TITLE: The Quality of Darkness
SPOILERS: Anything from the series is fair game.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.
A/N: I know, I know! It's been FOREVER since I updated this story. There are a lot of reasons for this, but mostly, real life took a crap on me.
A/N 2: This is a bit of a transition chapter. There's not a whole lot vital to the plot here, but I felt I needed to write it to explain how the dynamics of the family have changed because of Drake's actions. Angst alert! I hope you like it.
Thank you to everyone for being so patient!
Chapter 11: Collateral Damages
He's aware of time passing, the seconds sliding slowly past like drops of honey. There's a buzzing inside his head, like a thousand angry bees crowding against his skull. Something warm and solid is pressed against him, but he feels cold on the inside. So cold, like his bones are made of ice, and he wonders if he'll ever be warm again. A sharp tang burns his nose; he knows the smell, but can't place it. He tries to move, but his arms feel heavy. He tries to open his eyes, to see what's holding him down, but his eyelids are heavy, too. He hears his name; someone's whispering to him. The voice is soft and close and familiar, like the smell, and he knows without thinking that the two go together. And suddenly, he's afraid.
Drake jerks awake with a gasp and blinks rapidly, his breathing ragged. Fragments of the dream still cling to his memory and he shakes his head to try to clear them away, a few drops of sweat breaking free from his hairline to trail down his temples. He reaches to wipe them away only to find, once again, that he can't, and he suddenly remembers where he is and wonders how it is that he can keep forgetting.
He closes his eyes again, relieved to see nothing behind his eyelids, and concentrates on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
A soft sound startles him and he opens his eyes again, lifts his head to find its source, his dark eyes meeting another pair just like them across the room. Megan. She's pressed into the corner behind the door, staring at him, her big eyes shining and unblinking. She seems smaller than usual, hunched over slightly, her thin arms clutched across her chest. She's worrying her bottom lip with her teeth and Drake can see that she's been doing it for a long time because it looks raw.
They don't speak, just stare at each other, like ordinary words don't have any meaning, like there aren't any words at all, really, at least not the right ones. Drake lays his head back on the pillow and turns it so he can see her over his shoulder. He doesn't really know how long he's been here – there are a couple of days that are missing from his memory – but he knows she's never been here, not here in this room, sharing the same space, breathing the same air.
He wants to tell her that crazy isn't contagious, but doesn't.
"You were having a bad dream," she finally says, her voice devoid of the hard edge he's used to and he knows she's only talking to break up the deafening silence.
He doesn't respond to that, just looks at her in silence.
She blinks finally, the movement slow and deliberate, like it's taking all her energy. "How are you?" she whispers, barely speaking at all, and she flinches at the question, like she really doesn't want to know. She's afraid he'll say he'd rather be dead.
But he doesn't say anything at all.
Somewhere inside she finds the strength to push away from the wall and she takes a tentative step closer. Drake can see her fingers digging into her arms and he thinks to himself that she's gonna have bruises tomorrow.
"I don't understand," she says beseechingly and her voice is soft and brittle, like if she speaks any louder, it'll shatter.
"I'm sorry." It's all he can think to say and he's not sure he means it.
Her dark eyes glisten with unshed tears and she presses her lips together to stop them from trembling. "I told Josh I hoped you died," she whispers almost to herself, staring down at her feet. "I didn't mean it, though." She shakes her head. "I didn't."
His throat aches and he looks away, has to, because suddenly his little sister seems so…young and it unnerves him. It reminds him too much of the way she used to look at him when she was a toddler and he yelled at her for touching his stuff. He used to do whatever it took to make her smile again, to take the hurt from those huge dark eyes, but he can't do that now. No, no, not anymore. He's got nothing left to give her.
He jumps slightly, startled, when he feels soft fingers on his left wrist and he turns his eyes to her again, across her face and down her arm until his gaze rests on her small fingers as they caress the clean white gauze that hides his scars from the world. She's bitten her nails, he sees, almost to the quick, the remnants of bright pink nail polish clinging to what's left.
