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The last thing I want to do right now is back off. To retreat and let Sam and his slut get back to doing whatever it is they were going to do. My instincts tell me to prevent it in any way humanly possible. But I know I am drunk, and I make the choice to trust the judgment of my sober friend.

With the rush of my deep exhale, Carl senses me waver and firms her grip marginally, and the moment I register the moisture in my eyes, I give in. I allow Carl to tug me away from the source of the drama and into the bathroom, painfully aware of the muttered expletives and heated exchanges left in my wake.

Carl, Tina, and Lily watch me warily in the bathroom as I try to catch my breath, and my confused vodka-brain tries to work out if I'm more angry or upset. The truth is I am a dangerous mixture of both.

"You're going to regret that tomorrow," Carl warns me. "What were you thinking, Rory?"

But Tina answers for me. "She was thinking that that whore was hitting on Cap five feet away from her,
duh
."

Carl is the only sober one, and she's outnumbered. None of us are interested in the voice of reason right now. We're running on booze and emotion instead, me most of all.

"Well two can play that game, right? That super hot bartender has been staring at Rory all night," Lily says conspiratorially.

And I'm instantly inspired. Two absolutely
can
play that game.

I grab some tissues and wipe the bit of moisture that escaped the confines of my eyelids, fixing the makeup it smudged. Fortunately there isn't much since I'm only wearing some mascara. I ask to borrow Lily's lip-gloss and she watches as I put it on, her eyes alight with mischief. Carl's are full of concern, but she doesn't voice it. I take a few deep breaths, muster some false confidence, and make my way back to the bar.

We each order new drinks, except of course for Carl, and this time, I offer the bartender a sugary smile. Out of the corner of my eye I see that Sam's booth is mostly empty now. Only Tucker and Sam are still seated, while Tuck talks in hushed tones and Sam seems to chug as much beer as he can in as little time as he can. The hot slutty girls, including the one who had been flirting with Sam, are gone, and a quick survey of the small bar reveals that they've moved on to a group of hipster looking guys in the far corner.

A wave of relief rolls through me. But it doesn't change my plans. I am fueled by vodka, bitterness and resentment, and I need this distraction.

The bartender is receptive to my new friendly demeanor and he starts chatting me up about different types of patrons and their preferred drinks. I struggle to feign interest. I couldn't care less. Even though the bartender—who has definitely told me his name even though I can't for the life of me recall it—is pretty damn handsome. I find myself barely registering the conversation, and instead, I draw silent comparisons between his features, and the far superior ones belonging to Sam. Bartender guy has blue eyes too, but they're dull. They are missing that depth, that shimmer, that Sam's have. They don't have his impossible ability to see right through me.

Bartender guy also has what I'd call a baby face. Soft looking cheeks, without Sam's rugged bone structure, or the definition in his jaw. When he gets called away to serve drinks at the other end of the bar, I'm relieved. My plan isn't working. My heart just isn't in it.

I turn around to find myself staring at the friendly face of Dave. I sigh in defeat.

Dave nods in the direction of the bartender. "Seems you've got a fan, Pine."

I shrug. I can tell Dave is holding back. Certainly he's wondering about my outburst, but he has the decency not to ask me about it.

"You got a cigarette for me?" I ask.

Dave smirks, like he knows exactly how badly I could use a cigarette right now. He pats his pockets and comes up empty. I follow his gaze to the one booth in the bar I don't want to go anywhere near. At least not again. Dave smiles apologetically.

"They're in my jacket pocket. I'll go grab them, wait here," he says, and I nod.

Dave turns to go push his way through the faceless bodies, in no rush, obviously hesitant to interrupt whatever conversation is currently underway between Sam and Tuck.

"I got one for you, sexy," a low, unfamiliar New York accent slurs. I turn into the tall stranger that must have overheard my exchange with Dave. I don't say anything, but the drunk stranger is already producing a cigarette from his pack of Marlboro Lights.

