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: We're on the home stretch. The pieces are starting to come together... Enjoy!

Chapter 17: Secrets and Lies

"So I hear you're going home today," Dr. Coleman says. It's Tuesday afternoon and she's sitting in the same chair that Walter sat in days ago down the hall from the room that has been Drake's home for more than a week. "That must make you happy."

Drake's standing near the window, leaning against his left shoulder as he peers through the slats of the vertical blinds. It's a sunny day; a perfect day for a homecoming. He's got his arms crossed against his chest, hands buried in his armpits. "I guess."

"It probably won't be easy," she says, studying his profile, "slipping back into your life."

He doesn't answer her immediately, just looks down into the parking lot seven floors below. He sees people coming and going, moving through their lives uninterrupted. He envies them. "My life," he finally says softly, sighing, his breath fluttering the blinds. He leaves the thought unfinished.

"It's going to take a little time to get back into the swing of things," she continues and the hint of cheerleader pep in her voice grates on his nerves. "But there's no rush. Take it easy. Give yourself some time. Things'll still be there when you're ready."

He turns from the window and stares at her incredulously, a sarcastic smirk tweaking his lips. "Spare me the crap."

She presses her lips together at his sudden vehemence, the scar showing white across her chin.

He takes a step towards her, his arms falling to his sides. The edges of his bandages peek out past his sleeves, which had gotten pushed up slightly when he crossed his arms. "My life," he says again, anger bringing color to his face. "That's just what I didn't want." A bark of laughter, sharp and bitter, bursts from his throat. He gestures widely with his arms, his dark eyes never leaving hers. "But here I am. Still stuck." His voice has grown hoarse and cracks on the last word.

She holds his gaze for a long time and sees something shift behind his eyes. The same defiant hardness is still there, but it's cut with a tinge of vulnerability. "Sometimes," she says very softly, "what scares us the most is our own weakness. The overwhelming realization that we're not as strong as we think we are." She gives him a pointed look.

His gaze wavers suddenly and for the first time since she met him, he lets her see beneath his well-built armor. His eyes are shiny with unshed tears that cling to his lower lids, refusing to fall, and there's a slight tremor in his chin that he tries to stifle by biting the inside of his lower lip. "Drake," she says, standing up. She's not here officially, doesn't have his chart, isn't taking notes. She's here as a friend.

He turns away, finally realizing that perhaps he's revealed too much. He feels raw; her last arrow has hit too close to the mark and he doesn't want to talk anymore. He can hear her behind him, can hear the sound of her shoes on the floor as she takes a step closer and he turns, walks towards the door. "I gotta go," he mumbles.

"The things that scare you can only hold power over you if you let them," she says quickly, needing to say this before he walks out. "But fear can be overcome."

He stops then, his fingers wrapped around the door handle, and swallows past the lump in his throat. He closes his eyes, listening for a moment to the sound of his own breathing.

She continues. "When you were a child and you were afraid of the monsters hiding in the closet, how did you overcome that fear?"

He doesn't answer her.

"Please," she beseeches, "answer the question."

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he finally says, "I stopped believing in monsters."

"That's right," she says, feeling encouraged. "You stopped believ–"

"But I was wrong," he interrupts, turning to look at her over his shoulder, his fingers tightening around the door handle. "I was wrong. Because you know what?" And he shakes his head, a small movement that's barely discernible. "Sometimes there really are monsters hiding in the dark."

The look in his eyes steals her breath and she can only watch in silence as he walks out the door.

There are balloons. And flowers. And cards. And a friggin' cake. Like he's just been away on a trip or something. Like it's his birthday.

His mother is smiling too much and he avoids looking at her. She hugs him as she whispers, "I made all your favorites," and he bites the inside of his cheek so hard to keep from jerking away that he tastes blood.

Walter's eyes are full of a knowledge he doesn't want and Drake thinks, You're the one who wanted to know and feels no remorse for telling him.

Megan's standing at the end of the dining room table closest to the door, trying to decide if she should smile or cry and Drake locks eyes with her for a moment before turning away, carried into the living room on a current of forced good cheer.

"Josh wishes he could be here to welcome you home," Walter says, "but he had to work. Some sort of crisis or something." And he waves his hand absently in the air as if to say, It couldn't be helped.

