Title: Still Life
Author: GatorGrrrl
Rating: T/PG-13
Warnings: bad words, angst, slash (if you squint)
Pairings: Josh/Mindy (sort of), Drake/Josh
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from Drake & Josh. No profit is being made, no offense intended.

Author's Note: This is the story I wrote for moirariordan for the livelongnmarry auction over on LJ. She liked it! YAY!

Still Life

Late night has dissolved into very early morning by the time Drake drags himself into his apartment. He needs two things: a shower and about ten hours' worth of uninterrupted sleep.

He throws the deadbolt and rests his guitar case against the end of the couch as he makes his way towards his bedroom. His throat burns from too much singing and not enough water; he must've sweated away two gallons under the blistering lights of the club. The inside of his eyelids feel scratchy as he blinks tiredly at his reflection under the harsh fluorescent lights inside the bathroom.

God, he's exhausted. Four straight nights of playing into the wee hours interspersed with his daily dose of eight-to-five reality are really starting to wear on him. He's still young – just north of thirty, for Christ's sake – but right now, he feels as old as the guy who sells hot dogs from a cart outside the courthouse.

Fuck the shower, he thinks as he looks from the mirror to the tub, which suddenly seems a million miles away. He flips off the light and peels off his shirt, then sits on his bed and tugs at his boots, dropping them to the floor and falling back onto the mattress, his heavy eyelids drooping shut before his head even hits the blanket.

His phone is ringing – not the soft, cutesy polyphonic melody of his cell phone, but the harsh, eardrum-splitting ring of his land line. Drake opens his eyes and counts the rings; after four, his machine will pick up and he can mercifully get back to sleep.

The machine picks up, the muted sound of his own recorded voice barely carrying into the room from the bar in the kitchen. He barely hears the beep before his eyes fall closed again.

The phone rings again a few seconds later and Drake emits an angry groan of frustration before rolling to his right and snatching the blasted thing from its cradle. "What?" he asks harshly into the mouthpiece.

"Where the hell have you been? I've been calling you all night."

Drake stifles a sigh. His sister's voice isn't exactly music to his ears when he's conscious and right now, it's the most irritating sound in the world. "Megan," he says, hazarding a glance at the clock on the other side of the bed, "it's 3:00 in the fucking morning."

"What's the point of having a cell phone if you never answer it?"

"I had a gig," he says. "You know I turn the ringer off when I'm playing." He rubs at his eyes and blinks into the darkness.

"Check your damn messages. I've left you, like, a dozen." There's anger in her voice, but there's also a note of something else – something fragile and tense.

"Megan," Drake says, sitting up and propping himself up against the mattress with his free hand. "Either tell me what the fuck you want or I'm hanging up."

He hears her take a breath, then push it out through her nose the way she'd done before a hundred oboe solos when she was a kid. She's steeling herself, he knows, and a tingle of apprehension raises the hair on his arms. "It's Josh," he hears her say, her voice cracking despite her best efforts to keep it steady.

Drake's fingers close tightly around the blankets and suddenly, he's wide awake.

Accident. Surgery. Critical condition. These are the words ricocheting inside Drake's head as he presses the number 7 repeatedly with his thumb, knowing full well it won't make the elevator go any faster but not knowing what else to do.

Megan didn't tell him much more than those few words and she'd barely gotten them out before he'd slammed the phone back down and fumbled for his shirt and boots in the dark. In fact, in his haste, he doesn't even think he locked his door.

The elevator seems to stop on every fucking floor and by the time it reaches the fifth and Drake once again feels the maddening halt of the elevator car, he decides to jump out. He runs to the stairwell and takes the steps two at a time, pure adrenaline fueling his movements, his hand gripping the railing as he half pulls, half stumbles up the last two floors. Bursting through the stairwell door, he draws the startled looks of two nurses as he makes his way quickly to the nurses' station in the center of the floor.

"Where is he?" he demands of the older, dark-haired woman sitting behind the desk wearing a scrub top covered in daisies.

She looks up at him and her dark eyes are patient and kind; his distress doesn't faze her in the least. She gives him a small smile. "Where's who, sir?"

"My brother," Drake says, pressing his palms flat against the top of the desk. Then he realizes how hysterical he sounds and lowers his voice. "Josh Nichols."