Looking up, he watches her face, sees the question flit across her eyes as quickly as the clouds skim the sky in summer, and he knows what she wants to ask him. "Go on," he says softly. "Ask me."
She looks up at that, her dark eyes meeting his across the short distance and he thinks to himself, Our dad's eyes, 'cause, yes, he still remembers, even after so much time. Some things you don't ever forget. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again and shakes her head, lowering her eyes to look at her hands, which are now toying with the edge of the sheet.
"It's alright," he says.
Her gaze flits to his face again briefly then back down again and he can see that she's closed her eyes by the way her dark lashes seem to rest against her cheeks. A long moment passes before she finally asks, so softly that he can barely hear her, "Did it hurt?"
He knew it was coming, but it still stings, and he has to swallow down the lump in his throat just to say, "I didn't feel anything." Still doesn't, really.
She seems surprised by his reply, but the relief he sees in her eyes when she locks glances with him is almost palpable. She doesn't say a word, just nods and looks down again. He can hear the battered skin of her fingertips scratch against the rough sheet, can feel her tugging the material as she bunches it in her grip. There's something else she wants to ask him.
"Megan." He moves his hand slightly, causing the metal ring on the nylon strap to clink against the bed frame. The sound draws her gaze and he can see her eyes widen when she looks at the cuff that holds his arm in place, like she's seeing it for the first time.
"What did you think about?" she asks him suddenly, looking him in the eye.
"When?" he asks. But he knows.
She doesn't answer him, asks instead, "Did you think about us?" in a voice that has grown stronger now, that familiar edge creeping in around the edges.
She's angry, he realizes, but he's not surprised, not really. He just wonders what's taken her so long to get to it. "No," he answers evenly, even though the real answer is that he doesn't really remember. He knows that he's hurt her and he doesn't care, doesn't have the strength to care anymore.
The anger flares then dies away, leaving a cold afterimage in her eyes. She crosses her arms across her chest again protectively, like a shield against the hurt. "I want to hate you," she whispers harshly and she blinks against the hot sting of tears.
"Go ahead." His own voice sounds hollow in his ears. "It doesn't matter."
She doesn't say anything, just clenches her jaw and digs her fingers into her arms again, her eyes flitting from his face to his hand to the floor, where they stay, fixed, for a long, silent moment. He watches her closely, sees her shoulders slump, like she's finally accepted a cold, hard truth. "No," she says softly, dragging her eyes back to his. They're dry now, but sharp with sadness. "I guess it doesn't."
He doesn't reply, just watches her go, turning away when the door clicks shut.
"I'm afraid of him," she whispers painfully.
Walter doesn't know what to say to that, so he says automatically, "He'll be alright."
They're sitting in the cafeteria, pre-made sandwiches untouched on the table in front of them. Audrey has her hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of coffee that has long since grown cold. Walter tried to get her to go home, but this was the farthest she had been willing to go.
"Don't," she says sharply, looking at him across the table. An undercurrent of anger flickers in her red-rimmed eyes. It's Tuesday evening; she's scarcely slept since Friday night. "Don't say that unless you know for sure. Unless you can promise me." Her voice cracks on that last sentence and she looks away.
He slides his hand across the table and brushes his fingers across the back of her wrist. "We have to believe it, Audrey. What else is there?"
"There's the truth," she says quickly, suddenly pushing the coffee cup away. A little bit of the dark liquid sloshes over the side and onto the table and she watches the puddle spread before turning her gaze on her husband. "And the truth is that he's broken, Walter." Her eyes flood with angry tears and she tries to blink them away. "He's broken. And I don't know how to fix him."
"It's not your fault."
But his words, meant to soothe, strike the opposite chord, and she becomes more agitated. "Then whose fault is it? You tell me that. He didn't just wake up one day and decide that seventeen years of life was enough. Someone pushed him to it. Maybe that was me." Her voice had risen high enough to draw clandestine glances from people sitting near them, but now it was little more than a whisper. "He hates me. Hates me. And I don't know why."