"Sure," Drake mutters, the first word he's spoken since Walter picked him up from the hospital.

He sits on the couch and his mom sits down next to him. He looks around, feeling out of place in his own life.

"All the cards and stuff are from your friends," Audrey is saying, and her overly-cheery voice scrapes along his nerves like sandpaper. "They all hope you get well soon."

"Get well soon," he hears himself repeat. He's staring at the blank television.

"They've been calling and stopping by," Walter says, picking up the thread of the narrative. "Every day, there's another flower delivery. It's starting to look like a florist in here." And he chuckles at his own joke.

"Lots of people care about you, honey," says his mother. She runs her fingers through his hair, feels him tense, then pulls away. He can see her hand hover in the air next to his face, then fall into her lap.

"Do they know?" he asks.

He can hear her sharp intake of breath and he almost smiles. He turns to look at her, his eyes staring unblinking into hers. "Do they?" he repeats.

Audrey's mouth works, but no sound emerges.

"They only know you've been in the hospital," Walter finally says, coming to stand behind his wife at the end of the couch. He lays his hands gently on her shoulders. "They don't know why," he finishes, his voice nearly a whisper.

A malicious smile cuts across Drake's lips. "What, you don't want them to know your son slit his wrists?"

A small, desperate sound escapes from Audrey and she presses her fingers to her lips. "We just thought…" she manages, but can't say the rest.

"You just thought what, Mom?" he interrupts, anger burning in the pit of his stomach. It's the only emotion that he seems to be able to feel on a regular basis anymore. Standing, he glares down at her. "That you could pretend that everything is fine? That you could pretend your son had never wished he was dead?" He tears at his sleeves and pulls them up roughly, revealing the thin layers of cotton that hide his scars. He holds his arms out in front of him like two rapiers, sharp enough to wound.

His mother looks away, down at her hands.

"Drake, that's enough," he hears Walter say, but it's like he's talking from a long distance; the words barely register.

But Drake keeps on. "Look at them, Mom. Go on. Take a look." He stands there, holding out his arms, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

She finally lifts her eyes, but she doesn't focus them on his arms, but on his face. Tears are streaming down her cheeks.

Drake feels nothing. "I tried to kill myself, Mom. And no amount of balloons or flowers or favorite foods will change that."

"Drake." His name is like a plea for mercy on her lips.

"I took a razor blade to my wrists because I wanted to die," he continues, each word like a dagger through his mother's heart. "And you can't pretend it didn't happen." His voice is soft but cold and he observes his mother's tears without emotion.

"No one's innocent," he whispers and the comment seems incongruous, but the pointed look he gives his mother puts them into context. His eyes then flit to Walter, whose eyes are wet and whose cheek twitches with tension.

"If you'll excuse me," he says after a long moment, his voice less hostile, "I think I'll skip dinner. It's been a long day and I'm tired." He smiles, but it stops at his mouth. "It sure is great to be home, though." He walks away, past Megan who's still standing at the end of the table, fused to her spot on the floor.

By the time he reaches the top of the stairs, he's shaking so badly that he has to stop on the landing and hold on to the wall to keep from falling. Angry tears sting his eyes and he stumbles into the bathroom, closing the door behind him and leaning heavily against it.

He just wants to shut the world out for a while, just wants to hide away. The weight of the house, of his life, is closing in around him, pressing against his chest until he can't breathe. His fingers fumble for the lock, but he can't seem to find it. He looks down at the doorknob in frustration and sees that it's different – it's been replaced with one that doesn't have a lock.

The realization strikes him slowly, like it's traveling through mud, and he starts to laugh – a hollow sound that bounces off the hard surfaces and dies in the still air around him.

The sight of his brother sleeping in the bed that had been vacant for nearly two weeks catches Josh off-guard when he walks into their bedroom close to midnight. He knew Drake was coming home today; in fact, that's the reason he had gone into work early and had offered to stay late. He was ashamed to admit it, but he just hadn't wanted to be there when Drake walked through the door.

And he could tell by the carefully wrapped food in the refrigerator and the fact that the ubiquitous flowers were missing from the living room that the homecoming had not gone well. He knew it wouldn't, knew that Drake was too wrapped up in his own pain to appreciate the gesture. Drake doesn't want flowers and balloons; he wants everyone else to hurt as much as he does. He doesn't want to be alone in his pain.

