Note: I don't own Four Brothers, the theme to Golden Girls, or the dialogue from Stand By Me. This story is dedicated to Amber, who is Steve's biggest fangirl. If you don't know who Steve is, I introduced him in Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk. So this is just a one shot about Steve visiting Jack in the hospital and it jumps around to different moments in their friendship.

Down the Road and Back Again

I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve.

Jesus, does anyone?

Steve was getting really good at pacing. Pacing and avoiding Bobby Mercer. That guy was scary and not in the abstract "man, that dude looks mean" kind of way – no he was scary in the "he would shoot you twice without even thinking and plug you a third time between the eyes just to make certain you weren't getting up" kind of way. In fact, right at that very moment, he was glaring at Steve from the chair he was sitting in clear across the waiting room in a way that made Steve wish there was a wall of bullet proof glass separating them. Jack's other brothers looked beat – beat and sad - but Bobby just looked pissed.

"Who told you to come here?" Bobby asked, scowl firmly in place, his voice as harsh and cold as Steve remembered it.

He gulped and opened his mouth to answer. "I called him," Jerry's wife interrupted before he could force the words out. She was holding one of her kids, the little girl asleep on her shoulder. "Jack needs his friends just as much as he needs his family."

Bobby narrowed his eyes. "Are you that twerp I used to hang from the coat rack?"

Angel snorted a laugh and Jerry sighed. Steve wished he'd found religion at some point in his life so he wouldn't feel so strange just waiting in the hospital chapel.

He still couldn't piece together what happened. It didn't make any sense. Jack got a call late one night and rushed home because his mom died. A week later, Steve was getting a call that Jack was shot and might not make it. What kind of surreal world were they living in?

XxXxXxXxXx

"Lucy, I'm home!" Steve cracked in his best Ricky Ricardo impression, that is to say he sounded more Russian than anything, but Jack usually laughed at it anyway. He shut the door behind him, wondering why the lights were off – it was only midnight and that was typically the time his roommate decided to wake up and interact with the rest of humanity. That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but Steve was pretty sure Jack had no idea what a sunrise looked like.

He flicked on the switch by the door, bathing the apartment in the sickly yellow light that the ancient light fixture in the ceiling emitted. If there was a stereotypical, starving artist New York City apartment, he and Jack were living in it. Basically, they were paying a small fortune to live in a cluster of tiny closets they crammed a couple of beds and a couch into and it included something the landlord claimed was running water but bore a closer resemblance to sludge.

Steve was about to drop the mail he was carrying – mostly bills and Chinese take-out menus - onto the battle-scarred coffee table when he realized Jack was sitting on the couch, staring straight ahead, not blinking, creepy as all get out. His hands were shaking and he was having trouble breathing. Steve stared at him, not sure what to do, how to react. Should he help? Should he panic? Should he crack a joke?

"Um," he said lamely. "Dude, you okay?"

But it was like Jack hadn't heard him. He got up and started rummaging through the apartment, desperate to find something.

"Cigarettes," Jack muttered, opening the end table drawer and then slamming it shut, the lamp on top rocking back and forth, threatening to topple onto the floor. "Why can't I ever find my fucking cigarettes?" The last word was strangled, like he was on the verge of tears.

Steve fished nervously into his jacket pocket. He always kept a spare pack in case one of the guys in the band ran low because, as their manager, one of his lame ass duties was making sure their nicotine fits never lasted too long. He held out the pack of Marlboros and Jack grabbed it from him, pulling a cigarette out like his life depended on it. He shoved it between his lips and took his silver lighter out of his pocket. He fumbled with it, his hands shaking so badly that Steve was afraid he'd drop the flaming lighter on the floor and set the whole shitty apartment on fire.

Steve was about to grab the lighter himself, when Jack crumbled the Marlboro pack and threw it on the coffee table. He tore the cigarette out of his mouth and broke it in half, the tobacco inside drifting to the floor, frustration hitching in his chest.

