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 realized that everyone had had a "Drake" moment except Walter, so I've remedied that here. Plus a little Mr. B thrown in for good measure. Enjoy!

Chapter 13: Revelations

Ever since Josh Nichols had told him on Monday afternoon that his stepbrother was in the hospital, Mr. Bradford had been at a loss. He had managed to discover that Drake was at Mercy Hospital, but that was as far as he had gotten. They wouldn't tell him what was wrong with the boy or what room number he was in. That sort of information was restricted to family members only, and then only those on a list provided to the hospital switchboard.

Text messages had gone unanswered, but that was nothing new, really. Drake had stopped replying over two weeks ago.

So when Mr. Sanderson requested a meeting with all of Drake's teachers on Wednesday morning, Mr. Bradford started to panic. Currently, the small group was sitting randomly around two round tables in the teachers' lounge, various levels of apprehension coloring their expressions.

"I have some sobering news," Mr. Sanderson says, keeping his voice even. But in thirty years of being a school administrator, he has never had to deal with anything like this and he struggles to find the words. He clears his throat roughly, sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers only to pull them out again, his fingers absently smoothing the flaps on the pockets of his suit jacket.

Forcibly gaining control of his nerves, he holds himself completely still and looks into the eyes of each teacher in turn. "Drake Parker," he begins, his voice soft, "attempted suicide on Friday night."

Nathan Bradford doesn't hear what comes after that, doesn't hear the muted gasps of shock or the muffled oh my gods. He doesn't hear anything but the incessant pounding of his heart inside his head.

He has to remind himself to breathe.

"You look tired, son."

Drake wants to laugh, but doesn't, afraid that the sound will turn into something else, something he doesn't want Walter to see. So instead, he simply looks out the window and doesn't say anything at all.

They're sitting in a room down the hall from Drake's. It's small, filled with overstuffed chairs and a couple of tables stacked with old magazines and a few well-thumbed paperbacks. Two large windows cover nearly one whole wall and sunlight streams through partially closed vertical blinds, throwing elongated strips of light across the worn linoleum.

Drake's doing his best to disappear into the cushions of an old green chair, his feet resting on a small area rug that's supposed to make the room feel less clinical but fails in the attempt. A slice of light cuts across his knees, accenting the washed-out pattern on his hospital gown. His arms are resting on his thighs and he's absently rubbing the back of his right arm against the coarse upholstery – his skin itches where the restraint cuff used to be.

The nurse had come in to free him about half an hour ago, telling him that the doctor said it was alright to let him get up and move around a little. Of course, not without supervision, he soon discovered. When the nurse had opened the door, Walter had been waiting for him, a blue duffel bag in one hand and a tentative smile on his lips.

Dark eyes straying from the window to Walter's face, they finally drift down to the bag at Walter's feet. He recognizes it; it's the one Josh uses to carry his gym clothes in. "What's in the bag?" he finally asks. Those are the first words he's spoken since he and Walter sat down.

Walter crinkles his forehead for a moment, like he's forgotten all about it, then his face clears and he reaches down and curls his fingers around the handles, pulling it into his lap. He rests his hands on the nylon bag, his fingers playing with the zipper. "The doctor said he thought it would be nice if you had some things from home," he says, holding Drake's gaze. "There's some clothes and stuff." He holds the bag out to Drake with both hands.

Drake reaches out and takes the bag from Walter. It's heavy and he has to use both hands to keep from dropping it. Placing the bag on his lap, he unzips it, the sound cutting through the quiet air between them. Inside he sees his favorite pair of pajama pants laying on top – the beige ones with the horses on them; Grammy had sent them to him for Christmas two years ago. He touches them lightly, feeling the soft fabric against his fingertips, and almost smiles.

The rest of the bag is filled with more clothes, his iPod, and toiletries – his electric toothbrush, a brand new tube of his favorite toothpaste, dental floss, and an electric razor. This last thing makes him laugh, but it's not a happy sound. He secures his fingers around it and pulls it out, holding it up for Walter to see, turning it in the light.

"I didn't know I used an electric razor," he says, smirking. He runs his other hand across his face, feeling the still-soft stubble against his palm.

Walter has the grace to look sheepish. "The doctor said…" he begins, then stops, letting his voice trail away.

"Right," Drake replies, nodding slightly. "Keep sharp objects out of the reach of the nutcase."

Walter winces at the words, looks away. "I'm sorry."

But Drake shrugs, a sharp edge of anger slicing through him. "Hey, don't sweat it, Walter. I get it." He flips the razor on with his thumb and feels it come to life in his hand, the vibration traveling through his arm. Pressing the razor to his cheek, he can feel the tiny – albeit hidden – blades cut through the hair on his face.