He stares across the room at Drake, who's lying on his left side, facing the wall. The dim light from the nightlight in the hallway barely permeates the darkness inside the room, but the moonlight streaming in from the window over the loft bed casts Drake in an almost ghostly light. How many times has he seen Drake in that exact position over the years? Too many to count. And yet, he stares like he's never seen such a sight before.

Finally, he closes the door softly and walks quietly to the far side of his bed, sinking heavily onto its edge. Tension is coiled like a spring between his shoulder blades and he rests his elbows on his knees, lets his head dangle heavily as he closes his eyes.

He doesn't realize he's crying until a tear splashes against the back of his right hand. It's all too much, too much, and his shoulders shake with the force of his grief. But he's careful not to make a sound as he presses the meaty parts of his hands against his eyes; he holds it in, like always, hides it away where no one else can see it.

Relief mixed with fear, that's what it is. The overwhelming relief of seeing Drake in his own bed – his brother home at last, where he belongs; the undeniable fear that Drake is changed forever, that the boy he loves more than himself is now somehow a stranger.

"So what was the crisis?"

Drake's voice startles him and he snaps his head up, wiping roughly at his eyes. "What?" he asks, cursing the hoarseness in his voice. He looks across the room at Drake, who's sitting up, looking back at him through the darkness.

Silence greets his question and hangs in the air like fog.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here when you got home," Josh says, the unbearable silence drawing the lie from his lips.

Drake shrugs, drawing his knees up under the blankets and resting his arms on them. "You missed a hell of a party," he deadpanned.

"Mom and Dad," Josh replies, locking gazes with his brother, whom he can see more clearly now that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness. "They're trying, you know." And he hears his brother snort derisively at that.

"Mom," Drake says harshly, "is in denial." His voice is hard, the words sharp.

Josh closes his eyes for a moment and takes a breath. "You told her you hated her."

"I meant it."

Anger surges through Josh at Drake's words. Drake has no idea what Audrey has gone through; he hasn't seen the anguish in her eyes or heard the guilt in her voice. "Don't do that," he says, his hands curling into fists. "She blames herself enough."

"Good."

"Jesus," Josh mutters, exasperated. He stands, tugging roughly at the buttons on his vest.

Drake watches his brother's silhouette move in the darkness, sees the jerky movements that signify he's angry. "Aren't you gonna ask me?"

Josh's head snaps up at that, his fingers frozen on one of his shirt buttons. He can feel his pulse throb in his neck. "Ask you what?" he whispers, his hands dropping to his sides. But he thinks he knows.

"Why I did it," Drake replies. "No one's asked me that yet." There's a pause, and Josh swears he can see his brother smile. "Go on," he says maliciously. "Ask me."

But Josh doesn't want to play this game. "Who's Ginger?" he asks suddenly, surprising even himself. He didn't want to do this now; he wanted to give his brother a chance to get used to being home. But it's been eating away at him all weekend and now's as good a time as any, he thinks.

"What?" The word sounds strangled.

"Why didn't you tell me you still talked to her?"

Drake throws off the covers then and scrambles down the ladder, his bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. He walks to the desk, kicking something in the darkness, and turns on the lamp. His hands start pushing papers out of the way; some of them fall to the floor. After a second, he turns to Josh. "Where is it?" he asks sharply, a slightly panicked look in his eyes.

"What are you talking about?" Josh asks, studying his brother in the light. His dark eyes look wild but sunken; dark circles make his skin looked bruised. He's wearing ratty blue flannel sleep pants and a short-sleeved gray t-shirt. Josh can't keep his eyes from focusing on the bandages around his brother's wrists.

"My phone," Drake answers. "Where is it?" And he looks around the room, focuses on the coffee table, goes to it. He pushes things off of it in search of the gadget. When he doesn't find it, he turns to Josh. "You have it."

"Who is she, Drake?" Josh asks again, looking back up at Drake, struggling to keep his voice even and unemotional.

"Give it to me," Drake says between his teeth and Josh can see the white of his brother's knuckles from across the room.