"Fuck. Goddamnit. Fuck." Jack sank to the floor, his back against the couch. Steve just watched, feeling useless. Jack still had his lighter and he flicked it open, staring at the flame, his eyes glassy in the firelight. He closed it again and Steve let out a rush of air.

"Jack, um …" Steve started, grasping for something, anything to say. "You okay? You killed those cigarettes, man."

Jack closed his eyes and let his head drop, his chin hitting his chest. When he looked back up, his eyes were red and there were tears running down his face.

"What happened?" Steve asked, dreading the answer.

Jack took a deep breath and closed his eyes, like shutting out the world would make it all go away. "My mom."

XxXxXxXxXx

Evelyn eyed them dubiously and Steve nervously shifted on the hard metal bench he and Jack were sitting on. She raised one eyebrow and he suddenly felt like confessing to every stupid thing he and Jack had ever done, even ones they had only thought of doing, but never followed through on.

"I didn't do it!" he blurted out and Jack groaned.

"Didn't do what, Steven?" Evelyn asked evenly.

"Um …" His palms started to sweat and he itched to wipe them on his corduroys, but that would be a dead giveaway that he was guilty.

"Nothin', ma. We didn't do nothin'." Jack leaned forward, as far as the handcuffs latched to the bench would allow. Jack's eyes got big and he did that innocent puppy dog look thing his mom loved. "I swear. We were … um …"

"Set up! Yeah, we were set up." Steve felt a wave of relief washed over him. She'd buy that - it made perfect sense. Who would believe a couple of thirteen year olds would be arrested for –

"Breaking and entering. From Pop's convenience store, which was closed because Pop is on his yearly vacation to Florida." A low voice rumbled from behind them and the cop who caught them stepped up, a file in his hands, a scowl on his face.

"Terrence," Evelyn said with a nod and the cop cleared his throat. "Sorry. Detective Green," she corrected herself and he chuckled softly. "What did they take?"

Steve couldn't get over how matter-of-fact she was about the whole thing, but then again, she was probably used to bailing Bobby out for murder, so this was small potatoes to her. His mom was going to flip when she found out. If he went to prison, she would totally never let him get that Playstation she promised him for Christmas.

Detective Green glanced at the file. "Stole candy and cigarettes. Not very slick. Caught them in the back alley, red handed, actually eating the candy."

Evelyn shook her head. "Jack."

"What?"

"I taught you better than this." She said it so calmly and with so much disappointment that Steve wanted to declare right then and there that he was going to turn his back on his life of crime and never do another bad thing as long as he lived – hell, he was going to start helping old ladies across the street whether they wanted him to or not.

"I taught you better than that too, you dumb shit."

Steve jumped so quickly that he was certain he'd accidentally amputated his hand with the handcuff that dug into his wrist. He'd rather face down a room full of cops than –

"Bobby, I have this under control," Evelyn said, crossing her arms and scowling at Jack's oldest and scariest brother.

"Oh, I know, Ma. Figured I should have a look though. These are the moments that only happen once, ya know." Bobby tilted his head and started ticking off his fingers, one by one. "Jackie's first day of school. Jackie's first date. Jackie's first arrest. Didn't want to miss it."

"You want to go on Jack's first date?" Steve asked suddenly, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them. The dude actually growled at him, and Steve gulped, inching as far back as he could, wincing as the desk they were up against drove splinters into his back.

Bobby stopped murdering Steve with his glare and turned to Jack, who slouched down in his seat, like he was hoping he could disappear. "You know better than to get caught."

"Bobby, that's not the point," Evelyn said with a sigh.

"Kids do stupid shit. Jackie ain't any different." He glanced at Green who shrugged and nodded.

Evelyn shook a finger at the detective. "And that's not helping either."

Steve cleared his throat and raised the hand that wasn't shackled to the bench, not sure where his burst of courage came from. "Um …" he forced the words through the lump in his throat. "Are we gonna go to prison?"

"Yeah, twerp. The big house. And they eat little shitheads like you for breakfast." Bobby cackled and Steve blanched, certain he was going to wet his pants, which he hadn't done since he was nine and he snuck downstairs and watched Halloween from behind the couch, even though his dad warned him not to.

