The Quality of Darkness Chapter 9: Life, If You Can Call It That, Goes On, a drake & josh fanfic

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 planned to have this chapter posted much sooner, but halfway through, my muse abandoned me and I blanked out. I knew where I wanted to go, but I didn't know how to write it. I struggled through to the end (of the chapter), and I hope you like it!

Chapter 9: Life, If You Can Call It That, Goes On

For Drake, Sunday passes in a drug-induced slumber that is heavy and dreamless. In the predawn hours of Monday morning, this gives way to fitful dreams.

He dreams of hands.

Josh manages to make it nearly all the way through fourth period before he has to ask Mr. Burgess for a pass to the restroom. He's sitting in the stall at the far end, perched on the edge of the toilet, cradling his head in his hands as he stares down at his feet. The floor is a mixture of blue and white tiles and he keeps trying to find a pattern, something logical in the sequence. But it's random, just like everything else.

He wonders, not for the first time, why he's even at school. It's not like he doesn't have a good excuse for being absent or like a few absences would hurt him academically. But he just couldn't sit anymore waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Drake had been sedated into oblivion and his arms tied to the bed after he tore out his stitches late Saturday night. Josh couldn't stand to look at him anymore, to look at any of them – his mom refusing to look anywhere but at Drake's face, in denial about the rest; his dad hovering uncomfortably, asking incessantly if anyone needs anything; his sister unable to bring herself any closer to Drake than the hospital room door, peering briefly through the narrow pane of reinforced glass before turning away.

So Josh escaped into the one place where no one yet knows that his world has tilted permanently on its axis. But it's a mistake because it's not an escape at all, just more of the same, really. People keep asking him where his brother is. He doesn't know what to tell them.

Is he sick? No. Yes. Not the way you think.

He hears the bell ring, the sound muted by the restroom door. He looks down at his watch – he's been hiding in here for more than 20 minutes. The quiet inside the restroom is broken by the bustling sound of teenage boys making a quick pit stop between classes. He knows he should get up, but he can't move, so he listens to the sounds of flushing urinals and running water and air dryers. Then as quickly as it started, the rush dies away.

The warning bell rings, then the late bell. Still Josh sits, unable to move. He closes his eyes and presses his fingers into them until stars swim across his eyelids.

His dad had driven him back home last evening, offering to stay with him, but Josh had demurred. Mom needs you, Josh had told him. I'll be alright. So Walter had relented after giving his son an appraising look across the console and cupping the back of his neck with a warm hand.

"Call me if you need anything," Walter had told him, only leaving after Josh had promised he would.

Josh spent the night ambling through the empty house like a marble in a tin can. He turned all the lights on. And the TV. He ate microwaveable ravioli and an entire box of Little Debbie fudge brownies. He cleaned the upstairs bathroom and dug in the garage for the can of Alpine Frost paint to cover the mark on the wall.

Then he stood in his and Drake's too-neat room and decided he couldn't stand it anymore, re-cluttering it with a fervor that left him panting and sweating in the middle of the mess. He had fallen asleep on the couch, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. When he woke up this morning, he was still in his clothes.

A knock on the stall door startles him. "The late bell has rung, young man," a stern voice says crisply.

Josh stands quickly, his sneakers squeaking against the tile, and bends to pick his backpack off the floor. "I-I know," he mumbles as he opens the door.

Mr. Sanderson, the assistant principal for twelfth grade, stares back at Josh, his eyes wide. "Josh Nichols," he says, surprised. "I didn't expect to find you skipping class." But he says it facetiously, as evidenced by the smile that lifts the corners of his mouth.

But Josh misses the nuances. "It's my lunch period, sir," he says quickly, and he can't keep the defensiveness out of his voice.

The administrator looks at Josh closely, his brown eyes scanning the boy's face. "Is everything alright?" he asks softly.

No, Josh thinks, but doesn't put a voice to it. Instead he says, "I really should be going," and sidesteps past the man.

Mr. Sanderson puts a hand on his arm, stopping him. "Josh," he begins, then presses his lips together to stop the thought. He pauses a moment, deliberating over his next words, then replies, "My office door is always open if you need anything."

Josh nods, a lump rising in his throat. "Thanks," he manages, then hurries from the restroom in the direction of the cafeteria.