"Tell me," Josh insists and then sees Drake's eyes flit from his face to focus somewhere to Josh's right. Following Drake's gaze, Josh sees what his brother's staring at – the table next to his bed. Josh had put Drake's phone in the drawer and Drake knows it.

Scrambling around the bed, Josh pulls open the drawer and secures his fingers around the small phone just as Drake hops up onto the platform. Josh pulls it out, holding it tightly in his grasp as his brother snatches at it.

"Something happened with her, didn't it?" Josh asks him, meeting his brother's dark eyes. There's a volatile mix of anger and desperation in them that frightens him. "There are over 30 messages from her in the last two weeks. All of them unread," he spits out, thrusting out his fist, the one holding the phone.

But Drake doesn't reach for it. He's gotten very still; the only thing moving is his chest as it rises and falls with each breath. This stillness frightens Josh even more.

"She keeps apologizing to you," he whispers, letting his arm drop to his side, "keeps begging you for forgiveness." He meets Drake's eyes; the desolate look in them tightens his throat. "Forgiveness for what, Drake?"

Drake just stares, his eyes flitting from Josh's face to the phone in his hand, then back to his face. "You had no right," he finally says, his voice low and even.

But this is the wrong thing to say. These words are the spark that ignites the smoldering flames of Josh's anger. "How can you say that to me?" he asks, his voice rising. "I had no right? What about you?" He's breathing heavily now, his breaths loud in his ears. "What right did you have to do this to us?"

Drake's lips twist into a cruel expression. "To you?" he says. "Excuse me, but I don't recall cutting your wrists."

"You might as well have," Josh says before he can stop himself and the words fall from his lips like stones, cold and heavy.

"Poor Josh," Drake replies nastily. "So hurt. So sensitive."

Josh lets the comment slide, picks up where he left off. "You've always thought that the things you do can never hurt anyone else. But they do. They always do." He's stopped trying to keep the anger out of voice; there's no point to it.

"And you've always thought that everything that goes on in my life is your business," Drake responds, taking advantage of Josh's switch in focus to snatch the phone out of Josh's grasp. "Well, it's not." He glares at his brother for a few more seconds before turning away. He steps off the platform, heads towards the couch. He's got his phone flipped open and is staring at the screen when he hears Josh behind him.

"Maddie says she knows you didn't mean it."

The words stop Drake in his tracks and his fingers tighten convulsively around the phone. He's still staring at the screen, but he no longer sees it.

"She says she won't tell anyone."

Drake reaches for the back of the couch blindly, a sudden wave of nausea burning the back of his throat. He closes his eyes, sees her face. Her eyes are accusing. Her words are fragile.

"Why are you doing this?"

Josh keeps talking, his voice barely audible through the noise in Drake's head. "She came up to me at school last week. Asked me to give you that message. I'd forgotten all about it until now."

"Shut up," Drake whispers, but he doesn't think Josh hears him because he just keeps talking.

"Who is she, Drake?"

"Shut up," he repeats, louder this time.

"She said she thought you were avoiding her." A beat. "She said you didn't hurt her. What did she mean by that?" He steps off the platform, takes a few steps towards Drake.

"Shut up!" Drake hisses, finally turning around to face Josh. "Don't talk about her." His mouth is dry and his pulse beats wildly in his neck. He raises his hands to his ears like he wants to block out the sound of Josh's voice, but then lets them drop limply at his sides.

"So many secrets," Josh continues, undeterred. He's onto something now and he won't let it go. "So many lies." He opens his hands, palms facing Drake. An act of supplication. "I thought we were brothers."

"Don't…" Drake whispers hoarsely. "Don't talk about things you don't understand."

"Then explain them to me," Josh demands. There's still an angry edge to his voice. "Tell me what happened. Because I can't take it anymore. The not knowing why…" He stops then, takes a breath. When he continues, his voice is soft. "…it's killing me."

Drake just looks at him. Finally. "You wanna know why?" he asks, his voice even, his eyes holding Josh's gaze unwaveringly.

"Yes." Josh feels the word emerge from his throat, but doesn't hear it. So here we are at last.

"Because when I looked in the mirror, I hated who I saw staring back at me."

But that isn't the answer Josh wants to hear. It isn't really an answer at all.