He sees something in her eyes then, something that softens them even more. She obviously recognizes the name. "He's been moved to the ICU. Fifth floor."

Drake stares at her. He was just on the fifth floor and now he's wasted all this time coming up here when he could already be down there with him. The surge of adrenaline that has carried him this far is starting to flag and he feels like he's sinking into the floor. He blinks at the nurse and asks softly, "How is he?"

Please tell me he's okay, he prays, except he knows, knows she's not gonna tell him that because ICU? That's bad. He knows it is.

"He's in critical condition," she says in her perfect, soothing nurse voice. "But he was stable when he came out of surgery."

"Stable," Drake repeats. He's having a hard time processing her words; it's like there's a brick wall around his brain. "That's good, right?"

She smiles – one of those close-lipped ones that offers no encouragement at all. "It's the best we can hope for at this time."

The best we can hope for. Drake just nods. "Thank you," he says and turns from the desk. He walks to the bank of elevators because he's not sure his legs could support his weight down two flights of stairs. So he presses the down arrow button and leans against the wall and tries not to listen to noise inside his head.

They're all here, he sees, buried beneath varying degrees of grief, mired in layers of helplessness. Drake can hardly stand it, has the sudden urge to turn around and run away, and he wills himself to wake up from this nightmare.

But when he reaches them, he knows he's not dreaming because even in the darkest depths of his imagination, he could never a conjure up a look like the one his mother's wearing when she lifts her head to meet his eyes.

"Oh, honey," she says and stands, wrapping her arms around him so tightly he thinks his ribs might crack. But he doesn't try to push her away, he just returns the gesture.

"It's okay," he says into her hair. But really, it isn't.

He locks eyes with his sister, whose eyes are red but dry, like she has no tears left. She's sitting next to Walter, who looks at him, then looks away, his dark eyes focusing on something in the distance or maybe on nothing at all.

Drake sees movement off to his left and he turns his eyes towards it. Mindy's looking at him with a look so devoid of emotion he wants to punch her and he has to grab fistfuls of his mother's shirt to keep from doing so. Her eyes aren't even red. He wants to look away, but he can't, and his sister-in-law just stares back at him, unblinking.

His mother finally lets him go and the gentle hand she presses to his cheek finally draws his attention away from Mindy. He looks down, meets her eyes. "How is he?" he asks, even though he knows it's a stupid question.

"He won't wake up," she whispers.

Drake feels his heart thud against his ribs. "He just got out of surgery, right? I mean, it's too soon for him to wake up."

But his mom's shaking her head. "They think he might be in a coma," she says.

The words make him angry. "They think he might be? Either he is or he isn't. Which one is it?" But when his mother doesn't respond, just presses her hand to her lips and turns away, he knows which one it is.

Coma. Jesus Christ. Suddenly, all he can think about is that movie he and Josh watched late one night when they were kids where people were deliberately put into comas so their organs could be sold on the black market.

And how scared Josh is of hospitals.

He's sitting on the edge of the low table, the one where they stack all the old, well-thumbed magazines. Like back issues of Field & Stream are supposed to keep your mind off the fact that someone you love may be dying. He can't sit in a chair; they all feel too confining, too close. Besides, his perch on the table gives him a clear view down the hall where he keeps staring as if he expects Josh to come sauntering out of one of the rooms any minute now, smiling that goofy smile of his and telling them it was all just a big misunderstanding.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and he flinches, looks up. Walter's looking down at him with hooded eyes. "Come on," he says. "I'm going crazy just sitting here. Let's go get some coffee."

Drake doesn't want to leave, but he gets the feeling it isn't really a request, so he pushes himself up as he nods. "Sure."

They walk in silence towards the elevators and stand nearly shoulder to shoulder as they wait for the next available one to stop on their floor. The utter stillness of the ICU floor presses down on Drake until he feels like it's going to crush him. Then the elevator door mercifully slides open with a muted ding and he and Walter descend in continued silence to the ground floor, where they follow the signs to the food court. At this early hour, all that's open is the Starbucks and Walter orders grande Americanos for both of them. They carry them to a small table in the corner where they sit drinking in silence for a few moments.

"He did it on purpose," Walter finally says.

The sip of hot coffee on Drake's tongue nearly chokes him and he splutters gracelessly before he finds his voice. He meets Walter's eyes across the table, searching for that spark in them that will tell him he's joking. But it isn't there. "What the hell are you talking about?" he finally manages to ask.

