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 felt I needed to give Bradford a little backstory, so here it is. Basically, he wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it.

A/N 2: There is a teensy bit of semi-graphic stuff in this chapter. Please keep that in mind.

Chapter 12: Afflicted

It was only the beginning of February but the air outside felt sticky and Nathan Bradford tugged irritably at the collar of his sleeveless t-shirt. He had just returned home from his daily run. It had lasted longer than usual – he had tacked on an extra three miles to his usual five mile run – and he could already feel the aching soreness creeping into his muscles.

He stood on his balcony looking out into the growing dusk, watching as the long tendrils of pink light played against the side of the building across the street, making it glow. He'd overdone it today, pushing himself harder than he had in a long time. He could still remember the sharp stitch of pain in his side, the way he gritted his teeth against it and kept focusing on the sound of his feet hitting the pavement of the jogging path in the park. He could still hear the sound of his own breathing loud in his ears, mixed with the thumpthumpthump of his heart, drowning out everything else.

It had been a relief, really, despite the pain. A relief to think of nothing except the next step. And the next. And the next. Because it was happening again; he could feel it. He was losing control. It was like a humming beneath his skin, like low voltage electricity flowing through his cells. Obsession, that's what it was called, if he were completely honest with himself. He preferred to think of it more as fascination.

If only he could keep running.

The front door opened. "Nathan, you home?" he heard her ask as the door clicked shut behind her. Claire. He closed his eyes against the sound of her voice; he wasn't about to respond. He pictured her as she moved through the apartment – dropping her keys and briefcase on the small dining room table, kicking off her shoes, bending to hook her fingers into the heels and padding across the wood floor to the bedroom where she would open the closet door and toss them carelessly inside to join others in a chaotic pile. Then she would take off her business suit, hang it up carefully, and walk into the bathroom in nothing but her underwear. She was probably leaning over the sink now, twisting her hair roughly behind her head and clipping it there so she could begin the process of removing her makeup.

He opened his eyes, took another look through the screen at the waning light. It was almost gone, having turned into the muted gray of twilight. He felt itchy and uncomfortable; he needed a shower. Sighing, he turned and went back inside, leaving the sliding glass door open behind him.

He found her in the bathroom, just as he knew she would be, dragging a red hand towel over her face. He leaned against the doorframe and watched her reflection in the mirror. When she put the towel down, she noticed him staring at her, and a slow smile curved her lips. "When did you get home?" she asked, catching his eye in the mirror.

"About half an hour ago."

"I called for you. Didn't you hear me?" She turned from the mirror, crossing her arms over her chest as she propped her hip against the edge of the counter.

"I was on the balcony," he said.

She looked at him, her dark blue eyes framed by still-wet lashes. Taking in his attire, she noticed the dark rings of sweat around his neck and under his arms. "How was your run?"

"Hard," he answered simply.

"Are you okay?" she asked sincerely, her voice soft.

"I'm fine," he told her shortly. "Just tired."

She sauntered over to him, the beginnings of a lascivious smile playing on her lips. "I was just about to get in the shower," she cooed, pressing her palms flat against his chest. "Care to join me?"

He had to grit his teeth to keep from grimacing. "You go ahead," he said, taking a step back, ignoring the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. "I've got papers to grade." Then before she could react, he turned and walked back into the bedroom.

He heard the shower turn on as he walked out of the bedroom, turning down the hall and walking back towards the living room. It was completely dark now, he saw, as he looked through the open sliding glass door. Night was descending upon the neighborhood like a shroud.

It wasn't Claire's fault. She was beautiful and intelligent and successful. Her only flaw seemed to be that she loved him. They had met back in Minnesota at the birthday party of a mutual acquaintance. She was a junior associate at a small real estate firm specializing in leasing high rise office space to upstart businesses in the greater Minneapolis-St. Paul area. He taught history at a private academy. He had been chatting with the guest of honor when she waltzed up to him and beamed a 1,000 watt smile that had caught him off-guard.

They went to bed together that first night. They'd been together ever since.

When he had been forced to leave the academy, he decided that it was for the best, anyway. He was tired of subzero winters and frozen sidewalks, muddy slush and inch-thick frost on his windshield. So he started looking for teaching jobs in warmer climates, found an opening at Belleview High School in southern California, and decided to just pick up and move before he even had the job.

Claire had come with him, no questions asked. "They have real estate in San Diego," she had said in response to his question about her job in St. Paul.

He was trying to give her an out. No hard feelings. Obviously, she hadn't taken the bait.

Walking into the kitchen, he ducked his head into the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. His brain was beginning to buzz, that too-familiar restlessness creeping along his spine. He could hear the muted sound of the shower through the kitchen wall, tried to picture Claire all wet and soapy in an effort to change the tone of his regular fantasies.

Nothing. Not even a twinge. Fuck.

He twisted the cap off the water bottle and tilted it to his lips, drinking half the contents in three long swallows, feeling the cold water travel the length of his esophagus before it reached his stomach. He turned, leaned his backside against the edge of the countertop and focused on the wall opposite, staring at the framed photograph of he and Claire at a Vikings game, their faces painted half white and half purple. Rooting for the home team. Smiling widely. Two young people in love.

