TITLE: Scenes from an Unplanned Life
SPOILERS: Anything from the series is fair game here.
DISCLAIMER: I neither own nor claim to own anything relating to the show Drake & Josh. The powers that be from Nickelodeon and Schneider's Bakery own all. I am not making a profit except for the satisfaction of being able to play with words for a little while.

Chapter 3: Old Dreams and Lullabies

POV: Drake, 23 years old

The day was mercifully almost over. Drake bent to sweep the debris of an impromptu celebration off the coffee table and into a white plastic garbage bag. It wasn't something he had advertised, but twenty-three years ago, he was born. He had surprised Jack with cake, which in the Parker residence meant inserting a candle into a Little Debbie and wishing for the best.

Tension coiled like an angry snake at the base of his skull; he was tired. It was 11:47pm – thirteen minutes until the day was history and he wouldn't have to think about all the ways his life hadn't turned out quite the way he'd planned when he had dreamt of the future back in San Diego. Those kinds of thoughts always plagued him on his birthday – there was something about the marching of time that always reminded him of the past.

When he was a kid, he had been so certain of everything. Now, every day brought another reminder of just how naïve he had been and just how uncertain life really was. All that could be counted on in this life was that it was hard.

And Jack. He could always count on Jack.

There was a knock on the door. Drake thought for a second about not answering it, but set down the garbage bag and walked to the door, peering through the peephole. Pete McAllister stood on the other side.

Drake undid the chain with a sigh and turned both deadbolts, pulling open the door. The bright light of the hallway made him squint as he leaned his right shoulder against the doorframe. He wasn't really in the mood for visitors.

"Look, man. I know it's late. But…" Pete began, stopping and craning his neck to look past Drake into the darkened apartment. He looked back at Drake, saw the ratty flannel sleeping pants and the gray t-shirt with a hole in the left shoulder seam. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"I was just about to go to bed," Drake said and rubbed the back of his neck absently. The throbbing continued unabated under his palm.

"I'm sorry. I would've been here sooner, but The Dick made me cover another half-shift." The Dick was Dick Thomason, Pete's boss at the bar. The moniker served a dual purpose: it represented both Dick's high opinion of himself (think The Donald) and his staff's low opinion of him. "Anyway, there are still –" he checked his watch – "eight minutes left of your birthday and I wanted to give you this." He reached to his left and pulled back something that made Drake gawk.

A guitar case.

Pete grinned as Drake stared. "Do you like it?"

The silence dragged on a little while longer before Drake found his voice. He looked up and down the hall, then over his shoulder into his apartment, as if debating. Finally he said between gritted teeth, "Get in here." He turned and walked into his apartment.

Pete followed him in, closing the door behind him. He looked at Drake, who stood a few feet away with his arms crossed protectively over his chest. "Do you know what this is?"

"It's a guitar," Drake answered calmly, not looking at it.

Pete grinned again. "It's not just a guitar, Drake. It's your guitar."

Drake's fingers dug into his arms. "What are you talking about?"

"It's your guitar, man. The one you pawned, remember?"

Drake became very still. "That was two years ago," he said softly.

"That's how long I've had it." When Drake didn't respond, Pete continued. "When you told me you pawned it, I went and bought it back. I've been waiting for the right time to give it back to you."

Drake shook his head, massaged his neck again. "Take it back, Pete. I don't…I don't want it."

"Of course you do. You've just convinced yourself that you can't want it." Another pause. Pete could see Drake's Adam's apple bob convulsively in his throat.

The sting of tears pricked Drake's eyes. "I needed the money," he whispered, remembering the day he sold his guitar for rent money. He had only gotten 200 and had had to beg the guy for that much. He hadn't picked up a guitar since. Two years.

"I know." Pete took two steps towards Drake. "You did what you had to do. And I don't think you would've done it if it had just been you. But you did what was best for the kid. And Jack…he's a great kid. You did that. You're a good father, Drake. He's lucky to have you."

Drake cast a glance in the direction of his son's room, pictured him sleeping on his left side, his right hand wedged beneath his cheek. "Sometimes I wonder," he muttered.

"He is," Pete reiterated. "But he deserves all of you."

"What the hell does that mean?" Drake asked, the words sounding harsher than he intended. His dark eyes focused intently on Pete.

"The first time I met you was when you played at Open Mike Night at the bar. Do you remember that? You were just a kid with a guitar. But you could make it sing." Pete gestured with the hand holding the guitar case. The handle squeaked the way Drake remembered. "This thing makes you whole, man. And you've been walking around the last two years with a piece missing. And I'm tired of waiting for you to realize that."

Drake laughed humorlessly. "Maybe I have realized it. Maybe I just don't care." He was angry – at himself, at Pete, at the world, he wasn't sure. He blinked back tears of frustration. "It was just a dream, Pete. But dreams don't pay the rent. Or buy clothes. Or feed my kid." Drake dropped his arms to his side and felt his hands shaking. He balled them into fists. God, he hated birthdays. "Dreams fade. Real life is permanent."

"Drake, listen to me," Pete continued softly. "I get it, okay? You think you're doing what's best for Jack. I respect that. But you've got a gift, man. A real gift. And you're letting it die because you don't think there's room in your life for dreams."

Drake opened his mouth to speak, but Pete interrupted. "Look, don't say no, alright? Just think about it." He walked over and set the guitar case gently on the coffee table. Going to the door, he turned and said, "Happy birthday, man." Then he left, closing the door with a soft click behind him.

/a/a/a/a/

He had managed to hold out for forty-five minutes – most of which had been spent sitting on the couch staring at it – before finally caving. With trembling fingers, he unfastened the clasps and opened the case. First he ran his eyes over it, then his hands, in a loving caress that remembered every nuance and scratch on the surface. He picked it up and placed it across his knees, his fingers finding their places on the strings without hesitation.

