Al wasn't the overly mushy type, but if he could have changed one thing, he would have tried harder to keep Sam from going out that night. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked, watching Sam changing his clothes.

Sam looked at from his reflection, that of twenty-five year old Richard Scott, to Al (who simply didn't reflect in mirrors). "I don't have much say in the matter," he replied, shrugging into a paisley shirt. "He has a job."

"You think I don't know that?" Al replied, a little defensively, waving the handlink. "Something about this leap is just—"

"Giving you the creeps," Sam finished, stepping into a pair of drainpipe jeans. "You mentioned that earlier—several times."

"And that feeling hasn't changed," Al said meaningfully.

"Al, I know that," Sam replied. "Look, it's just a few hours tending bar. You talk me through the mixology and it's done."

"And what if that's not it?" Al questioned.

"I'll be fine," Sam insisted. He smiled warmly at Al. "You said it yourself—I know how many kinds of martial arts?"

Al managed a weak, humorless chuckle. Oh yeah, karate, tae kwon do and all that could save you in a tight spot, but what happened on the leap when that wasn't enough?

• • •

The first few hours went quietly, something for which Al and Sam both were very grateful (Al moreso, though he couldn't put a finger on why). Sam took to tending bar quickly, and before long was chatting customers up the way his host would have. He seemed comfortable, given that it was his first day on the leap, which was always the roughest on him. He was in his element. Besides, the Stonewall Inn was a pretty nice place.

Maybe Al was being paranoid, he told himself. Everything was going fine.

"You're doing great, Sam," he complimented, checking the current situation against the data of the handlink.

Sam smiled at the words from where he was sitting on a crate out back of the Stonewall. It was a break well deserved, so far as he cared—no one had seen Cocktail yet, and wouldn't for another twenty years, but that didn't mean he couldn't set a precedent and show off a little. "Thanks."

"Hey." A voice called over from the opposite end of the alley.

Sam and Al turned toward the voice as one, but there was only one person to whom the words were addressed. "Who's there?" Sam asked, sliding off his crate.

Three figures—all male, all of them Sam's height but easily twice his size in terms of sheer muscle—emerged from the darkness. The biggest one was smoking a cigarette, the end glowing red in the darkness. "You work here?" He nodded toward the establishment.

Sam was about to answer that yes, he did work here, when one of the others cut in, "He's a faggot—what do you think?"

Sam winced slightly; just behind him, Al cringed in contact offense and embarrassment. "I'd appreciate it," Sam said as civilly as he could, "if you didn't use that word."

The three men chuckled, the sound almost ominous. "Got a problem, pretty boy?" the third asked.

"I don't want to be called a—" Sam took a moment to swallow, to bring himself to repeat the insult—"a faggot."

"What's the matter, pretty boy?" the first (no doubt the leader by virtue of him being the biggest of the lot) mocked, giving Sam a push backwards. "Can't handle the truth?"

Sam staggered back, but remained on his feet. "Don't touch me," he warned, sounding braver than he felt.

"You're not in a position to be negotiatin', fuckin' faggot," the leader warned, pushing Sam back again.

Sam didn't need to rely on any of his PhDs to know he was outnumbered and had no chance of winning any kind of a fight. "I'm going back to work," he said finally, the words directed just as much at Al as they were his three unwanted visitors. He turned away and started for the back door, and for a minute, everything seemed like it was going to be fine.

Seemed like and actual circumstances were two very different things. One of the three crept up behind Sam, his hand clenched into a fist and raised for a blow. A warning—"Sam, look out!"—had barely left Al's lips when the fist made contact with the back of Sam's head. The sound the contact, as well as the sound of Sam's body hitting the ground, made was enough to make a normal person sick. As the two lackeys hauled a struggling Sam to his feet, grabbing him tightly by the arms and holding him between them, Al started to suspect they weren't dealing with normal people.

The leader stepped up to Sam, trailing a finger down his jawline. "How about I wreck that pretty little face of yours, faggot?"

"Leave me the hell alone," Sam ground out, struggling against his restraints.

Without warning, a fist was powered into his gut. "Don't start shit with me."

"Sam, are you alright?" Al asked, feeding whatever data he could into Ziggy and giving the handlink a good smack to get it to work faster. They had to prevent Sam's host from dying sometime in the next forty-eight hours; God, Al could only hope this wasn't what did the kid in.

He would have thrown the damn handlink across the room in sheer frustration but two things stopped him—one, he needed the stubborn thing, and more importantly, Sam's situation was not improving. He'd been released, but only in favor of the three surrounding him and shoving him back and forth to each other, beating him senseless. The sight, to say nothing of the sounds Sam was making, the pained cries, disturbed part's of Al's conscience he didn't even know existed.

"I swear to God, Sam—" What? What was he trying to say? If he didn't fight back, defend himself, Al was going to kill him? One way or another, he'd find a way to kill his assailants? I'd help you if I could? It was the last sentence that galled him the most. Fuck this being a hologram shit, it wasn't worth Sam's life.

It was only after Sam dropped to the ground and didn't get back up that the three lost interest and left, laughing and (and this is what made Al wish he was corporeal, so he could follow them and bring swift, painful retribution) mocking the "faggot" they'd left behind. Even if he could have, Al doubted he would have done it—Sam was in too bad of shape to Al to consider leaving him. "Sam?" He edged a little closer.

He wasn't looking good, even for someone who had just been beaten unconscious. He had more than a fair number of cuts and bruises, god knew what kind of internal damage there was, or if there were any broken bones. Hell, it was anyone's guess when he would come to.

"Goddamnit, Sam," Al muttered, sitting next to Sam's unconscious body. Granted, none of this was really Sam's fault; hell, if Al had known that this was why he'd felt so uncomfortable on this leap, he would have stepped in before it had turned into… this. God could be a bastard sometimes, but this time, Al shared so much of the blame.

"I'm sorry this happened to you, Sammy," Al said softly, reaching out to brush his fingers through Sam's hair, stopping when he realized that it was physically impossible. He sighed as he let his hand fall to his side. Sam (or his host) didn't deserve to have the shit beat out of them just because of who they were.

"Don't worry, Sam," he promised, barely audible even to himself. "I'm not going anywhere just yet."