I accept it with a murmured "thanks", and then turn back to Dave to see if I could get his attention to let him know I have one. But he's still looking for a safe way to interrupt a heated, beer pounding Sam and a seemingly reproachful Tuck to get to his jacket.

"Why don't you join me outside to enjoy it?" Drunk Stranger offers. I hadn't even realized he was still there.

"Um, no thanks. I'm waiting for my friend," I reply. I know Dave will keep me company while I smoke, even if he doesn't want one himself.

"Friend, huh? Not a boyfriend?" Drunk Stranger persists, and I vaguely shake my head. In my mind I'm laughing hysterically at the suggestion that Dave could be my boyfriend, but on the outside, I'm too uncomfortable to be anything but awkward. "Well in that case, I'm sure I'll be better company than he will." Drunk Stranger smirks suggestively and I practically cringe. I take a step back, but he advances, presumptuously infringing on my personal space and putting me immediately on edge.

"Um, no thanks. But thank you for the cigarette," I force out, but he's not taking the hint. Instead, he reaches out and fingers a lock of my hair, and I turn away from his touch.

"Don't." My voice is barely more than a whisper, and I don't know why I'm not being more forceful with my rejection.

Instead of backing off, Drunk Stranger's smile falls away and he seems put out. Like I've done something to offend him.

"Just come outside with me and smoke the fucking cigarette I gave you."

My eyes go wide. His fingers close around my wrist and pull to lead me outside and I gasp, my feet planting themselves firmly in my spot, digging my heels into the sticky floor. I want to shout that I'm not going anywhere with him, but I'm too drunk, and too surprised by his nerve to articulate my thoughts.

I yank my arm away and he lets go, seemingly surprised.

And then he's gone.

He didn't leave, he was just right in front of me—practically on top of me—one minute, and the next, he's flown several feet away. It takes a moment to register that the movement came from the force of Sam's fist flying into Drunk Stranger's jaw, the blow sending him half across the bar.

My jaw drops. I hadn't even seen Sam leave his booth.

Sam makes to jump on Drunk Stranger, to do even more damage, but Tuck and Dave are instantly there, holding Sam back, trying to talk him down. I can do nothing more than look on in horror. Sam is enraged, his restraints only exacerbating his fury, and his eyes dart from side to side, reflecting betrayal at his friends who are preventing him from going after Drunk Stranger.

Drunk Stranger stands, takes a moment to shoot me a dirty glare, and then spits blood onto the floor.

"Fucking touch her again, motherfucker! I fucking
dare
you!" Sam roars, and I flinch back at the wrath in his words.

Suddenly Sam's gaze swings to me and it morphs, his rage draining, replaced by horror. His fury fades as he gets ahold of himself and Drunk Stranger, now flanked by two of his friends, walks off into the bathroom muttering a barely intelligible rant about stupid frigid bitches and crazy Long Island assholes.

Sam rolls his shoulders, and Dave and Tuck cautiously release their hold. Sam is breathing hard, and he staggers a bit on his feet.

"Your friend needs to leave," bartender guy says softly to me. I look back at him, and then back to Sam. He must have balls of steel to tell Sam he has to go right now, even politely.

"No fucking problem," Sam spits bitterly, and then turns on his heel, stumbling slightly, and heads to the exit.

I am frozen in shock for one more moment before I make to go after him.

"Uh, Pine, you should say in here," Dave advises. Tucker nods in agreement, looking at me with such sympathy I wonder if Sam is more than just pissed at me, if he really just hates me now.

But he's drunk and upset, and what he thinks of me can't matter right now. He needs someone to look out for him. "I'm just gonna make sure he's okay," I mumble.

"We'll go," Tuck offers, but I shake my head adamantly. I need to see he's okay with my own eyes. Tuck sighs and shrugs, and I run on toward the exit, after Sam.

I find him two storefronts down in front of a closed pizza restaurant. He turns his back to me when he sees me, and it makes me hesitate. His shoulders heave, and I know he's trying to get ahold of himself, but I don't care. He can hate me all he wants, but I know he won't hurt me. I'm not afraid of him. I could never be afraid of him.