She covers her face with her hands then and the movement makes the diamond in her engagement ring sparkle. Walter stares at it, remembering when he gave it to her. The look of sheer happiness in her eyes had filled him with a sense of accomplishment, knowing that he'd put it there.
He'd give anything to put it there now.
"Why didn't I see them?" he hears her ask and he's drawn back to the present. She's lowered her hands; they're folded in her lap and she's staring down at them.
The signs, that's what she's talking about. The things that would have told her that Drake was in trouble. "I missed them, too," he says quietly to the top of her head.
"He's not your son."
Her words steal Walter's breath and he feels his hands clench tightly into fists, his nails biting into his palms. It takes him a long moment, but he finally manages to say, "I love him all the same." He has to consciously unclench his hands and lay them flat on the table to keep them from shaking.
She lifts her head at that, the hollow look in her husband's eyes slowly registering, and it dawns on her what she said. "Oh god. Walter, I…I didn't mean…I know you love him. I know that," she says, reaching for his hand. "I'm sorry. I just…"
He turns his hand under hers so their palms are touching, rests his other one on top. "It's okay," he whispers, his heart breaking at the sight of the utter exhaustion in her eyes.
She sighs, her eyes falling shut. She sits like that for a long moment, just breathing, and Walter watches her. He's so intent on her face that he doesn't even see her other hand move to cover his, just feels the warmth bloom across his skin.
"Tell me again," she whispers.
He doesn't have to ask because he knows. Because despite everything, it's the only thing she has to cling to.
"He'll be alright."
"I have to pee," Drake says.
The young woman looks back at him, unfazed. The name badge clipped to her short white lab coat says Angela Coleman, M.D.. "I can call the nurse," she says evenly.
Drake just blinks at her. She seems very young to be a doctor, he thinks. She can't be more than 24 years old, give or take a year. "Or you could just undo these things," he says, jingling the restraints, "so I can go by myself."
"You know I can't do that," she replies, her hazel eyes appraising him.
"Why not?"
"Doctor's orders."
"But you're a doctor. It says so on your nametag." He tilts his head in the direction of the badge hanging from her lapel.
"I'm just a resident," she says. "I don't have the authority."
He just stares back at her in silence, studying her. She's chubby, with shoulder-length dark blonde hair and hazel eyes that look almost green. She's not wearing a lot of makeup, he notices, just a little mascara and a touch of pink-tinted lip gloss. "How old are you?" he asks her abruptly.
She almost smiles. "Twenty-eight."
"You're older than I thought," he tells her.
"I get that a lot," she replies. She shifts in her chair – one of those plastic folding things that have just enough cushioning to make it tolerable – and adjusts the file on her thigh. A white retractable pen rests between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand.
"Resident," he finally says. "So that's not, like, a real doctor."
A more genuine smile curves her lips slightly. "I am a real doctor. I'm just still in training."
"Training? For what?" He's sitting up, propped against a pile of pillows, slightly above her in vantage point. He has to look down a little to meet her eyes.
"To be a psychiatrist." She says it without inflection, watching him for his reaction.
Drake doesn't say anything for a long moment, but something flashes in his eyes that he can't hide. Anger? Fear? Disgust? Maybe all three.
"Ah," he replies, smirking. "So you're here to tell me I'm crazy."
She stares at him impassively. "I'm here to talk. If you want."
Drake snorts. "And what if I don't?" He feels his hands clench into fists.
"That's fine, too." She tilts her head slightly. "But I'm here to help you."
Drake laughs at that – a bitter, angry sound. "Help me," he says, shaking his head. "I think it's a little late for that, don't you?"
"Why do you say that?" she asks him, her voice as even as if she was talking about the weather.
But Drake doesn't answer. "I know what you're trying to do."
"What's that?" She hooks her pen to the top cover of the file and shifts again in her seat.