"Relax," Jack said, "we ain't going to jail."

Jack's words were still echoing in Steve's ears when the jailhouse door slid shut behind them.

XxXxXxXxXx

"I can't believe your mom let them put us in jail," Steve said with a laugh. "Okay, maybe I do believe it. And it was only for an hour and maybe I was a little premature in marking the days off on the wall, but man, that was not a good day."

Jack didn't answer. He hadn't answered for the last hour that Steve had rambled at him. He was in a coma and not doing so hot.

Steve usually excelled at talking, but it was much easier when someone talked back to him, even if it was to tell him to shut the hell up.

Jack's brothers were off doing stuff Steve would rather not know about. They didn't tell him – barely acknowledged his existence - and he was fine with that. His imagination was fairly creative, but he doubted it came anywhere near conjuring up what they were actually planning on doing. So that left him to watch over Jack. He'd been in to see him every day for the past week, but this was the first stretch of time that lasted for more than a few minutes.

Despite growing up in big, bad Detroit, Steve never knew anyone who had been shot before. His Detroit was typical suburban America – two car garage, kid brother who ate paste, parents who scolded him for tracking mud in the house, and friends who liked to sneak porn and considered comic books to be great works of literature. Sure, the gangs were there, the guys in the halls at school who you made sure to avoid at all costs. And when you were older, the same guys who you met around the corner when you finally gave in and decided to try a hit or two – a decision that left you in your underwear on the roof, signing ABBA songs into your little brother's clarinet.

But for the most part, it was like Steve lived in a bubble where the guns and violence and drive-by shootings were on TV, not laying in a hospital bed a foot from where he sat – talk about your reality checks.

"Jack, man, this is so screwed up," he said under his breath, leaning forward in his chair, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, hoping to erase the scene before him. He knew Jack had been through some heavy shit when he was a kid. Steve knew all the rumors and he knew they weren't true, but he never bugged Jack about them, never asked him what really happened. Sometimes, he figured, being a friend was knowing when not to ask the really tough questions.

Steve heard voices down the hall and he sat up wearily, not really in the mood to see Jack's brothers. They made him feel about as welcome as a guy dressed up as Darth Vader at a Star Trek convention.

"Gotta go, man. Try to get some rest," he added lamely as he pulled on his coat in a rush to leave the room. His jokes sucked – that was how he knew he was worried as hell.

Bobby, Angel and Jerry pushed their way past him when he got to the doorway. They didn't even acknowledge his existence and he was just fine with that.

XxXxXxXxXx

Steve couldn't stop staring. He knew should probably blink at some point, that it was physically impossible to never blink again in his life, but his eyelids refused to obey.

"Dude," he said, not taking his eyes off the car.

"I know," Jack said, standing next to him, still as a statue.

"You're dead."

"Dude, we're both dead."

"I know."

Jack took a deep breath and stepped forward, examining the damage. "Maybe he won't notice."

"There's freaking hole in the hood of his freaking car. My blind grandma would notice that," Steve said with a groan as he collapsed onto the sidewalk, hanging his head in misery. "I knew we shouldn't have taken the car. I knew something awful was going to happen."

"That's not what you said when you came up with the brilliant idea to borrow it." Jack gave him a what-the-hell look over his shoulder as he reached out to prod the giant hole and massive dent now decorating the hood of Bobby Mercer's most prized possession – his 1979 Chrysler LeBaron that Jack joked Bobby loved almost as much as he loved their mother.

"I didn't think you'd actually listen to me," Steve lied. He knew exactly what he was doing when he told Jack they should borrow Bobby's car that night to crash Ashley Parker's party. The whole school was invited – well, the whole school minus the band geeks, the math nerds, the kids who still carried lunchboxes to school, and Jack and Steve. Yep, basically everyone but the losers and them. At fifteen, nothing was a bigger blow to a guy's ego than not being invited to a party literally everyone else in school was going to.

