I've got to leave for a few days...only 2-3 more parts left to the story. Sorry, but must go torture myself for a day or so.
Part 3
Sheppard had to give the physician credit. When the biggest guy in the tavern pushed Carson out of the way at the bar, Beckett had merely mumbled an apology and stepped aside. When the guy shoved Carson's shoulder forward into the glossy marred bar surface, Sheppard had feared that Beckett would find himself in trouble, however, the Colonel was pleased and relieved to see Beckett smile tightly and offer to get the man an ale.
However, when the giant behemoth pushed his luck and hit Beckett on the right side of the jaw, the very home of his aching, 'no good, rotten, don't need it anyhow', tooth.
Sheppard knew all Hell was going to break loose.
The colonel had even gone so far as to try and stand in hopes to prevent any type of reaction from Beckett which might blow up in the physician's face.
Unfortunately, Sheppard was either too slow or his heart wasn't truly in it, or Beckett was too fast and his heart was truly in it; or any combination there of.
Telya had sucked in a breath.
McKay had paused in eating Ronon's dinner.
The Runner, who leaned against the bar behind Beckett, threw a jovial look to Sheppard and shrugged.
Sheppard had pushed his chair back and started climbing to his feet, hopefully to prevent anyone from being dismembered especially one Scottish physician.
His fears had been ungrounded.
Beckett took the blow without so much as sound. His head had been snapped to the side and almost immediately a protective hand had shot up to his cheek. His face had gone pale except where a reddened hand print now lay, a fine sheen of sweat dotted his features and the strap muscles of his neck stood out a little more as his jaw muscles bulged.
It had been his left hand that was raised to cover his right cheek.
Sheppard realized later, looking back on the incident that had been their first, albeit brief, 'Tornado' siren. The left hand moved. Not the right.
However, it was the look in Carson's startling blue eyes that had Sheppard freezing. There was a flash of anger mixed with the frustration of being pushed too far and with no more room to back up. It was a look of smoldering irritation that had suddenly morphed into a brilliant spark of rage that found an outlet.
Beckett smiled. Thick, off colored blood trickled from the corner of his mouth which he dabbed at with the side of his left index finger. The smile didn't waver and it didn't match the cool calculation in the Scot's eyes.
Shit. Sheppard slowly pushed away from the table. The doc was going to get himself killed tonight over a sore thrumming tooth.
The overfed, broad shoulder hulking monstrosity of a woodsman returned a cocky smile of his own; daring the smaller man to do something; anything. He opened his arms inviting a blow and mocking the stranger at the bar all with the same gesture.
The tavern inhabitants watched silently. People wiped their mouths on sleeves. Large gulps of ale were rushed down as eyes became glued on the mismatched two at the bar.
"Carson's going to kill him," McKay muttered without much concern, chewing thoughtfully on something that resembled a chicken wing. He recognized the face of a bully and would harbor no ill will if one was brought to his knees.
Without hesitation and with no visible warning other than, perhaps, a broadening smile, Beckett snapped out a solid right jab.
Sheppard sighed and closed his eyes briefly and slumped slightly in his chair. They were dead men.
Jabs are not known as a powerful strike as far as different types of punches go. Jabs normally set ones opponents up for the more robust cross, or upper cut or even a hook. The snapping, jabbing punches were generally not known for their power or their destructive force. They gave the striker momentum, the chance to position their opponent for the more damaging power hit. It was the 'cross' or the 'upper cut' that held the devastating knockdown force of a punch. Those were the hits that did the most damage, knocked opponents off their feet, took the fight out of people.
Jabs simply worked to irritate and wear down ones opponent, nothing more.
So when Beckett lashed out with a solid snapping right jab, Sheppard for a brief spark of time was unduly concerned for the physician's safety, fearing that the Scot had only managed to annoy his opposition, which stood taller and much heavier than Beckett.
Sheppard's concern was unfounded.
His apprehension took a suddenly very steep climb and a different direction.
The tavern fell deathly silent when the biggest fellow in the Tavern, the very one Beckett hit with a simple 'setup' jab, staggered back a half step with a confused expression. He weaved in place, slacked jawed. Blood ran from one nostril into a bushy mustache. He teetered for a moment. His knees then buckled and he unceremoniously melted to the floor face first, like a felled tree, unconscious.
Sheppard realized two very important, tactical pieces of information. One: Beckett was as powerful as he looked; and two: they had trouble on their hands.
Their trouble was solidified as fact when McKay muttered, "Why does stupid always come in extra large?"
"Shut up, McKay," The Colonel muttered.
"Me? I'm not the one who knocked out that brainless sap," Rodney snapped back without truly lowering his voice, "Carson did; yell at him."
Chairs creaked and wood was scraped as people pushed back their chairs, put down their ales and stood up.
McKay started pocketing food.
Teyla gathered her weapons.
Ronon smiled like a proud uncle.