Josh doesn't know what to say, just holds his brother's gaze for a few seconds longer before gathering up his stuff and heading for the shower. When he comes back from the bathroom twenty minutes later, the light is off and Drake's in bed and nothing, nothing, has changed.

Megan's picking at a soggy mass of corn flakes at the kitchen table when Drake strolls in, backpack slung over his shoulder. He doesn't say anything to her as he walks past the table to the refrigerator and reaches in for the milk. Tilting the carton to his lips, he takes a long swallow. When he lowers it, he sees her staring at him.

"Hey," he says nonchalantly, taking another drink.

She doesn't say anything, just watches him in silence with huge, dark eyes.

He puts the milk away, then turns to face her. When he sees her still staring at him, he asks a bit testily, "Do you need something?"

"Did you drink out of the chocolate milk carton before you…?" she blurts out, unable to finish the thought. She hasn't been able to let it go and she doesn't really know why. It's just that every time she opens the fridge, there it is, and she wonders all over again.

"Huh?"

"Never mind," she says quickly, looking down into her bowl, pressing the back of her spoon against the brown sludge that used to be cereal.

"I don't think so," he finally replies softly.

"It doesn't matter anyway," she mumbles, sliding the bowl off the table as she stands up, walking it over to the sink.

Drake watches her scrape the cereal into the garbage disposal then set the bowl in the sink. She pushes up her sleeves, then reaches to turn on the faucet.

A sharp intake of breath from Drake stops her movement. Oh, no. She reaches for her sleeve, but it's too late. He's seen it. She can hear the thud of his backpack on the tile.

"Megan," he says as he tugs her roughly away from the sink. And he's on his knees in front of her, holding her left wrist tightly in his fingers. "What is this?" He's angry.

She looks at him, tears crowding in her eyes. "I…" she stammers.

Drake looks down at her arm, stares at the cut on her wrist. It's not very long, but it's long enough – maybe two inches. It's superficial and has already started to scab. It looks fairly recent.

"You said it didn't hurt," she whispers.

Drake closes his eyes, feels the pounding of his heart inside his skull, the incessant throbbing in his temples.

"You lied." The words are broken. She tries to pull her arm away, but Drake holds on.

Finally, he looks up at her, barely able to withstand the onslaught of pain in her eyes. "I said I didn't feel anything," he tells her carefully. "There's a difference."

They look at each other for a long moment. Drake can feel her trembling beneath his fingers and he loosens his grip, but she doesn't pull away.

"Please don't tell anyone," she begs him.

He opens his mouth to reply when Josh comes through the door. Megan jerks away from Drake, tugging at her sleeves. She turns to the sink to hide her face. Drake stands, facing Josh head-on.

"What's going on?" Josh asks suspiciously, looking back and forth quickly between his brother and sister.

"Nothing," Drake says, shrugging. "I was just helping Megan with her bracelet." And he looks directly into Josh's eyes, challenging him to question it.

With another glance at Megan, Josh then focuses his eyes on Drake's backpack. He stares at it for a long moment before looking back at Drake. "Don't tell me you're thinking about going to school," he says incredulously.

"Why not?" Drake asks. "It's Wednesday." Like it was any other Wednesday.

"You just got home," Josh replies, his voice a near-whisper. "You should rest."

Drake laughs. It's a forced sound that cuts into the air around them. "I've done nothing but lay in bed for two weeks," he says. "I think I'm rested." Of course, the hollow eyes and pale skin would beg to differ.

"But," Josh begins, but can't think of anything else to say.

"Unless you don't want to be seen with me," Drake quips, but his effort to keep the conversation light is fading fast.

"I'm just thinking of you," Josh replies softly. He takes in Drake's short-sleeved t-shirt, his eyes fluttering to Drake's hands and back up to his eyes. "Are you sure you want to wear that?"

"I can't hide forever, Josh." Drake's voice, for once, isn't hostile and the pointed look he gives his brother ends the discussion.

As they head out the door, Drake gently squeezes his sister's shoulder.

It's not much, she knows, as she sits at the dining room table and pulls it out of the bag, but she saw it slung over the shoulder of a mannequin in a store window and just had to get it. It's a surprise for Nathan – a new messenger bag to replace his old one. He's been out of sorts lately and she thought this might help cheer him up. This one isn't anything like his old one – it's blue instead of red, has a cushioned strap, and more pockets.