They decided to go anyway. Only problem was, they had no way to get there. Steve's parents were out, Evelyn had a late night at work, and Jack's brother, Jerry, was nowhere to be found. So they were essentially stranded on a Friday night – no car, no girls, no life. Steve figured he should just get his mom to take him to Walmart so he can pick out a kickass Batman lunchbox and stick a fork in his whole high school career because he was done.

Just as things looked their bleakest was when Steve got the brilliant idea of borrowing Bobby's car. It was parked out front, like it had been for the past two months since Jack's brother left for parts unknown. It was basically like he'd abandoned it. And two months without being driven - well, everyone knows that's bad for a car's engine. You got to take it for a spin every once in a while. So Steve's suggestion would actually be like a favor.

He didn't even have to lay it on that thick for Jack to agree. He got his learner's permit a couple of weeks ago and Evelyn had let him practice in her minivan a few times already. Jack was convinced he was an expert, and since Steve's only brush with driving was accidentally disengaging the parking brake when he was eleven while digging around his mom's seat for the green Power Ranger he'd lost, he figured Jack knew what he was talking about.

Within minutes, Jack had the keys and they were on the road. Approximately ten minutes later, they were parked haphazardly by the side of the road, thankful to be alive after Jack hit the gas instead of the brake and drove the car up under the back of a delivery truck stopped in front of them at a red light. Steve was certain the whole front of the car would be gone and was shocked to only see the hole punched into it from the jack the truck had sticking out of its bumper. Shocked turned to horror as he realized they were going to have to get the car back home and at some point in time face the wrath of Bobby Mercer.

"What are we going to do?" he asked for the hundredth time since the whole thing happened.

"I got an idea," Jack said, rubbing his hands together. The car was parked in front of a row of shops and Jack nodded toward the hardware store. "Be right back. Don't let anyone steal the car."

He was back in a hurry. "Quick, get in the car," he ordered as he made his way to the driver's side, a weird lump in his jacket.

An old man appeared in the doorway of the shop, out of breath and red in the face. "You stupid punk!"

Steve quickly opened the door, grinning despite himself. He'd never been in a car chase before and a brief image of them barreling down the street in their borrowed car with the entire Detroit police force in close pursuit flashed in his mind and he felt a rush of nervous adrenaline.

They reached Jack's house without getting arrested or hitting anything. Steve wanted to fall to his knees and kiss the pavement as soon as he opened the car door, but tried to act nonchalant instead.

"Dude, that was wicked," he said as he got out of the car.

"Maybe." Jack shrugged and then grinned. "Okay, maybe a little"

"So what's this brilliant plan?"

Jack reached into his leather jacket and pulled two paint cans, handing one to Steve and keeping one for himself.

"Uh … I got a bad feeling about this," Steve said as he shook the can.

Jack popped the lid off of his. "It'll work. Trust me."

Ten minutes later and Jack surveyed their work, narrowing his eyes. Steve tilted his head and looked at the finished product. He was pretty proud of it, if he didn't say so himself.

Jack had found a cinderblock that could have easily been punched into the hood by some big guy who was pissed off at Bobby, and he left it laying in pieces on top of the dent. Steve worked on the more artistic side of the project, spray painting "FUCK YOU, MERCER! ! !" across the hood.

"You used a comma," Jack observed, his voice oddly flat.

"Yeah."

"And three exclamation points."

"So?"

"Gangs don't use commas and three exclamation points."

"Well, they don't use pink paint, either," Steve pointed out, holding up the can Jack had grabbed from the hardware store.

"Whatever, man."

XxXxXxXxXx

He got to the hospital early and stood at the entrance, the doors opening and closing, waiting for him to make up his mind. He'd been through those doors so many times in the last few weeks, but somehow on that day he just couldn't do it. He wasn't physically able to go back into that hospital for another round of bleak silence and bad coffee.

He decided a walk would help clear his mind, help break him out of the near panic he felt looking at those doors sliding open and shut. It was cold, like it always was in December in Detroit. It never mattered how many layers you had on, the cold cut straight through to the bone. Stuffing his hands as deep into his pockets as he could, he hunched his shoulders and walked around to the side entrance of the hospital.