He sees Walter turn to look at him. Dragging the razor down his cheek in one long motion, he then turns it off and drops it back into the bag, meeting the older man's eyes with his own. "How do I look?" he asks sarcastically.

Walter doesn't answer immediately, just stares at him – the empty eyes framed by skin that looks bruised, the dry lips, the pale skin. "Like you hate the world," Walter finally says, reluctantly.

Silence passes between them for a long moment before a wry smile draws up one corner of Drake's mouth. "Not the whole world," he replies evenly, meeting Walter's eyes. "Just part of it."

The intensity of Drake's gaze silences his stepfather and after a moment, Drake busies himself once again with the contents of the bag. He knows his own wardrobe better than anyone, so it doesn't take him long to realize the singular thing that all the shirts have in common. "Don't tell me," he says suddenly, pulling out one of his shirts and unfurling it like a battle flag, holding it in front of him like a shield. A bitter expression darkens his face. "Mom packed this bag."

Walter looks at Drake, surprised. When the doctor had suggested bringing some of Drake's things to the hospital, Audrey had insisted that she pack his bag. He wouldn't allow her to do anything else for him, she said; she could at least do that much. So Walter had driven her home in the predawn hours, where they found Josh and Megan sitting together on the living room couch watching television. While Audrey busied herself with gathering up Drake's things, he had gone to the 24-hour pharmacy three blocks away to fill a prescription for sleeping pills that the doctor had handed to him before they left.

"She needs to sleep," the doctor had told him sternly and Walter had just nodded in agreement. She had resisted taking the medication at first, insisting that they return immediately to the hospital to take Drake his things. But Walter had stood firm and she finally relented. Walter had lain down next to her and had managed to fall asleep for a couple hours, but had been awakened by the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Getting up, he had found Josh in the hall, dressed for school.

"You don't have to go," Walter had told him. "I keep telling you."

But Josh had just nodded wearily, his light brown eyes full of sadness. "Gotta keep moving." And then he had simply turned and walked down the stairs.

Audrey and Megan were still asleep when Walter left the house.

Walter meets Drake's eyes across the short distance, sees the hardness in them. "Yes, she did."

"I knew it," Drake says, bunching the shirt in his fingers.

"What's the matter?"

Drake smiles viciously. "All the shirts have long sleeves."

Walter doesn't understand. "So?" Drake wears long-sleeved shirts all the time. But his fingers grip the chair's arms involuntarily, an ominous feeling creeping along his skin.

Drake's gaze doesn't waver. "So it's not cold in here."

"Drake, it took her over an hour to pack that bag, you know. I'm sure she was just trying to pick your favorites," Walter says, hearing his voice rise.

"Or," Drake says, stuffing the shirt back in the bag and pushing the bag onto the floor with a heavy thud. He stands up, flushing. "There's something she doesn't want to see." And he defiantly thrusts his bandaged wrists out in front of him.

"Son," Walter whispers, trying not to stare. He forces his eyes to focus on Drake's, which are flashing darkly at him. "I'm sure it's just a coincidence." He shakes his head. "Stop looking for reasons to hate her."

Drake lets his arms fall to his sides. "I don't have to look," he says softly. "They're just there."

A few seconds tick by, Drake's words hanging heavily in the air between them. Then Drake sighs, resigned, and bends to grab the handles of the duffel bag. "Thanks for bringing my stuff," he replies, then straightens and turns towards the door.

"Tell me how you did it."

Walter's words stop Drake short and his thin, hospital-issue slippers scuff across the floor. His fingers convulse around the handles of the bag and he turns slowly to look at Walter, who's sitting forward in his chair, his fingers digging into the worn upholstery. "Ask Josh," Drake says, watching his stepfather closely.

But Walter shakes his head. "Josh won't talk about it. You know how he is."

Drake does know. Knows better than most that Josh always hides the ugly stuff away. It's his joy he can't seem to contain. "What does it matter?"

"Because," Walter says vehemently, standing up and taking a step towards Drake. "Because," he repeats, his voice softening, "I just don't understand. The kid I know wouldn't do this." And he shakes his head helplessly, gesturing abstractly with his hands.

"People only show you what they want you to see," Drake replies, setting the heavy bag down at his feet and flexing his fingers, feeling the blood tingle in his skin. "You should know that."

"But you're my son," Walter whispers.

"I'm a liar," Drake tells him and sees Walter flinch.

Walter looks away, hears Drake ask him, "Do you really want to know?"

