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.
A/N: I wrote this chapter a while ago and have put off posting it because it is another Drake chapter and it was never my intention for this story to be so Drake-centric. However, it seems that Drake has shoved Josh out of the way and has taken residence inside my skull. For those of you waiting patiently for our wayward boys to meet again, it'll happen - I promise! It's just that real life has this annoying little habit of insinuating itself into my free time in all sorts of inconvenient ways.
Chapter 6: A Night to Remember
POV: Drake, 24 years old
Drake hadn't been able to sleep; the pains in his stomach had become unbearable. He had been suffering from stomach pains for weeks and they had been gradually getting worse; he thought it was just indigestion and had been eating Tums like candy. He felt like he needed to throw up, but couldn't. He stood at the bathroom sink, gripping the edge of the basin in a white-knuckle grip as he gazed at himself in the mirror. He was pale, his skin taking on a pasty pallor even in the yellow incandescent light. The spray of freckles across his cheeks stood in stark contrast.
He thought he was getting better since he had finally been able to keep food down without his stomach feeling like it was on fire. But now, it seemed like whatever it was that was ailing him had just been saving up for the Big Finish.
A cold sweat covered his body and the shivering that accompanied it was the reason why he was gripping the sink for dear life. Not to mention that the sink was the only thing preventing him from doubling over from the pain in his stomach.
He had managed to hide the severity of his illness from Jack, though the boy knew he was sick and wore an expression of worry that aged his young face in a way that cut Drake to the quick. Jack had not gone to bed until Drake had eaten his entire bowl of chicken noodle soup and drank a glass of ginger ale – that was what Drake gave Jack when he was sick, so Jack had prescribed the same for him.
Sickness bubbled up from his stomach before Drake could even react and he simply lowered his head and threw up in the sink, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that always welled. Spitting the last of it from his mouth, he dragged the back of his hand over his lips and opened his eyes.
Bright red blood coated the white ceramic sink.
Drake stared wildly at it, then looked at his reflection. Blood streaked across his cheek where he had wiped his mouth. Oh god.
Heart pounding, Drake backed instinctively away. One step. Two. He bumped against the wall, knees weak, and reached a blind hand out to the towel rack. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he felt himself falling, falling. He clawed for the towel rack again, but his fingers found only air. He staggered a step and reached out again, gripping the shower curtain, the plastic rings breaking in quick succession under his weight, the sound like that of a deck of cards being expertly shuffled. He crashed to the floor, his ribs taking the brunt of the force as they slammed against the edge of the tub. He came to rest in a semi-upright position, wedged slightly between the tub and the toilet.
"Dad?" Jack asked in a timid voice as he approached the bathroom doorway, his voice still thick from sleep. He had been awakened by the noise. Then, after taking in the scene, "Daddy!" The little boy stood frozen in place, his gray eyes wide with terror.
Drake opened his eyes with effort, saw the fear in his son's face and knew that it matched his own. "Jack," he said weakly, trying to keep his voice calm. He swallowed hard; he was going to be sick again and he didn't want Jack to see it. "Go get Mrs. Delfino."
"Daddy…" Jack whispered, tears filling his eyes quickly and spilling down his cheeks as his face crumpled.
"Jack, listen to me," Drake said softly, closing his eyes and swallowing again. He looked back at the boy. "I need you to get Mrs. Delfino. Right now. Do you understand?"
The little boy nodded, his chin trembling. But he still hesitated, terror making it difficult for him to move his limbs.
There was a pause, an unspoken communication between them as they looked at each other. "I'll be alright," Drake reassured him.
Jack nodded again, then turned and ran back through the apartment. Drake heard the heavy sound of the deadbolts slide back and the door open, followed closely by the clink of the door chain as it stretched to its maximum length and prevented the door from opening completely.
Drake closed his eyes. Damn.
"Daddy! The door won't open!" Jack screamed, panicked. "I can't reach it!" The terror and the tears were evident in his voice.
"It's okay," Drake muttered, knowing the boy couldn't hear him. "It's okay." His vision was starting to tunnel, the blackness closing in around the edges. He sank all the way down to the floor, resting his head on the cold tile. The last things he remembered before he lost consciousness were the sight of blood spraying across the base of the toilet as he threw up again and the sound of breaking glass.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
If asked later, five-year-old Jack Parker would remember three things about that night the most: the contrast of the blood against the white tile, the smell of the cologne worn by the burly EMT with the kind eyes, and the way his dad's arm flopped over the side of the stretcher and hung there loosely as he was wheeled out to the ambulance.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
The first thing Drake realized when he opened his eyes was that he was alive. The second thing he realized was that he was thirsty. His eyelids felt scratchy against his eyes and his tongue had enough fur on it to qualify as a pet.
