up and flicking it on, the yellow-orange flame dancing in the light breeze.
Drake leans over slightly, cupping his battered right hand around the flame to steady it, then touches the tip of his cigarette to it, taking in a deep drag. The sharp taste of smoke licks the back of his throat and a feeling as close to calm as he can get washes over him. He straightens, pulling the cigarette from his mouth with his left hand and blowing a heavy stream of gray-white smoke into the atmosphere. "Thanks," he says, handing the pack back to her.
"Sure," Gill says, taking it and dropping it and the lighter back into her pocket.
They smoke in companionable silence for a long time, until Drake's cigarette is nearly gone. Then he hears her finally say, "You should probably get that looked at."
"You mean this?" he asks, holding up his mangled hand. "It's nothing." Except it's not nothing, really. He can hardly move his fingers. He lets the useless appendage drop loosely at his side.
"I'm an x-ray tech," she says. "I can get you in."
Drake drops what's left of his cigarette on the sidewalk and crushes it beneath the toe of his boot, meeting her eyes across the short distance. "Thanks," he says. "But I'm okay, really. I just need some ice or something." He tries to laugh. "Besides," he adds, "you should see the other guy." He wants to smile, but his mouth won't work.
A hint of a smile graces her lips before she busies herself with stubbing out her cigarette butt. "Well," she says, "break time's over." She smiles. "Places to go, people to see naked."
"You x-ray people naked?"
"Only if they're cute," she says. "Otherwise I hide behind the lead curtain." She winks.
It takes a second, but Drake finally gets the joke and he smiles. "Would you x-ray me naked?"
Gill studies him up and down, then shrugs. "Maybe," she says. "But you had your chance. Sorry."
"Just my luck," Drake says.
"Better luck next time," Gill tells him, then reaches in her pocket and pulls out the pack of cigarettes and the lighter. "Here," she says, holding them out to him.
Drake reaches for them, his fingers brushing against her hand as he grabs them. "What are these for?"
"Consider it your consolation prize," she says, smiling. "Besides, you look like you could really use 'em."
Drake studies her face. She's shifted and in the light and he sees that he guessed right – her eyes are blue. "Thanks, Gill," he says, purposely mispronouncing her name.
She smiles again and for the first time, he notices the slight gap between her front teeth. "You're welcome," she says. "Drake."
Then she walks away, disappearing into the bright bustle of the hospital, and he just stares after her, incredulous.
She knows who he is, after all.
It wasn't long after the release of his first single that Drake lost his virginity. He was eighteen and despite all his bravado in high school and the fact that he'd had his tongue in the mouths of nearly a hundred girls, he'd never actually gone further than second base and only then with a just a few.
But all of a sudden, his song was on the radio and it was like the whole world turned upside down. He was on TV. He was on the cover of Spin and Rolling Stone as The Next Big Thing and girls were mailing their panties to his house for him to sign.
Her name was Charlotte. "Like the spider," she'd said, laughing. And he'd laughed, too, even though he'd had no idea what she was talking about. She was cute, not pretty, with long brown hair and brown eyes that sparkled when she smiled. And she smiled a lot. That was what he'd liked most about her.
She had been in the crowd with all the other screaming girls pressing against the barricades outside the club, vying for his attention and his autograph, she'd later told him. He'd scrawled his name hurriedly about fifty times before he'd been dragged back inside the building. "Keep 'em wanting more," his manager, Bruce, had said.
Two hours later, he'd managed to sneak out from under the watchful eye of his ever-growing entourage into the warm night and found her sitting alone on the steps behind the club. She'd smiled shyly and apologized for bothering him. "I'm not stalking you, really," she'd said, and laughed. All she wanted was his autograph.
He said he'd be happy to give her an autograph on one condition – she had to have a cup of coffee with him first.
Three hours later, she laid curled against him beneath super-soft sheets in his swanky hotel room, staring out the window at the rising sun. Her hair smelled like flowers. When the hazy bands of sunlight reached halfway to the bed, she'd turned to him and asked, "Now can I have that autograph?"