He just shrugs in response. "Are you being graded for this?" he asks her.
"I'm not sure what you mean," she says, but a note of defensiveness has crept into her voice. A fissure in the armor at last.
Drake seizes onto it. "I mean, is this like a test? Crack open Drake Parker's skull and dig for all his deep, dark secrets. The more you find, the better you do."
She presses her lips together and the movement makes visible a thin white scar that runs across her chin and through her bottom lip. She stares at him for a long moment. "Tell me what happened," she says softly.
"You first."
"What do you mean?" she asks, surprised.
Drake smiles maliciously. He's got her a little off-balance; he can hear it in her voice. "That scar on your chin," he says. "How'd you get it?"
Dr. Angela Coleman looks at him evenly. "When I was 18 years old, I was in a car accident. A piece of glass was embedded in my chin."
Nodding, Drake says, "Was it your fault? The accident."
"No," she answers. "The other driver ran the red light."
"So it was someone else's fault, then," he mutters very softly. He turns away, looking down at his feet, at the way the covers tent above his toes. He can still feel her eyes on him.
"What about your scars?" she finally asks him. "Whose fault are they?"
Drake looks down at his wrists, first one then the other. "Mine," he says, trying to sound nonchalant, turning his gaze on her. "I took a razor blade to my wrists."
"Yes, I know that. But there are other types of scars. Ones we can't see. What about those?" She sounds so earnest, he almost laughs.
He leans towards her a little, like he's going to share one of his secrets with her and he sees her lean in a little, too, like she doesn't want to miss a syllable. "My father died when I was four years old. Maybe it's just a delayed reaction or something. Post dramatic stress."
She shakes her head and leans back in the chair, catching his eyes with her own. "Traumatic," she says, the tiniest hint of a smile drawing up one corner of her mouth. "Post-traumatic stress."
"What did I say?" Drake asks.
"You said 'dramatic'."
"Huh." They sit in heavy silence for a long time. "My father really did die when I was four years old," he offers at last.
"I'm sorry," she says.
Drake shrugs. "I barely remember him."
Another silent moment passes. "You don't really want to talk, do you?" she asks him.
"Score one for you." His voice is even but his eyes are sharp.
She sighs. "Alright," she says, grasping the file and opening it up, flipping a few pages and jotting down something quickly.
"There's only one 'z' in 'crazy'," he quips flippantly.
Closing the file, she stands up, looks down at him. "You're not crazy, Mr. Parker," she says, noticing the way he flinches at the name. "You're just not ready to talk about whatever it is that's troubling you. That's okay. It takes time."
Drake doesn't respond.
"I'll try to come back to see you again on Thursday," she tells him. "If that's alright."
"Whatever." But it's not 'no'.
"Get some rest," she says, walking towards the door.
Her hand is on the door handle when she hears him say, "I really do have to pee, you know."
She smiles a little. "I'll tell the nurse."
The nameplate on the door says 'William Sanderson' in all capital letters. Below that, in smaller caps, it says 'Assistant Principal'.
Josh is waiting outside the door, his backpack sitting heavily between his feet. He can hear Mr. Sanderson talking through the door, the words muffled and indecipherable. He's not sure why he's here, really, except that he really needs to tell someone in charge at the school about Drake and Mr. Sanderson…well, Josh has always liked him.
"He should be with you in just a moment," Ms. Murrell says softly to him from her desk a few feet away. She's one of two administrative assistants who work in the front office.
"Thanks," he says, nodding at her. She smiles sympathetically at him and he wonders if she knows. Is it that obvious? It must be written across his forehead or something.
He's staring down at his feet when the door opens. A pair of wing-tip shoes emerge from the office. "Josh?"
Josh lifts his head with an effort to meet Mr. Sanderson's eyes. "Yes, sir," he says, standing up and pulling one strap of his backpack over his right shoulder. "I need to talk to you."
"Of course." The man steps aside to let Josh by, then closes the door softly behind him. He motions to one of two chairs in front of his desk. "Please have a seat."