Beckett turned back to the room, dismissing them and facing the barkeep, expecting his ale to arrive. He muttered none to quietly about daft fools, glass jaws and not knowing one's limits. He quietly patted the bar with an open palm gently urging the barkeep to move and grant him a pint.
Sheppard wasn't sure if Beckett intentionally worked to add insult or not to the inhabitants of this little tavern by turning his back to the room and thus dismissing them, or if he truly just didn't care, or believed the rest of SGA-1 would watch his back. Which, of course, they would.
Sheppard figured it was a combination of all three or perhaps the doc was finally pushing back, possibly striking out in his own manner.
The colonel sighed, maybe he'd try and get the doc into the gym to work off some aggressions, it would be safer for Carson at least.
The tavern regulars interpreted it as an insult.
Sheppard swore under his breath and decided that the shit would hit the proverbial fan with or without his participation. He was more than willing to let Ronon and Beckett handle it. They were big boys and could handle themselves---hopefully.
Sheppard settled back in his chair and watched as Ronon turned and leaned against the bar surface keeping his shoulder adjacent to Beckett's back and faced the room with his elbows and forearms against the bar top.
Sheppard picked up his ale and leaned back in his chair content to watch events unfold.
Apparently the biggest guy in the tavern also had a lot of friends or family or both. Or perhaps it was truly universal across different galaxies that 'regulars' routinely don't like 'outsiders'. And any excuse to trade punches, insults and toss bodies was a good enough excuse to bring down the house.
The brawl was spectacular in its intense, destructive force, the number of bodies involved and its brevity. For a short while it was just Beckett versus the rest of the tavern, hell it might have been the rest of the planet as far as Sheppard was concerned.
It had seemed as if all the loss, fear, frustration and failure over the pass year had found an outlet; not to mention 18 days of a throbbing broken tooth with an exposed raw nerve, that kept him from eating regularly, sleeping uninterrupted or drinking anything other than lukewarm beverages.
Beckett wasn't pretty when he fought. Sheppard recognized that right off, the guy had no finesse, no fancy moves. What he did have was power, balance and agility and he didn't fear getting in close on his opponents. He didn't restrict himself to using just his hands, or his feet. His forehead snapped many noses and cheeks that night. And he fought dirty, a survival tactic they had honed since coming to Atlantis.
Neither the Wraith nor the Genii fought fair. They fought to kill. They fought to survive. And though Beckett thankfully recognized the difference between what they fought for on Atlantis versus what he fought for here, in this small backwater tavern, the power and skill were the same though the intent was entirely different.
He was a survivor just like the surrounding members of the SGA-1 team.
Ronon and Sheppard were content to let the physician go. McKay waffled between wanting to help and not wanting to get hit.
Getting hit and doing the hitting both hurt. However, being the hitter versus being the hittee was the lesser of two evils and Rodney was pretty sure where he would fall if he were to engage in Beckett's current asocial behavior.
Sheppard's job had been to keep everyone safe, make sure no one pulled a weapon and keep it a nice friendly fight. He and McKay had continued to enjoy their ale and finger foods, suspiciously similar to fried cheese sticks and watched the ruckus around them. They occasionally had to lean left or right to avoid a sailing body, or pick up their mugs and plates of food when a patron slid across their table. A few times saw them picking up their feet when a patron rolled passed.
Teyla had wanted to jump in an aid Dr. Beckett, however, Sheppard dissuaded her, pointing out that this was therapeutic. Rodney went so far to say that Carson needed to lighten up a little, he'd been tense lately, this was just as good as anything Heightmeyer would have to offer.
Ronon remained on his feet and leaned against the bar drinking his ale and watched the frackus with a touch of prideful glee. He and Beckett were on the same team, so to speak. When a body stumbled in his direction he merely laid them out with a simple quick strategic strike and kept them down with a heavy foot to their chest or backs.
When things began to escalate and Beckett began to obviously struggle, Sheppard had intended to stand up. However, he noticed Rodney reaching for the last 'cheese stick' and so Sheppard felt compelled to sit back down and beat the astrophysicist to the food. He did yell a suggestion to Ronon about helping out the Doc.
Rodney beat Sheppard to the last cheese stick but paused in eating it, which resulted in him losing it to the Colonel.
McKay's eyes remained glued on Beckett and the monstrosity that loomed behind him. Ronon was busy with a few misguided individuals of his own. When a chair was broken over Beckett's shoulders and the Scotsman fell to one knee under a crush of bodies, McKay's waffling disappeared and the astrophysicist flew from his chair without so much as an adieu. In fact, McKay was diving into the fray before Ronon or Sheppard had a chance to react. Teyla quietly gathered impromptu fighting sticks and delicately inserted herself into the melee.
Sheppard swore a thousand promises of painful death upon McKay when he witnessed the Canadian boldly jump into the thick of things but seemed to hold his own amazingly well. The man had no sense of self preservation at times.
Damn Scientists.