Lunch is almost over. Josh sits alone at a table in the back corner of the outside patio, staring blindly at his Chemistry book, the food on his tray untouched. He's not sure how he's going to get through the last three periods, briefly contemplates leaving before deciding that the action would draw too much attention to himself, would elicit too many questions. The only thing he can do is concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other and let his routine carry him through the rest of the day.

"Josh?"

The voice is soft and timid and he looks up from his book to see a pretty brunette girl with wide blue eyes staring down at him. She looks vaguely familiar, but he can't place her. "Do I know you?" he asks and hopes it doesn't sound too harsh. He's not in the mood to talk to anyone.

She shakes her head slightly, pursing her lips. "You're Drake's brother, right?"

The sound of Drake's name makes Josh flinch. "Yeah."

"Good," she states, exhaling sharply as she perches herself on the edge of the bench across from Josh. "My name's Maddie. I've been leaving your brother messages since last week, but he hasn't returned my calls. I've been hoping to catch him at school, but he's been absent since…" She stops suddenly and looks away. "I think he's avoiding me." She looks back at Josh. "Has he said anything to you about me?"

"No," he tells her, his voice not much more than a whisper.

She seems saddened by his answer and her shoulders sink a fraction of an inch. "Well," she says, looking down at her hands, "could you tell him something for me?"

Josh fights the urge to tell her to go away, to tell her that he's not Drake's personal answering service and, besides, his brother won't be returning any calls for a while. Instead, he breathes in slowly and looks at her. There's something in her face – sadness? earnestness? – that makes him say, "Sure."

She draws her lips together in what Josh is certain she thinks is a smile. "Tell him –" she says, then stops. He can hear her inhale deeply, then let it out slowly. "Tell him," she says again and Josh can see her fingers nervously working the edges of the cover of the book beneath her hands. It's one of those homemade covers made from a brown paper grocery bag; the word "Algebra" is drawn in bubble letters along its spine. "I'm not upset about what happened," she finally continues. "I know he didn't mean it. And I'm not gonna tell anyone."

Josh listens, puzzled, and opens his mouth to ask what she's talking about, but decides against it. After a moment, he notices she's stopped talking and is looking back at him in expectant silence.

"Will you?" she asks softly. But her voice carries a note of urgency, like she's had to repeat the question.

"Will I what?" Josh asks absently.

"Tell your brother what I said," she says, standing and gathering her books. She holds them protectively against her chest like a shield.

Josh looks at her absently for a moment, then stands, stuffing his book into his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. He's nearly a foot taller than she is and he has to look down to meet her gaze. "Yeah," he says. "I'll tell him."

"Thanks," she says, nodding, then turns on her heels and walks away.

He watches her disappear around the corner, staring so long that he's nearly late for class.

His eyes are racing behind his eyelids and Audrey knows what that means: he's dreaming. She wants to think that his dreams are pleasant, but the beads of sweat that gather along his hairline tell a different story.

She touches the back of his right hand with her fingertips, careful not to touch the clean white bandage that covers his wrist. She's not quite ready to admit the reality of what the bandages hide. Facing the truth of things has left her feeling raw and fragmented; maybe a little denial will do her some good.

So she also trains her eyes not to look at the reinforced nylon strap that snakes over the edge of the mattress and down to where it's hooked to the metal bar beneath the bed. The other end is connected to a soft, lined cuff that wraps around Drake's forearm and limits his range of motion. There's another one just like it on Drake's left arm and Audrey doesn't look at that one, either.

Instead, she concentrates on his hand and the way his skin feels beneath her fingers. It's cold and dry and she curls her fingers around his palm and rubs her thumb along the length of his.

A strangled sound escapes from Drake's throat and Audrey looks at his face. His eyelashes are wet and his lips are dry and parted slightly and she can hear his teeth grinding against each other. He used to do that when he was a child and the dentist had had to give him a mouth guard to wear when he was sleeping. He would routinely forget to put it in before going to bed – whether on purpose or by accident Audrey never quite figured out – and she would always have to slide it between his teeth when she went in to check on him.

She presses the backs of her fingers against his cheek. Drake's eyes fly open at her touch and he jerks his head away, his dark eyes focusing after a moment on her face. He doesn't say anything.

This is the first time since Friday morning that she has seen Drake's eyes open and the sight renders her temporarily speechless. She squeezes his hand and smiles, thinking only to say, "Hi, baby." She reaches for him again, wants to touch his face, but he jerks away again, pressing his head into the pillow to avoid her touch.