Walter holds his gaze and wraps his hands more securely around his cup like he's trying to keep them from shaking. "The highway patrolman who responded to the scene," Walter says, his voice low and even. "I talked to him a few hours ago. He came to ask a few questions for his report and he told me…" Walter closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again. "He said Josh wasn't wearing his seatbelt. And there weren't any skid marks on the road." He shakes his head. "Josh didn't even try to stop." These last words are spoken so softly that if Drake hadn't been focusing all his attention on listening, he would have missed them.

"No," Drake says because it's all he has. "No."

"I haven't told the others," Walter says and Drake wants to ask, Why me?, but doesn't, because he suddenly knows the answer – Walter doesn't want to share the burden alone.

Instead, he says, "There must be another explanation."

"They're going to inspect the car," Walter says, "to see if there was something wrong with the brakes, but…" He lets the thought trail off.

"He didn't do it," Drake says and stands. "He wouldn't do that." And because he just can't stand it anymore, he walks out, leaving Walter behind.

"You fucking bitch," he says to Mindy through his teeth because he needs someone to blame and who better than her? He'd stalked his way up the stairs, all five floors' worth, and is now standing in front of her breathing heavily, one hand pressed into a fist against his thigh, one hand pointing to her face. "What did you do to him?"

She looks up at him with the same hollow, emotionless look she had when he'd arrived at the hospital and doesn't say anything.

He wants to tear her heart out and feed it to her, wants to peel that fucking heartless look off her face and shove it down her throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his mom stand up, sees Megan straighten in her seat.

"You fucking drove him into that wall," he says to her, his pulse pounding in his ears. "This is your fault."

He moves to take a step towards her. He wants to drag her from her chair by her hair. A hand gripping his arm stops him. "Drake," he hears his mom say next to his ear, her small hand squeezing his arm. "Stop it."

Drake can't breathe; it feels like the air is too thick. "She did this to him, Mom," he whispers, still looking at her. He can't tear his eyes away from Mindy's and for a second, he thinks he sees something break in them.

"Honey," his mom says. "Mindy wasn't even there. There's no way she could've–"

"He's right," Mindy says, flicking her eyes to his mom. Then she looks back at him and for the first time since he'd arrived, he can see tears in her eyes. "You're right," she whispers to him. "This is my fault." She pushes herself up, gripping the arms of the chair in a white-knuckle grip, and steadies herself with effort. "I did this to him." The hollow look returns to her eyes then and Drake watches in stunned silence as she walks away.

The sun rises like it hasn't yet realized the world has stopped and thin bands of pale sunlight creep across the worn linoleum lining the hospital corridor. Josh has made it through the night, but the happiness that news brings is counterbalanced by the impact of two words: brain damage. The words are sharp and they cut through the recycled air like a scythe.

"Possible," the doctor, a middle-aged man with graying hair and clear green eyes, tells them again. Like that makes it better. "It's still too early to tell."

"When will he wake up?" Walter asks, trying to sound hopeful.

The doctor – Dr. Amuso, according to the name embroidered on his white coat – smiles thinly. "I can't tell you that, Mr. Nichols. But believe me when I tell you a coma is the best thing for him right now. It allows his body to focus all its energy on healing itself."

Drake sees his parents nod and Megan, who's standing next to him, closes her fingers around his forearm. He looks down at his sister and sees her looking intently at the doctor, like she's trying to will him to tell them Josh is going to be just fine.

Megan must feel him looking at her because she tilts her head up to meet his eyes and her fingers close tighter around his arm. Their parents are still talking to the doctor, but the conversation has drifted into the background, and Drake jerks his head in the direction of the elevators and lifts his eyebrows at his sister.

She nods and they start walking together towards their escape, leaving their mom and dad to listen to the irritatingly optimistic reassurances of the doctor as he tells them their other son may or may not be alright.

It's just too soon to tell.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you on the phone," Megan says when they reach the food court. It's open now and the heavy smells of fried foods and floor cleaner combine to make Drake's stomach churn.

"It's okay," Drake says, leading her to the line for McDonald's.

"I just…" She sighed. "When I couldn't reach you, I guess I kinda freaked out."