No. "Yes." He started this; he's going to see it through, deciding that the not knowing would be worse. He hopes he's right. He turns his gaze back to Drake, who's staring back at him.

"I had it all planned out," Drake begins simply, walking over to the window and looking out. "I took the utility knife out of your toolbox last Sunday. Opened it. Changed the blade. Then I hid it in the back of my desk drawer." He cast a look over his shoulder, finds Walter staring back at him, his mouth open slightly, riveted to his spot on the floor. "It wasn't until Monday that I got the idea to take your pills. You had gotten a refill and Megan asked you what it was for. You told her they kept your blood from clotting too much. I thought they'd come in handy."

Walter closes his eyes at that and Drake turns back towards the window. His fingers find the adjuster rod for the blinds and he turns it, closing the blinds, then opening them again. The plastic slats clink together noisily in the still air. "I only took one a day so that you wouldn't notice," he continues. "Until Friday."

"You weren't really sick, were you?" Walter asks suddenly, his voice choked.

"No," Drake answers.

"I knew it," Walter says before he can stop himself. "I knew you were faking." As if he was now somehow vindicated. Except that he's wrong; he doesn't know anything.

"But you've got it backwards," Drake says, turning once again to look at him. "You thought I was pretending to be sick, but I wasn't. I'd been pretending to be happy." And he lets his words sink in, which they do, as evidenced by the trembling in Walter's lips.

He turns back towards the window. After a moment, he continues. "Mom almost ruined everything, though. I knew if I didn't show her that I was okay, she would cancel your trip. So I did what I've always done – I lied."

Walter realizes he'd been right about that, too. Except, of course, his reasoning for it was completely and utterly wrong. But this time, he doesn't say anything.

"When everyone was gone, I realized that everything was finally in place. I locked the door. I turned out the lights. I went upstairs and got the knife." His voice is detached, like he's recalling events that happened to someone else.

"Drake," Walter says. He doesn't think he wants to hear this after all. "Stop."

Drake turns on him, anger flashing in his eyes. "What's the matter, Walter? You don't like horror stories?" He takes a step forward and Walter sees the rawness behind the boy's eyes. "It's okay," Drake assures him. "This one has a happy ending. At least for you."

Walter's never seen this side of Drake before and it frightens him. How could he have been so blind? How could they all have been so blind? Putting his hands out in front of him, he tries to calm his son. "I think you need some rest, son. I'll take you back to your room." He starts to reach for the bag.

"But I want you to know, Walter," Drake says caustically. "I want you to know." He watches as Walter starts to straighten, waits until he's standing at his full height to continue. "I went into the bathroom and locked the door behind me. I took the last four pills that I had stashed away. I took off my clothes and turned on the shower, stared at myself in the mirror until it got all steamed up, then I stepped into the shower. The water was hot and it stung, but after a minute, I didn't feel it anymore. I didn't feel anything." He's using the words as weapons, tiny daggers meant to wound.

All Walter can do is close his eyes against the onslaught. "I waited until I could see the veins standing out in my wrists. Then I sat down, pushed the blade of the knife all the way out, and did it. First the left, then the right. It didn't even hurt."

Drake could see Walter's Adam's apple bob erratically in his throat. He knows he should stop, but he can't. Not until he's said it all. "The blood was darker than I thought it would be," he says. He's standing less than two feet from Walter and can hear his stepfather's ragged breaths rasp through his nose.

Walter opens his eyes at that, meets Drake's across the small expanse. A tear escapes one eye and rolls down his cheek. He doesn't move to wipe it away.

Drake is unmoved. "I watched it as it flowed down the drain. It just kept coming. But after a while I started to feel cold. And it didn't make sense. I mean, the water was so hot. How could I be so cold?"

"That's enough," Walter manages, clenching his hands into fists. "Please."

"That's all there is," Drake says, shrugging. He takes a step back. "There's nothing left to tell."

Except that's a lie and they both know it.

He's sitting in the Suburban, grasping the steering wheel tightly, trying to control the shaking that threatens to take over his body. He somehow managed to make it through the day and had only called another student "Mr. Parker" once. Second period had been the worst, though; he couldn't seem to keep his eyes from flitting to the empty desk in the back corner.

Suicide. His mind can't grasp it. It's all his fault.

Drake is angry with him for showing up there.

"What are you doing here?" Drake hisses, anger coloring his cheeks.

"I had to see you," he answers. "I'm sorry." He sounds desperate and he knows it. "But you won't return my calls."

Something flashes in Drake's eyes then, something he's never seen before. "You're killing me," the boy finally whispers, looking away.

That had been a week ago last Saturday.

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