I don't say anything when I reach him, nor do I touch him. But he senses me, and turns around to face me.

"
What
, Rory? What do you want?" Sam stabs me in the gut with each bitter word.

"I... I just wanna make sure you're alright," I murmur.

Sam lets out a short, sardonic laugh. "You sure you want to be out here alone with me? I don't want to
scare
you." But his words are not earnest. They are accusatory.

"What are you talking about, Sam?"

And then he lets me have it. "What am I talking about?! You
know
what the fuck I'm talking about! What, am I
him
now? I shout at some prick and you cower like I'm going to
what?
Fucking deck you next?!"

He thinks that I think he's like Robin?

I shake my head fervently. "That's crazy! I didn't cower. I don't think you would—"

"You flinched!" He bellows.

I blink at him. I did flinch, but not out of fear of Sam. The truth is that in that tense moment I didn't know what was about to happen. What Drunk Stranger Asshole was going to do next, what he was capable of.

"I—" I try to defend myself, to explain myself, but Sam isn't having it.

"You fucking
flinched
away from me, Rory! Like you thought I might hit you!"

Bullshit
. I
never
thought Sam would hit me. Not for a single moment. "I'm sorry I flinched, Sam, but you know what? Not everything is about
you!
" I cut myself off and take a deep breath. "It was just a conditioned, natural reaction to a raised voice. And it wasn't directed at you."

Sam's anger deflates, but there is no relief. "Except I don't know if that's completely true. Because the thing is... I'm
not
that different," he says, only the slightest slur to his words, as if although he's drunk, he's just had some sobering moment of clarity.

And I get his meaning. Sam thinks that because he's just done something violent, because he's been violent before, that he deserved my fear. That his violence echoes Robin's, and that of his own father, and that he is thus no better. But,
God
, why can't he see how wrong he is?   

"Sam—" but he interrupts again.

"You know I saw Schall, too, before," he murmurs. "Got into a lot of fights—just like that one." He gestures with his chin back toward the entrance to the bar. "Anger issues, supposedly… and maybe they were right." He scowls in self disgust, "Fuck, Rory, I hit your fucking father! You've seen me lose my shit—on
that motherfucking bastard
, on your dad... now on this dipshit.
That's
why you flinched, b-
Rory
… that's how you see me… apparently, that's what I
do
."

I've been shaking my head through his entire self-recriminating, inebriated rambling, but somehow, I can't find the right words. I hadn't feared him. That's the truth. But he's drunk and practically castigating himself, and I know nothing I say right now will get through to him.

Suddenly sirens sound faintly in the distance and a horde of people starts pushing out of the bar entrance and spilling onto the sidewalk. I recognize our friends and Tucker spots us, gesturing with urgency for us to join him. He rolls his eyes when neither of us moves, whispers something to Carl, and kisses her hard on the mouth before jogging over to where we're standing.

"That douchebag called the cops, we gotta go," Tuck says, and my breath catches in my throat.

The cops?
Shit, Sam could get in trouble. I blanch and grab Sam's bicep, trying to push him to move, to get the hell out of here. But Sam doesn't seem scared, he doesn't seem like he wants to go anywhere at all. Instead his gaze shoots to where my fingers clutch his arm, his brow furrowing in that adorable way that makes my knees buckle for a moment. His glazed, alcohol shrouded midnight blues meet my gaze and look right through me, paralyzing me, and he looks so confused, as if he doesn't know what to make of my obviously desperate concern for him.

"Cap,
now
," Tuck urges, and I retract my hand. Sam rolls his eyes and acquiesces. Carl comes out of nowhere and grabs my hand, pulling me in the direction of her car, but my feet are glued to their spot until I'm satisfied that Sam is leaving with Tuck. He does, glancing back only once to make sure I'm doing the same with Carl, and just like that, the night is over.