When he turns his head to look at her, her eyes are wide and unblinking. "I'm out late almost every night, Megan," he says softly. "You know that."

"I know," she says, nodding. "It's just…after Josh…I guess I just had it in my head that…never mind."

"I'm okay," Drake tells her, putting his arm around her shoulders. She leans into the gesture and Drake lets himself enjoy it. She never lets him be the Big Brother. He yawns. "I think I could sleep for a week, though."

She nudges him in the ribs with her elbow. "You smell like you haven't showered in a week," she says.

He looks down at her, sees her almost-smile, and cracks one himself. "That's the smell of success," he says.

"Yeah?" She pushes him away playfully. "Well, success stinks."

Drake laughs, but it doesn't last, because it hits him that he's standing in line at the fucking McDonald's inside the UCSD Medical Center and that nothing is really funny at all.

Mindy's sitting in the same chair she'd been in last night when Drake and Megan return to the fifth floor waiting area. He hasn't seen in her in almost two hours – not since she walked away after their little confrontation. Mom and Walter are nowhere to be seen and when Drake asks Mindy where they are, she tells him they went in to see Josh.

"Why aren't you in there?" he asks her, a hint of accusation in his voice. "You're his wife."

"He doesn't need me there," she says and Drake remembers the look he saw in her eyes right before she walked away last night. His eyes fall to her hands, which are folded neatly in her lap, the middle finger of her right hand absently rubbing the wedding ring on her left.

"He loves you," Drake tells her, though he's not sure why he says it. He also doesn't know why the declaration seems to hurt so much.

Mindy smiles a little. It's more of a smirk , really, a slight rise of one corner of her mouth. "Does he?" she asks, holding his gaze for a moment before looking away.

He knows it's Josh lying there, but he can't seem to make the image before him fit with his memories. Josh's face is swollen nearly beyond recognition, like the faces of corpses fished from the water after a week. His head is shaved and covered with gauze, his eyes are bruised and swollen shut. There's a tube running down his throat to keep him breathing and another one going into his arm to keep him hydrated. There's a cast on his right arm and one of those fingertip heart rate monitors on his left hand.

Drake's only managed to make it just inside the door, where he's frozen to his spot, sweating inside the thin paper coveralls the nurse gave him to wear – to minimize the risk of infection, she told him.

Yeah. Like things could get much worse.

So he stands there trying to see his brother behind all the bruising, trying to think up reasons why things like this can happen. But all he can think about is the last time he saw Josh.

"Do I have to go home?"

"What? Trouble in paradise?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. It just feels like we never get to see each other anymore."

"Whaddya mean? We see each other all the time."

"Yeah, I guess. I don't know. Sometimes I just wish we were kids again, you know?"

"Yeah. Hanging out doing nothing, jamming on my guitar, making out with tons of hot girls."

"Sounds like every Saturday night you've had since you were fifteen."

"Saturday night? That's nothin'. Try Tuesday night, brother."

Josh had laughed then and it had been like it always was between them – easy and comfortable.

"Damn you, Josh," Drake whispers.

A week passes and Josh still hasn't opened his eyes, hasn't made a sound, hasn't made any progress at all. Unless, of course, you consider not dying progress.

Drake chooses to see it that way.

Two weeks in and Josh is the proud owner of a cast covered in original Drake artwork, produced in segments during Drake's allotted fifteen minutes of visitation with Sharpies he smuggles in his pockets. Drake talks to him while he draws – about everything, about nothing. He regales Josh with tales from their youth – the Demonator, the fake IDs, the Gary Grills, the Knowledge Bowl, blowing up Robbie's tree house. He changes some of the details, hoping to hear Josh correct him, but of course he doesn't. He carries on regardless, talking and drawing until there isn't one square inch of empty space left on Josh's cast and he's told every story at least twice.

Josh still doesn't wake up.

Three weeks in and Mindy stops coming to the hospital completely. It's a gradual thing, like if she does it slowly, no one will notice. But they all notice. Only no one says a word. Like it's okay that Josh's own wife can't be bothered to see him.

Well, it's not okay, Drake decides, and drives to Josh's house one afternoon after they've wheeled Josh away for more endless tests. He parks behind Mindy's sporty little Mazda and thinks briefly about ramming it before taking the mature course – turning off the ignition and palming his keys.