"Don't touch me," he says, his voice rusty from non-use, and tries to jerk his hand out of her grasp as well. The strap of the arm restraint snaps against the hollow frame of the bed and his hand falls on the mattress with a thud. His eyes flit to the cuff then back to her face.

The look in his eyes dissolves her smile like acid. She sits up straight in her chair and, unable to do what she wants with her hands, decides to fold them neatly on her lap. His stare is unblinking and hard and it unnerves her. She can't take the silence so she says, "I'm so glad you're alright." And she means it but it's the wrong thing to say.

He doesn't respond for a moment, then says, "I'm not." She doesn't know if that means that he's not glad he's alright or whether it means that he's not alright. And she's afraid to ask, so she doesn't.

She keeps her eyes on his face, but she can hear him test the strength of his restraints, tugging on one arm and then the other. The metal of the adjuster loops ting against the bed frame.

"These your idea?" he asks icily and the question makes her close her eyes to hide her tears.

"No," she whispers, shaking her head, wringing her hands in her lap. She wants to reach out for him, but she can't bear being rebuffed again. "I'm…" she says, looking up at him with wet eyes. "I'm sorry."

Drake clenches his jaw at her words and bites back the harsh response that springs to his lips. The residual effects of the drugs cling to the edges of his brain and he starts once again to feel heavy. He looks at his mother, then looks away. He hates her, he realizes suddenly. He doesn't want to, but there it is. "Go away," he says.

"Drake." Her voice is fragile and thin, like filament.

"I don't want you here." He doesn't want to look at her, knows that if he does, he'll say something he'll regret.

"I won't leave you," she whispers and he can hear the tattered edges of her voice begin to unravel.

Drake takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "Don't make me say it," he says so softly she almost doesn't hear him.

But she does and she says, trying to help, "You can tell me anything."

He turns his head to look at her, his dark eyes scanning her face. "I hate you," he finally says, evenly and without emotion. He can see that he's wounded her and he's glad. He wants her to hurt.

Her mouth works in horrified silence, his words slicing through her like a machete. Tears well in her eyes and spill over onto her cheeks.

"Get out," he tells her, the embers of his anger glowing brighter with each word.

But she doesn't move, can't. Her despair works like an anchor, keeping her in place.

"Get out!"

Her chair slides back, as if propelled by the force of his anger. She grips the armrests. "Please don't do this." But she's not sure she's speaking out loud.

He struggles to sit up, his chest heaving with the effort. "Get the fuck out!" he screams at her. "I don't want you here! I hate you! I hate you!"

Walter bursts through the door. "What's –" he begins, then stops when he takes in the scene: his son sweating and screaming, struggling against his restraints; his wife pale and sobbing, standing next to the bed.

Drake turns his attention to Walter. "Get her out of here! Get her out!"

A nurse pushes past Walter in the doorway and rushes to the side of Drake's bed. She grabs hold of his IV and lifts a syringe towards the intake valve.

"No," Audrey says, her voice shaky but stronger. She looks at her son, whose voice has gone quiet, but whose eyes still speak volumes. He's panting, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath, his hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. "That won't be necessary. I'm going." She looks at the nurse, who, after a beat, lowers the syringe. "Thank you," she says softly.

She finds the strength to walk around the bed to the door, reaching for her husband's outstretched hand and holding it tightly. She turns one last time to her son, who has followed her departure with his eyes. "If hating me helps you," she whispers as something cracks inside of her, "then hate me all you want."

Then she walks out of the room without looking back.

Josh is in his car, staring out the windshield. The keys hang from the ignition untouched. The student parking lot has long since emptied, but still he sits. There's nowhere to go. He's not scheduled to work today. The prospect of going home is not appealing, the prospect of going to the hospital is even less so.

He's thinking about Maddie. Drake never mentioned her. Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean anything; Drake dates so many girls that he doesn't even remember all their names. Or calls them by the wrong names. So maybe he did mention her and he called her Maggie or Mary or something.

Except Josh has the feeling that Drake would remember this girl. "I know he didn't mean to," she had said. Didn't mean to do what?

It's probably unimportant. But Josh can't get her words out of his head. "And I'm not gonna tell anyone." Tell anyone about what?