He'd laughed so hard, he'd nearly wet himself.
"There you are."
Josh's voice startles him and he turns to look at his brother. "Hey," he says, crushing yet another cigarette beneath his boot as he looks back out into the parking lot.
"We were starting to wonder where you'd gone." Josh walks up beside him and stops. He's so close, Drake can feel his body heat. He can also feel Josh's eyes on him, but he doesn't meet his gaze.
"Here I am."
An uneasy silence passes between them before Josh breaks it by saying, "Mark's gone."
Drake bristles at the name and finally hazards a look at Josh. "Good."
"You broke his nose."
"He fuckin' deserved it."
Josh just nods. After a moment, he asks, "How's your hand?"
"Hurts like a bitch." He tries flexing it, but it's like all the bones in his hand are fused.
Drake's throat feels dry and raw, but he shakes out another cigarette, grabbing it out of the box with his lips. It's a practiced move, one that used to really drive the girls wild. It's his Look at me, I'm so fuckin' cool I can hardly stand it myself look. Except this time, he isn't trying to impress anyone; he just wants a cigarette. He thinks if he keeps smoking, maybe he won't have to talk.
"Got an extra one of those?" Josh asks.
Drake looks up at him, wide-eyed, the cigarette dangling loosely from his lips.
"What?" Josh asks, smirking. "You're not the only one with vices."
"Fine," Drake says, handing the nearly-empty box to Josh. "But I better not hear one fuckin' word from Mom if your asthma flares up."
"Nope," Josh says. "I'm all cured."
"Yeah?" Drake asks, fishing the lighter out of his pocket and bringing it to the tip of his cigarette. He flicks it with his left thumb, but the movement still feels awkward, and his thumb slips off. He tries a couple more times before Josh snatches it out of his hand and smoothly flicks it on, holding it steady in front of him. "Thanks," he mutters after lighting his cigarette, then asks around a stream of smoke, "Since when?"
He watches Josh light his own cigarette and smiles when he sees Josh hold it like a joint between his forefinger and thumb. "Since I got a Chihuahua," Josh answers, casting a sidelong look at Drake as he pushes smoke out through his nostrils.
Drake's heard that wives' tale before, but he never thought it was true. "Really?"
"His name's Larry," Josh says, his face perfectly placid.
"No way." Drake's looking at Josh, who's looking out into the half-empty parking lot.
"I swear," Josh says, looking quickly at Drake before looking away again. He takes another drag, then drops the rest to the sidewalk, twisting it beneath his shoe. "The only problem is," he continues, "the little bastard keeps forgetting to take his inhaler with him when he leaves the house."
Drake nearly chokes on the smoke at that, and his spluttering draws Josh's full attention. He sees a grin spread slowly across his brother's face.
"Gotcha," Josh says.
Drake tries for a smirk, but smiles despite himself. "Larry the Chihuahua," he says, shaking his head. "I always knew you were full of shit."
"Yeah, but you love me anyway." The look on Josh's face is suddenly so earnest, Drake feels his chest tighten.
They lock gazes for a long moment and Drake feels his smile fade away. "Josh –" he begins.
But Josh cuts him off. "Come on," he says. "Visiting hours are almost over and Megan wants to talk to you."
Drake crushes out his cigarette and feels his heartbeat accelerate. "About what?" She probably wants to ream him out for punching Mark.
"I don't know, Drake. You'll have to ask her," Josh says with slight irritation, then turns and heads back towards the hospital.
But Drake doesn't follow. He's glued to his spot, staring after Josh, the words Josh interrupted poised on the tip of his tongue. "Josh."
Josh stops a few feet away and turns, meeting his eyes in the glow of the hospital lights. "What?"
"At the airport," Drake says. "Those weren't Tylenol." He's not sure why he felt the need to confess, but he feels strangely lighter for doing so.
Josh presses his lips together and nods once, his gaze never wavering. "I know," he finally says, his voice soft.
After a moment, they walk into the hospital side-by-side and ride up to Megan's floor in silence.
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