The Nichols house is small but quaint, with a mottled brick façade and crisp white accents. The front walk is lined on both sides with pretty little pink and white flowers and in the hundreds of times Drake has been here, he's never stopped feeling like he's about to enter the gingerbread house of his childhood nightmares.

He presses the doorbell and waits for Mindy to answer, sliding his fingers into his pockets to keep them from grabbing her by the throat when she opens the door.

She does so a minute later and she turns her dark eyes up to meet his in the doorway, looking at him impassively. She's got her hair pulled back and she's wearing worn-out blue jeans, an old Padres t-shirt, and an expression so blank it makes Drake's teeth hurt.

"Where the fuck have you been?" he asks her. "Not that I give a shit, mind you. But your husband might appreciate an appearance."

She just stares at him, then shakes her head a little. "Let's not do this here, okay?" She turns and disappears into the house.

He follows her inside, using more force than necessary to close the door because he needs to let his anger out somehow before it kills him. Or before he kills her. He stops in the entrance to the living room and looks at her. "Did you think no one would notice?" he asks.

After a moment, she says, "I didn't think anyone would care."

"What about Josh? He might care that his wife won't even visit him." Actually, he's not certain Josh even notices, but the doctor said it was possible, so he clings to that.

A sad smile curves across her lips. "Believe me, Drake. He wouldn't."

Drake squeezes his hands into fists at his sides. "He can hear us, you know," he says quietly. "The doctor says it's possible."

But Mindy's shaking her head. "Even if Josh was conscious, he still wouldn't care."

"How can you say that?"

She hesitates before answering, then says, "Do you have any idea what it feels like to have the person you love the most not love you back?"

"What are you talking about? He's loved you since he was fifteen," Drake hears himself say, though he barely feels the words leave his lips.

"No, Drake," she says. "He's loved you since he was fifteen. I was always just Plan B."

Drake feels the breath leave his lungs. "What?"

"I think I've always known it," she says, looking at him. "I just told myself it didn't matter because he loved me, too. And I guess he does, in his own way. Just not the way I want him to. Just not enough to make a life together."

"Bullshit," Drake says, but there's not a lot of power behind it. "We're brothers, Mindy. Best friends. That's all." But even as he says it, he knows it's more than that, knows it deep down inside where he keeps all his truths.

"You can't possibly still be as clueless as you were sixteen years ago, Drake. Open your eyes," she says. "Think, for Christ's sake." She takes a breath and pushes it out through her lips. "I see the way he looks at you when he thinks I'm not watching. The way he's always touching you. The way his first inclination, even after seven years of marriage, is to call you when something good happens. For God's sake, you can't be that blind."

"We're close," Drake says. "We always have been. And you've always hated it. Don't stand there and try to make it into something more."

"I don't have to make it into something more, Drake," she says bitterly. "It already is more. It always has been more. You two are like magnets chasing each other around the table. You think you're opposites, but if you'd just stop and turn around, you'd realize you belong together."

Drake has nothing to say, just stands there listening to the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. Clarity suddenly blooms in the back of his mind when he realizes she's right.

"You know that card you get when you buy a new wallet? The one for emergency numbers?" she asks and Drake just nods. "I always throw mine away, but Josh, apparently, keeps his and actually fills it out." She smiles, but it's not a happy expression. "You're listed first, Drake. Not me, his wife, but you. I didn't know that until the night of the accident, when I found it in the bag of Josh's stuff they gave me at the hospital."

"Mindy, I swear," Drake says. "I didn't know."

"I know you didn't," she says. "That's what's so sad about this whole thing. You came between Josh and me without even trying. I've spent so much time blaming you when really, it's my fault for not allowing myself to see it sooner."

They stand there staring at each other and Drake feels the last of his anger drain away, replaced by a sadness so exquisite it hurts. All he wants is to go back to the hospital, to be with Josh, to just know he's alive. But there's something he needs to know first.

"What happened that night, Mindy?" he asks her.

He sees her eyes begin to well, sees her fingers curl into loose fists at her sides. "He was miserable with me, Drake. He just wouldn't admit it. Josh is nothing if not loyal, especially when he's promised someone forever." A few tears escape and she wipes them away roughly. "So I ended it. I knew he'd never walk away on his own, so I had to make him." She stops and meets his eyes across the living room. "I told him I didn't love him anymore. That I wasn't sure I ever did."