Claire loved that photo, had had it enlarged from a 4x6 to an 18x20. She said it reminded her of how lucky they were. It only reminded him of how much she didn't understand.

A muffled chime startled him. His phone. Setting the bottle on the counter, he walked over to the dining room table and retrieved his messenger bag from one of the chairs, setting it on the tabletop and riffling through the front pocket for the small gadget. Flipping it open, he didn't see a prompt for a new voice or text message. Confusion furrowed his brow.

He heard the chime again, louder this time. Then he knew. It was the prepaid phone, the one he kept buried deep down in the inside pocket of his bag. Only one person had the number, he knew. His heart thudded against his ribs as he reached inside for the phone, securing his fingers around it and pulling it out.

One new text message, the screen told him.

He held his breath, pressed a trembling thumb to the keypad to retrieve the message. His palms were sweaty and he absently rubbed his free hand along the seam of his shorts as his blue eyes skipped over the message.

"gimme a hint"

His mouth had gone dry and a jolt of arousal shot through him. Running his hand over his face, he opened his reply box and typed quickly, willing his clumsy fingers to work.

"u c me everyday" He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until he hit SEND, when he exhaled in a rush, gripping the phone tightly in his fingers.

He waited, staring at the screen unblinkingly, willing another message to materialize. He didn't hear the shower turn off.

A second later, he got his wish. A new text message entered his inbox, waiting to be opened.

When he opened it, he saw that it said, "gimme another 1"

This was a dangerous game, he knew, but he couldn't stop playing. It was like a drug; he needed it. He opened the reply box again, started to type, his breath burning in his lungs.

"Nathan?"

Her voice startled him, shattering the cocoon he had found himself in, the pieces falling all around him like ash. Folding his hand around the tiny phone, he turned to look at her. She was standing in the entrance to the kitchen, wearing a blue satin robe that didn't reach her knees. Her dark hair was wet, making it look even darker.

"Something wrong?" she asked him, her eyes scanning his face.

He shook his head. "No," he said, his voice gruff. He dropped the phone back into his bag quickly. "I was just checking my messages." His pulse still throbbed in his neck and the electricity in his skin had gotten more intense.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked softly, her eyes wide with concern. She took a step towards him.

He felt jumbled, like a puzzle still in the box, all the pieces mixed up. The buzzing in his head was getting louder, louder, until it drowned out everything else. "Come here." He felt his mouth move, felt the words vibrate in his throat, but he didn't hear them.

She walked to him and he grabbed her, grasping her arms in his fingers so tightly he could feel the smooth, thin fabric of her robe bunching against his palms. "Nathan," he saw her say, his name like a prayer on her lips. He could see the tears, too, crowding along her lower eyelids.

He softened his grip then, felt her hands on his chest. "Honey?" she asked him and this time he heard it, but it was a distant sound, like she was talking through a tunnel. "Honey, what's wrong?"

He pulled her to him and kissed her, hearing her whimper at the roughness of it. Making easy work of her robe, it fell to the floor in a shimmering pool of blue. She clutched at his shorts, sliding her fingers inside the waistband, suddenly needy, feeling his own need pressed against her. It had been so long, so long and she was consumed with the urgency of it.

Pushing her further into the kitchen, he lifted her up onto the counter, feeling her warm and malleable against him, her legs circling his hips. Eyes closed, his teeth grazed the soft skin of her shoulder and Jesus god, help me, she's not the one I want.

It was rough and fast and she cried out when he pushed into her, but she pushed back, her nails digging into his skin, leaving her mark on him.

When it was over, he stood there, still inside her, his head still buried in the curve of her neck. She was caressing him now, her fingers smoothing his hair, her breath warm against his ear. "I love you," she whispered and he was afraid to look at her, afraid to see what was in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he told her. God forgive me.

The blue glow from the LCD display gave his face a sickly pallor in the darkness of the dining room. It was nearly one o'clock in the morning. He had left Claire sleeping soundly almost an hour ago, prying himself carefully from her grasp, the feel of her skin against his suddenly unbearable.

She had wanted to make love again, but he couldn't, and he assuaged her disappointment by using his fingers on her. She writhed against his hand, using hers to press his harder against her, and when she came, a tear escaped her right eye and rolled down her temple. She offered to do the same for him, but he demurred, opting to hold her instead until they both fell asleep.

But when he awoke to find her arm across his stomach, he had an undeniable urge to escape. So he retreated to the kitchen for a glass of water which turned into a glass of vodka instead. One vodka had been followed by another one, which currently sat half-empty on the table next to his left elbow. The alcohol helped smooth the rough edges and quiet the noises in his head.

He had texted back when he first sat down at the table, "sorry. got interrupted" and sent it before he could change his mind. There was no going back.

There hadn't been a reply until a few minutes ago. That's what he was staring at now, staring so intently that he thought the words would be forever burned onto his retinas.

"i think we should meet"

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