When he struck the first chord he had played in two years, a feeling of completion washed over him and he closed his eyes against the sound. He moved his fingers and played another one, then another. A sudden memory surfaced – he was trying to help Josh impress a girl – Cathy! – and told him that there were a lot of songs that were just three chords. Josh had broken every string on Drake's guitar. This guitar, to be exact.

Drake smiled at the memory. He didn't think about his family often; too much choppy water under that bridge to swim safely to shore. But at that moment, even old wounds didn't carry the same sting.

"Daddy?"

Drake's fingers froze on the strings and he opened his eyes. Jack was standing next to the sofa, staring at him over the arm. The four-year-old boy's hair was a rat's nest of brown and he rubbed his eyes, yawning.

"Hey, bud. Did I wake you up?"

"Where'd you get that?" Jack asked, ignoring the question and pointing at the guitar. He folded his arms on the arm of the couch and waited for an answer.

"Uncle Pete brought it over. It's a birthday present." Drake held the instrument up so Jack could inspect it more closely. "Whaddya think?"

Jack reached out with his left hand and tentatively plucked one of the strings with the tip of his index finger, smiling at the sound. Plucking the string below it, he laughed when he discovered that it made a different sound. He looked up at his dad. "That's cool!" he exclaimed, grinning. "How's it work?"

"Come here," Drake said, setting the guitar on the cushion next to him and pulling the boy over the arm of the couch and onto his lap, eliciting a giggle from him. When Jack was situated where Drake wanted him, he grabbed the guitar and laid it over their laps. "You put your hands like this," he instructed, placing Jack's small hands on the strings and holding them there with his own. Pressing the soft fingers of Jack's left hand into their proper places, he then strummed the strings with their right hands. The rich tone of the A minor chord resonated from the guitar.

Jack laughed, a sound that never failed to elicit a smile from Drake. "Pretty cool, huh?"

Drake felt the boy's head nod against his cheek. "Do another one!" Jack pleaded, squirming eagerly against his dad.

"Okay, okay," Drake obliged, laughing. He rearranged Jack's fingers on the strings, using his own where Jack's couldn't reach. He strummed the strings again; the F# major chord drifted from the guitar.

Jack pulled his hands out from underneath Drake's. He craned his neck to look up at his dad out of the corner of his eye. "Play a song."

Drake sighed, looking down into the boy's eyes. "I don't know, Jack. It's been a long time."

"Please, Daddy? Play me a song." He slid off Drake's lap and scrambled onto the couch, settling back against the cushions. He looked at his dad expectantly.

Drake laughed at the expression on the kid's face. "Alright! But I warn you, I'm a little rusty. So if I mess up, you have to promise not to laugh." He smiled as he remembered something. "You know, I used to play for you all the time when you were a baby."

"Stop stalling," the boy said precociously, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head slightly to the side.

"Tough crowd," Drake quipped, smiling. He mentally flipped through the catalog of songs he had spent the better part of the last two years trying to forget.

"Daaad-dy," Jack intoned impatiently from the corner of the couch.

"Okay, okay. Keep your tiny pants on," Drake said, winking at the boy. "I've got one. This was one of the first songs I ever learned to play."

After a couple of false starts, the classic strains of CCR's "Have You Ever Seen the Rain?" fell effortlessly from the guitar under Drake's guidance.

And for a few moments, he was just a kid with a guitar.

A standing ovation of one accompanied the end of the song. "Play it again! Play it again!" Jack exclaimed, clapping.

Drake felt like he could play forever; he had lost time to make up for. But he looked at his son and said, "Not tonight, Jack." The euphoria was starting to ebb, quickly being replaced by fatigue. He looked at the clock. "It's late," he added, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. "And you have to be at Mrs. Delfino's early in the morning."

"But, Daddy," Jack wheedled, pouting. "Just one more song. Then I'll go right to bed. I promise."

Drake was tempted, but his parental sensibilities took over. "Tomorrow night. When I get home from work. I promise."

Jack smirked, thinking it over. "Okay. But why do I have to go to Mrs. Delfino's?"

Setting the guitar gently back in its case, Drake sighed. Here we go. "Because you can't come to work with me and Mrs. Delfino is nice enough to look after you for free." Drake fastened the clasps securely, then stood up, propping the guitar against the couch.

Jack slid off the couch and stood looking up at his father. "But she's always kissing me. And she hugs too hard."

Drake started towards Jack's room, the little boy trudging reluctantly behind. "She just likes you, Jack."

"She smells like cheese."

The words caused Drake to throw his head back and laugh. "So what's the problem? You like cheese."

Jack scrambled up onto his bed and underneath the rumpled covers, pulling them up under his arms. "Don't forget your promise," Jack said, changing the subject and gazing seriously at Drake through dark lashes.

"I won't forget," Drake said, tucking the covers around Jack's body. He bent down until their noses were almost touching. "Now go to sleep," he ordered, brushing a kiss across Jack's forehead.

Jack smiled. "Okay."

"Goodnight, bud." Drake stood up and headed for the door.

"'Night."

Drake was almost out the door when he heard Jack say, "You're a good singer, Daddy."

A lump formed instantly in Drake's throat. He looked over his shoulder at the boy who was buried up to his chin in blankets and tried to smile. "Thank you, Jack."

/a/a/a/a/

Across town, a phone rang a few minutes after one. A hand snaked out from underneath a dark green blanket and grabbed the receiver.

"Hello?"

There was a pause on the other end. Then, "Thank you."

Pete just smiled.

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