"Thanks," Josh mutters, sinking heavily into the soft chair, letting his bag slide off his shoulder and onto the floor. He stares at the scrolling screensaver on the computer monitor. It reads, "Belleview High School. Striving for Excellence."
Mr. Sanderson settles in his chair and looks across the desk at Josh, his brown eyes assessing the young man in front of him. "What is it, son?" he asks in his traditional assistant principal way. He's been at the job nearly thirty years. The new and improved school administrators steer away from such endearments.
Josh waits until the last of the word 'Excellence' scrolls off the screen before he focuses his eyes on the man across the desk. "It's about Drake, sir," he says softly. "He's in the hospital."
Mr. Sanderson is taken aback for a moment, then says, "Nothing serious, I hope," but knows by Josh's reaction that it is.
Josh stares at him, his eyes shining, but he's not really looking at him. It's more like he's looking through him. "He tried to kill himself on Friday night." The words are so soft that he wonders if he's spoken them aloud at all.
"Oh, no." The older man reaches for a crystal paperweight resting on a stack of files, picks it up, sets it down again.
"He cut his wrists with a utility knife," Josh whispers. "I found him in the shower." He's not sure why he's telling the man this, except that he needs to tell someone. He can't carry the load by himself anymore; it's drowning him.
"Josh." Mr. Sanderson feels so helpless in front of this young man – no, boy, he's still a boy – and his grief. He knows how to talk to angry parents and petulant students, how to mete out discipline and write unambiguous policies. But he has no idea how to take the pain from this boy's eyes. "Josh," he says again.
"Our parents are…" But he doesn't finish the thought, says instead, "I thought that someone should know." His eyes finally seem to focus on Mr. Sanderson's face. "I don't know when he'll be back in school."
Mr. Sanderson finally finds his voice. "I'll meet with all his teachers."
Josh nods. "Thank you." But he means for more than just that.
As the principal watches Josh leave, he discovers that his eyes are wet.
Drake just wishes he would go away.
"I told Mr. Sanderson," Josh says simply. He's standing at the foot of Drake's bed. Visiting hours are just about over. "He's gonna tell your teachers. They'll figure out what to do about your school work." He knows it sounds stupid, knows his brother doesn't care, but it's all he can think of to talk about.
"Great," Drake says darkly. "'Cause I was worried about that."
The sarcasm, though expected, still stings. Josh has nothing to say.
"Is that all?" Drake asks, looking at his brother with hard eyes.
Josh shuffles his feet, his sneakers squeaking softly against the floor. "Is the bed comfortable?"
"Not really." Drake shrugs. "I like to sleep on my stomach."
Josh's brow furrows for a second before he realizes what his brother's saying – he can't roll over. He tries not to look at the restraints holding his brother in place, but he can't help it and his eyes dart quickly from one arm to the other. "I'm sorry."
"It's too late for that."
Josh flinches at the words, at the cold venom behind them. He looks at his brother's face, sees the anger flushing his skin. "Drake…" he begins, but his voice fizzles out.
"Why did you come home early?"
The question freezes Josh's blood. "I –" he says. "My date ended early. Sarah…she knew that I was worried about you." His throat aches.
A muscle twitches in Drake's cheek, but he stays silent. He holds Josh's gaze as the seconds tick by, then looks away.
"Go away," he mutters. "I'm tired."
But Josh doesn't move. He's got his hands shoved in his pockets and he's chewing at the inside of his bottom lip when he whispers, "You knew I'd find you."
Drake doesn't reply.
Josh doesn't want to ask because he knows, knows what Drake's gonna say, but the question comes out of his mouth anyway. "What was I supposed to do?" His voice sounds strangled and he feels cold inside, like his organs are frozen.
And he doesn't want to hear the words, tries to head them off at the pass by shaking his head, but it's too late and all he can do is shut his eyes against the sound of his brother's pain.
"Let me die."
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