He felt a warm pressure on his wrist and his eyes sought its source. A middle-aged nurse with short blonde hair and square black glasses smiled warmly at him as she glanced at her watch, counting his pulse. "Good morning, Mr. Parker," she said cheerfully. "I'm so glad you've decided to join us today."
Drake blinked slowly, her words fighting their way through a fog and into his brain. "Water," he croaked, his voice rusty.
The nurse smiled again. "Just enough to wet your lips. We can't let you overdo it, okay?" She poured a cup of water from a plastic pitcher by the bed and tilted it against his lips. He opened his mouth for more, but she pulled it away, some of it dribbling down his chin.
He sucked at his tongue, trying to extract every last molecule of water. Then he looked up at her. "Where's Jack?" he asked, his voice stronger but still hoarse. He looked around the room, hoping to see the boy sleeping in the corner. He tried to sit up, but grimaced at the pain in his ribs and sunk back down into the bed.
Drake had hovered on the edge of consciousness for two days – a result of a combination of blood loss, electrolyte imbalance, and dehydration caused by a bleeding ulcer in his stomach. An over-consumption of antacids had reduced the amount of acid in his stomach to the point where the bacteria that lived in his stomach naturally started working against him, eating a whole in the lining of his stomach. Vomiting blood had just been the tipping point. He had also cracked three ribs when he collapsed in the bathroom.
The nurse – named Peggy, Drake could see now by her ID tag – smiled at the mention of Jack's name. "He's sleeping right now in an empty room down the hall. He wanted to sleep in here with you, but this being an intensive care unit and all…" She trailed off. "Poor thing; he was exhausted. He didn't want to go to sleep until you woke up. Put up a valiant fight, but finally gave up a couple hours ago. Should I wake him?"
Drake wanted nothing more than to see his son, to show him that he was okay, as promised. But he shook his head. "Let him sleep," he said.
Peggy nodded. "Sure thing. But as soon as he wakes up, I'll let him know." She smiled again. "He's a good boy, Mr. Parker. Quite the charmer. I'll bet he gets that from you," she said, winking.
Drake attempted a smile. "Call me Drake. 'Mr. Parker' makes me feel old."
She laughed obligingly. "You're not old! In fact, you're younger than my son. So I guess that makes me the old one here."
He looked her up and down, grinning slightly. "No way! You must be pulling my leg. And here I was just gonna ask you to share my jello with me later."
Peggy laughed out loud, her hazel eyes sparkling mirthfully. "See? I knew it. A real charmer; like father, like son." She leaned down and Drake could smell lavender and antibacterial soap. "But if I was twenty-five years younger…" she whispered and winked again.
Writing something in his chart, she said, "Now you just take it easy. 'Cause there's at least one person who's counting on you to get better."
"I know," Drake said softly. He watched her walk to the door. Right before she disappeared down the hall, he said, smiling, "The offer still stands, you know – you, me, a cup of lime jello, two sporks. If you change your mind."
He listened to her bright laughter fade down the hallway. Then he closed his eyes and slept.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Jack swung his feet absently as he sat in a chair watching his dad. Drake was sleeping, but Jack could tell he was just about to wake up. Jack was an expert on Drake's sleeping patterns; they had shared a bed for over a year and Jack would sometimes wake up and just watch his dad sleep.
Sometimes Drake talked in his sleep, but never loud enough for Jack to understand. And sometimes his eyes would move really fast behind his eyelids and Jack knew he was dreaming. Sometimes those dreams were bad ones – Jack remembered his dad crying in his sleep once. Jack had just touched his cheek and whispered, "Shhh. It's okay," the way his dad always did for him.
Drake opened his eyes. Jack smiled. "Hi, Dad."
Eyes flitting to the boy, Drake's lips curved into a genuine smile. "Hey," he said, voice scratchy. He cleared his throat and grimaced at the rawness. "How long have I been sleeping?"
"A long time. I already finished kindergarten," Jack said, giggling at the smirk Drake gave him.
"Very funny," Drake muttered, then pushed himself into a semi-seated position painfully, his cracked ribs screaming in protest at being moved. He was out of breath after the effort, the tight binding around his ribs making breathing even more difficult. After a moment, he looked at Jack, who was watching him in silence, worry creasing his brow. "I'm okay, Jack." The boy gave him a skeptical look. "Really."