He skidded to a halt when he saw Bobby Mercer sitting alone on a bench, his head hanging low. Steve could see from where he was standing that Bobby's back was shaking, like he was crying, and he felt his heart sink. Maybe something had happened while he'd been gone, spending the night at his parents' home. That something awful they'd all been afraid to say, to admit was only a matter of time. Jack wasn't getting better. Maybe the fact he knew it was time to say goodbye was keeping Steve from stepping foot inside that building today. Like if he didn't say it, Jack would hang on and surprise them all.

He took a step back, not wanting Bobby to know he was there, hoping like hell he wouldn't have to talk to the guy. His luck sucked, though, and he stepped on a twig that snapped so loudly Steve almost ducked in fear that someone was shooting at him.

Wiping his eyes with his gloved hands, Bobby turned and looked over his shoulder. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Sorry. I didn't … um …" Steve stumbled for the words he didn't want to say. "Did Jack … is he …"

Bobby frowned, confused. "Is he what? He's awake."

Steve felt the air rush from his chest. "What?"

"Are you fucking deaf? He's awake."

Steve felt like he was wading through cement, like the world had slowed to a stop. He shook his head to clear it."I thought …"

"The docs are in with him now, running tests and stuff." Bobby grinned, but his eyes were glassy. "They kicked me out."

Without asking for permission, Steve took a seat on the bench. "He's really okay?"

Bobby shrugged. "Define 'okay'. He got pissed at me for calling him a fairy."

Steve laughed. "He's okay."

"Stan," Bobby started.

"Steve."

"What?"

"Steve, my name is Steve." Steve suddenly realized he should have stuck with Stan.

Bobby gave him a steady look. "Do I look like I give a fuck?" Steve shook his head slowly.

"Anyway, Steve, if you tell anyone this, I will cut off your dick with a butter knife - but I'm glad you're here for Jack."

Steve just nodded. What do you say to a guy who threatened you with castration by silverware? Thank you?

"You're a good kid, even if you was always a bit of a pussy."

"Um … thanks?" Steve was thinking the bad coffee in the hospital cafeteria was sounding better by the millisecond.

"Jack didn't have a lot of good kids in his life. None of us really did." Bobby stopped for a second, looking out over the full parking lot. He took a deep breath. "Anyway, Ma always liked you."

Steve nodded, not sure what to say.

Bobby clapped his hands together suddenly. "And now that I got you here – I got a question for you." A million things ran through Steve's brain. What could this guy possibly ask him about? Just how did it feel to dangle from the coat rack? Were briefs or boxers more excruciating during an atomic wedgie? Did you prefer to have your milk money stolen before or after getting your head dunked in the toilet?

"What the fuck happened to my car?"

"What?" Okay, that wasn't what Steve was expecting.

"My car. The LeBaron. I know you and Jackiepoo had something to do with that."

"It was … uh … a gang. I thought. That was what Jack said." Steve had suddenly become the world's worst liar, but he really couldn't think fast on his feet while freezing to death and trying to think up an excuse for something that had happened six years ago.

"Gang my ass."

"How did you know?"

"Exclamation points? Seriously? How fucking stupid did you guys think I was?"

XxXxXxXxXx

"Your brother is still scary. Like Hannibal Lecter scary," Steve said around a mouthful of pudding.

Jack dug into his own cup with a spoon and grinned. "Yeah, I know."

"This pudding is good."

"Tell me about it. Only good thing about this whole stupid place," Jack said, shaking his head. "I want out." He pushed the food tray away and leaned back into his pillows, staring up at the white ceiling. Jack had been awake for a week and he was bored out of his mind. Steve tried his best to keep him occupied, but he was running out of stories to reminisce about and now he was getting seriously addicted to All My Children and The View. And pudding.

"You might want to stick around here a little while longer," Steve said, trying to keep a straight face.

Jack threw the empty pudding cup at his head and Steve ducked. "That's not even funny, man."

"Bobby knows about the car," Steve said gravely and Jack groaned.

"Shit."

"Exactly."