"Oh, God," Drake whispers and feels a coldness seep into his chest.

But she keeps going. "I told him I knew the truth about him, about how he was in love with you and always had been. I told him I wanted a divorce and if he didn't give me one, I was going to tell you everything. And then it would all be over. Everything would be ruined."

"Mindy," Drake whispers, shaking his head. "Stop."

But she's shaking her head fiercely. "I had to make him hate me, don't you see? It was the only way. He never would have walked away otherwise. I was trying to do him a favor."

"A favor," Drake repeats absently.

"Except it all went so wrong," she says and the tears once again fall down her face. "I've never seen him look the way he did that night. Like he'd just seen someone die right in front of him. Like his life had just ended. Something broke inside of him, Drake. I saw it in his eyes. And when he walked out the door, I should've stopped him. But I didn't. I didn't. I just wanted to set him free, and now he's–" She stops herself then by pressing her hand over her mouth and shaking her head.

Drake's trembling now, all over, and he's looking at her, but he doesn't see her. He sees Josh behind the wheel, purposely unbuckling his seat belt, pressing his foot down on the accelerator as the wall fast approaches through the windshield. He sees him let go of the wheel and close his eyes. The sound of the impact inside his head makes Drake jump, jolting him back to the present.

Mindy's crying, sobbing into her hands, and he wants to hate her, but he can't. Hating her is so fucking pointless. He says to her, "He's gonna be alright," because there's nothing else he can say and because saying it helps him believe it.

She looks at him and they stare at each other until her breathing returns nearly to normal. "I'm leaving him, Drake," she says then, the words falling from her lips like stones. "He's in a coma and I'm leaving him."

Drake doesn't know what to say to that.

By Week Four, Drake has moved temporarily back into his and Josh's old room to be closer to the hospital. His apartment is on the other side of town and the daily commute was costing him too much time and money.

Josh looks more like Josh, Drake thinks. It amazes him how the body continues working without a person even being aware of it, as evidenced by the stubble on Josh's face and the little sprouts of hair breaking out all over his scalp, helping to cover the ugly red scars crisscrossing the pale skin.

There's a nurse's aide, Amanda, who works the morning shift and who's in charge of Josh's personal hygiene. When she first started coming in to give Josh his sponge baths and to gently shave the hair from his face, Drake would leave, embarrassed by the display, yes, but mostly because he couldn't stand to see his brother so helpless. But then one day Amanda tells him he can stay if he wants to and so he does, not because he really wants to see, but because he needs to be close to Josh.

His parents and Megan reluctantly go back to work, back to the daily routine of their lives because that's what you do; you go on. But Drake, whose life has always been the least rigid, the least limited by constraints, chooses to change his life to fit Josh's. After he's burned through all his vacation time, he tells his boss he's taking a leave of absence without pay, even if that means he gets fired. He also cancels all his gigs until Josh gets better – which may be never, but Drake doesn't let himself believe it.

There's a new girl this morning and Drake dislikes her the second she bursts unceremoniously through the door of Josh's room with a blue plastic basin in one hand and a sponge in the other. When he asks her where Amanda is, she says simply, "New schedule," and plops the pail down on the stand by Josh's bed so carelessly, water sloshes over the side. When she tugs at Josh's arm, jerking him slightly, Drake stands up and grips her wrist across the bed.

"Get out," he tells her and holds her wide-eyed gaze unwaveringly.

"Excuse me?"

"You fucking touch him again and I'll break your goddamn wrist," he replies through his teeth, squeezing his fingers around the wrist in question as if to prove his point.

She flushes and slams the sponge petulantly into the basin, then tugs hard on her arm. But she puts too much energy behind it because when Drake loosens his grip, she stumbles two steps back. "I'm getting the nurse," she says acidly, stalking to the door.

"You do that," he calls after her, then turns to look at Josh, who's lying there as unresponsive as ever.

It makes Drake want to scream and he blinks against the sudden sting of tears behind his eyes. Taking a breath, he regains his composure and sighs away his growing frustration. "I guess it's just you and me, huh?" he asks into the air, liking the way that sounds.

He walks around the bed and reaches into the basin, grabbing the sponge and squeezing it out. The water is warm as it runs between his fingers and he's just about to push the sleeve of Josh's hospital gown out of the way when the door bursts open.