Jack slid out of the chair and walked over to side of the bed. His eyes followed the tube from his dad's arm to the IV bag hanging from a stand next to the bed and back again. He pointed at the needle that was buried in Drake's vein, taped down by two strips of soft white tape. "Does that hurt?" he asked softly, looking up into Drake's eyes.
"Nah," Drake said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I can't even feel it."
"What's it for?"
Drake looked at the bag. The only word on it that he immediately recognized was "saline." He looked at Jack. "It's to keep me from getting dehydrated."
"What's that mean?" Jack asked curiously.
A satisfied smile curved Drake's lips. "You mean there's a word you don't know? I thought you were a Boy Genius," Drake teased.
Jack sighed. "Just tell me," he said impatiently, tilting his head to the side.
Drake laughed. "It's what happens when you don't drink enough water. You can get sick. So the nurse gave me this so I wouldn't get sick. It's like drinking water through my arm."
"Really?" Jack asked, amazed. He brushed his fingertips very lightly across the tube that ran across Drake's arm. Then he looked up at Drake and said matter-of-factly, "That's kinda weird."
Drake smiled again. "Yeah, well. So are you." He messed Jack's hair with his left hand. Dropping his arm heavily on the bed next to him, he rested his head against the pillows and yawned. His eyes had fallen half-closed when he felt small fingers grasp his. Rolling his head to the side, he saw Jack watching him, his wide gray eyes unblinking. He squeezed the boy's fingers in his own. "What's the matter?"
"I…" the boy began, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was scared you would die." Tears threatened to spill down his cheeks.
Shit. Drake didn't know what to say. His throat tightened and he had to blink back tears of his own. His dark eyes studied the boy – and he was only a boy, no matter how grown-up he tried and sometimes had to be. Jack's face resembled his own more and more every year – even the collection of freckles across his nose was the same. The kid's mop of brown hair was a shade darker than Drake's, but had the same reddish hue in the sun.
"I'm sorry I scared you," he finally said. "I didn't mean to."
"I know," Jack replied. He looked down at their hands, still entwined on the sheet. With his other hand, he started drawing invisible lines across the back of Drake's hand. "But when I couldn't reach the chain…" Drake could see the boy's face crumple.
"Hey," Drake said, squeezing Jack's hand again. "Look at me."
Jack sniffled then looked up, his eyes red.
"I'm fine, Jack. I'm a little sore and a little tired, but I'm gonna be okay." He paused, looking into Jack's eyes to make sure he was listening. Then he said, "Come around here," gesturing for Jack to come around to the other side of the bed, away from the IV tube and other equipment. He slid over to his left a few painful inches as Jack obediently walked around the foot of the bed. Folding back the covers, he patted the thin mattress. "Climb in."
Jack gave his dad a small smile before dutifully kicking off his shoes and climbing up on the bed, burrowing under the blankets. Drake wrapped his right arm around his son's small shoulders and held the boy against him, ignoring the pain in his ribs. "It's okay to be scared, you know," he murmured into Jack's hair. "I get scared too, sometimes."
Looking up at Drake, Jack asked, surprised, "Really?"
"Yup," Drake assured. "Grown-ups get scared, too." It felt strange referring to himself as a grown-up; he had never really thought about it before. Different eras of his life seemed to have just merged together – childhood had blended into adolescence. Adulthood had arrived suddenly one day, wrapped in a small blue blanket.
"What are you scared of?" Jack asked earnestly.
"Well, let's see," Drake said, pretending to give it a lot of thought. "I'm scared of your dirty socks. And your underwear. Oh yeah. I'm really scared of your dirty underwear."
Jack laughed, his eyes squeezing shut like his dad's did when he laughed. "Daaad," he managed, trying to catch his breath. He turned on his left side and snuggled against Drake, the last of his giggles fading away as he rested his head on Drake's shoulder.
Drake sighed, Jack's soft hair tickling his nose. "You know what scares me the most?" he asked his son softly.
"What?" Jack asked quietly, rubbing his nose against Drake's shoulder.
"That I won't be a good dad," Drake answered, his fingers absently toying with Jack's hair.
Jack shifted closer, his arm snaking across Drake's chest in a hug. Drake suppressed a groan at the pain. "You're a good dad," Jack whispered, and Drake could feel the boy's warm breath against his neck, slow and even. Drake knew he had fallen asleep.
Tightening his arm around Jack, Drake closed his eyes, falling asleep in less than a minute.
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