Claire awoke earlier than usual, leaving Nathan sound asleep in bed, so she could transfer all his stuff to his new bag and have it waiting for him when he left for school. The new one lay to her right, empty and waiting. The old one sits overstuffed and slouching on the table to her left. This is kind of exciting, she thinks. She loves surprises, even if they're not for her.

Unzipping the red bag, she pulls out his books – the teacher's edition of the history textbook he uses, his grade book, his calendar, a couple spiral notebooks – and places them in a stack in front of her. Holding open the blue bag, she slides the stack into the main cavity with satisfaction.

She empties the front pockets of his old bag, finding various items: his cell phone, a half-finished pack of gum, some melted starlight peppermints, a pocket calculator, a tube of Chapstick, a couple cough drops, and a flash drive. Sorting the usable stuff from the junk, she puts everything in its place, smiling at the thought of what he's going to say to her later, "You know, now I can't find anything." The cell phone goes in the little pouch on the side, the calculator goes into the bottom right pocket, the flash drive goes in the little pocket above that, the gum and Chapstick go into the upper left pocket. The mints and the cough drops go into the trash.

Moving to the inside pockets, she peeks inside the red bag. There are pens, pencils, and highlighters shoved two at a time and in no particular order into the slots and she gathers them up in her fist and drops them on the table. She tests each one in turn on the front page of yesterday's newspaper, discarding the ones near the end of their lives and grouping the rest into like groups. Finally, she takes them and slides them into the slots inside the new bag, happy with the way they're all organized, knowing they won't stay that way for long.

The last place to check is the inside pocket. Reaching inside the red bag, she pulls open the zipper. She slides her hand inside. It's a deep pocket and she's up past her wrist before her fingers touch something hard. At first she thinks it's another calculator, but when she pulls it out, she sees that it's a cell phone.

She's never seen it before and she's confused at first. But then the trembling starts as the possibilities for why he'd have a second cell phone play across her mind. She swallows against the sudden dryness in her mouth and stares down at the phone in her hand.

Terrible thoughts bombard her: He's been distant lately. He never wants to make love anymore. He has a really short temper. He seems distracted. When I ask him what's wrong, he doesn't want to talk about it. He's hiding something.

Not something, she realizes. Someone.

A heady mix of jealousy and anger propel her to turn the phone on, and she grips the phone so tightly as it's powering up that her fingertips feel cold. The screen is empty except for the battery symbol in the upper right-hand corner and the signal strength symbol in the upper left. Between the two is a little envelope that must mean there are messages in the inbox. She debates opening the inbox, but decides to look at the contacts list first. She needs to see who it is that is stealing Nathan's loyalties away from her. That's if he was stupid enough to store her name in the phone.

When the contact list opens, there's only one name. And it's not even a name; it's just initials – DP.

DP. DP. DP.

Suddenly, she doesn't want to know any more. She exits out of the list and presses the POWER button, shutting it off, dropping it on the table like it's on fire.

She stares at it. DP. DP. DPDPDPDPDPDP.

Finally, she picks it up, her hand shaking, and goes to put it in the new bag. But then she stops. No, she thinks and slides it back into the deep inside pocket of the old bag, re-zips the pocket, and folds the nearly-empty bag in half.

Standing, she lifts the new bag, zips the top, and places it neatly in the chair where Nathan always leaves his bag. She then places the old bag on the table neatly in front of it. Backing away, she stares at them both again before she manages to tear her eyes away and walk back towards the bedroom.

He's still sleeping, lying on his right side, the blankets pulled up to his shoulder. She watches as his body rises and falls slightly with each breath, studies the way his blond hair flops onto the pillow. She loves him. She can't help it.

But he doesn't love her. The realization strikes her suddenly, like a dagger through the heart. He doesn't love her and she wonders if he ever did.

She finally manages to go back to sleep, curled up along the edge of the bed as far away from him as she can get. When she wakes up again, he's gone. And when she checks, so is the phone from the red bag, which lies empty and mocking on the dining room table.

Only a few chapters left!

As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. Thank you.