"See?" he hears The Bitch say. "He shoved me out of the way."

Drake turns to the door, sponge still in hand, and meets the eyes of Rita, Josh's day nurse. She's a plump woman with teddy bear scrubs and a sharp wit who laughs unabashedly at every dirty joke Drake tells her. She smiles at him and nods imperceptibly. Then she turns back to the red-faced nurse's aide with the same placid expression and says, "It looks to me like he's in good hands," ushering her out the door.

When the door closes softly behind them, Drake turns back to Josh. "Now, don't get used to this," he says, smiling to himself as he pushes Josh's sleeve up to his shoulder. "And don't get any ideas." He transfers the sponge to his right hand and grips Josh's arm gently in his left, trying not to notice just how thin it feels against his palm. Despite the daily exercises Rick, the physical therapist, puts him through, it still feels like Josh is wasting away and Drake pushes away the thought by talking to him.

"Remember that time you had to have surgery on your foot and I pretended to be a doctor in order to impress this really hot nurse?" He laughs, then grimaces slightly, 'cause of all the stories to pop into his mind, it has to be the hospital one. But it's a good story, so he continues. "You were so nervous about the surgery that you actually thought I was a doctor when I first walked into your room." He slides the sponge carefully down the length of Josh's arm, all the way to his wrist. Then he brings the sponge back to Josh's shoulder. "Who would've thought I'd be mistaken for some famous doctor and be expected to perform actual surgery?" He continues sponging Josh's arm in long, careful strokes until every square inch of skin has been cleaned.

Dipping the sponge into the basin, he squeezes it out and gently picks up Josh's hand, laying his palm flat against his own, Josh's long fingers brushing his wrist. "As usual, you came to my rescue." He laughed again. "What was it you called yourself? Some sort of food, I think. And that accent of yours was terrible." He shakes his head at the memory.

" 'I kissed your wife,' " Drake mimics, then squeezes his fingers around Josh's and sees Mindy's face behind his eyes. He hasn't told Josh about Mindy yet, hasn't wanted to, but the words spill from his mouth before he can stop them. "Mindy's gone, Josh. She just couldn't handle it. Not after everything," he says, surprised he's taking up for her. "I'm sorry." After a moment, he snaps back to reality and sponges the rest of Josh's hand, flipping it over to sponge his palm and between his long fingers.

"Vichyssois," Drake says a minute later, Josh's impromptu alias finally making its way to the front of his mind. "Dr. Vichyssois." He shakes his head, smiling as he refreshes the sponge and moves to the other side of the bed to work on Josh's other arm. "What a stupid name." Then he bobs his head like Josh has just said something. "I know, I know. Jefferson Steelflex was a stupid name, too. But at least it had porn star potential." He laughs again, then picks up the thread of the story. "My wrist still makes that weird popping noise, you know." He makes short work of Josh's right arm, since the bottom half is still encased in a cast.

He chatters away until he's done and from that day on, the whole routine becomes his new job.

Two days into Week Five, Josh opens his eyes. But the excitement is short-lived as it becomes clear he's not really conscious. It's more of an involuntary muscle reaction, according to the doctor, and soon Josh's eyes close again and stay that way.

Drake locks himself in the last stall of the men's room to cry so Josh won't hear him.

Halfway through Week Six, Megan tells him the doctor wants to move Josh to a care facility across town. He's healing nicely (if you don't count the coma, Drake thinks), he's breathing on his own, and frankly, he no longer needs intensive care, Dr. Amuso informs them.

"So you're just gonna ship him off somewhere and forget all about him, is that it?" Drake asks, feeling indignation warm his face.

"We've done all we can for your brother," Dr. Amuso says in what Drake considers his I'm-the-doctor-and-I-know-what's-best voice. "They'll take good care of him there, I assure you."

"You just don't want him taking up space here, do you? Not when there are so many more interesting cases you could be treating," Drake says and feels his mom's hand close around his arm. "What if something happens? What if there's an emergency, like he stops breathing or something?"

"They are fully equipped to handle emergencies, Drake. They have a highly trained and qualified medical staff," Dr. Amuso says.

But Drake can't get the picture out of his head of a filthy, roach-infested room with chipped paint and rat shit in the corners.

He loses the argument, of course, and he insists on riding in the ambulance that takes Josh to the new facility. It's a nice place, Drake discovers, with bright, cheerful paint and not a rat dropping in sight.

It's not long before he falls back into his routine – charming the nurses and asking questions about this and that, wanting to learn as much as possible. He knows more about IVs, catheters, feeding tubes, and muscle atrophy than he ever thought he would in a million years, but he likes to think Josh would be proud of him for trying so hard. Mostly, though, he watches over Josh, sitting in the cushy chair next to his bed and reading the newspaper to him or playing Josh's favorite songs on his acoustic guitar, his fingers plucking the strings for hours until he nearly falls asleep.

Week Eight, Drake finally abandons all pretense, and when one of the members of the Bloom Brigade – a group of senior volunteers who bring flowers to the facility every Monday – walks into Josh's room carrying a vase full of chrysanthemums and asks him how long he and Josh have been together, Drake answers truthfully: sixteen years.

Three days into Week Nine, Drake is holding Josh against his chest, Josh's head resting against his shoulder, as he gently sponges Josh's back. Josh's gown is peeled down to his waist and his skin feels soft and warm beneath Drake's palm as he holds Josh in place. It's just like every other day, but today it suddenly strikes Drake just how sharp Josh's bones look beneath his skin – the twin protrusions of his shoulder blades, the knobby trail of his spine, the curvature of his ribs – and a harsh sob escapes involuntarily from his throat. He lets the sponge fall to the bed and wraps both arms tightly around Josh, burying his face in the curve of Josh's neck, feeling the soft almost-curls of Josh's dark hair against his cheek.

"I love you," he whispers. "Please come back to me." He holds on tight until he hears Josh gasp for breath, then he lays him gently against the pillows and brushes his lips across Josh's stubbly cheek.

Five days into Week Nine, Drake's dozing along the edge of Josh's bed when he hears Josh cough softly. That's the first time he's heard that sound in weeks and he's not really sure he's actually heard it now, except that Josh does it again a few seconds later and Drake not only hears it this time, he sees it, too.

Drake stands up, his heart thudding against his chest, and lays his hands flat against Josh's chest, which spasms again with another slight cough.

"Josh," he says, but his excitement steals his breath and the name is no more than a whisper.

After a moment, Josh's eyelids flutter open, and he blinks into Drake's face. Drake holds his breath, trying not to get his hopes up – after all, this is what happened the last time he opened his eyes – and watches as Josh's pupils gradually adjust to the light and his hazel eyes finally seem to focus.

"Hey," Drake says softly, beaming as he touches Josh's face, letting his fingers trail through Josh's hair.

Josh blinks up at him and then his eyelids droop nearly closed again and for a second, Drake thinks it's another false alarm. He grasps Josh's gown tightly in both fists as if he can physically drag Josh back into reality, as if he can keep him from falling once again into the abyss. "No," he says, his voice choked. "Don't go. I need you." He presses his forehead to Josh's and closes his eyes. "Stay with me, Josh," he whispers.

He feels a slight pressure against his right hip and looks down to see Josh's hand resting lightly against his jeans, the tips of his first two fingers just brushing the bare skin where Drake's t-shirt has ridden up. A wave of relief so strong it knocks his knees out from under him washes over him and he collapses into the chair, resting his head along the edge of the bed. He's still gripping Josh's gown in both fists, holding on for dear life as all the pent-up fear and anxiety, all the hopelessness he hasn't allowed himself to feel over the last nine weeks drain out of him.

He feels a shaky hand against his hair and he looks up, hiccupping. Josh is looking at him with clear, focused eyes. "Don't cry," Josh says, his voice dry and raspy, like dry leaves skimming along a sidewalk.

Drake laughs, taking Josh's hand, and he feels giddy and light-headed and better than he has in longer than he can remember. "Welcome back," he says, letting his fingers slide between Josh's. "We missed you."

Josh looks at him then, his lips working slightly, and Drake sees tears form in his eyes. "I'm sorry," Josh whispers painfully and squeezes Drake's hand as hard as he can, which isn't very hard at all.

"Hey," Drake says, standing and pushing his free hand gently through Josh's hair. "No need to apologize. Just get better." Then he smiles and leans in, pressing his lips to Josh's ear. "But if you try that again, I'll kill you," he whispers.

The scrape of soft stubble against his cheek tells him Josh is smiling.

The End

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