By Its Cover
By Ann3
Writer's Note: This was going to be the last in the series, but then I thought - Cadman ! So I'm going to keep this WIP open for now, both for Cadman's story and any others that may decide to inspire this sick, twisted wee mind of mine :o)
For now, though, it's Ronon's turn to find out that it's not a good idea to judge our favourite Scottish doctor on first impressions.
I've tried to write the dialogue from two relevant scenes in Runner as accurately here as I can (thank God for DVD players and instant rewind) but I'm not too sure about one of Ronon's lines – the one that comes after he tells Carson he's made one attempt to remove the transmitter himself.
From Carson's response, I'm sure it has something to do with doctors, but I just can't hear it properly. If anyone can put me straight on this, please, I'd really appreciate it – 'cos it's driving me nuts !
Credit for this story should really go to a certain Mr McGillion, who said in a recent magazine interview that he'd like to take on some of the baddies, in typical Glaswegian style. Well, Paul, your wish is my command – if only in the world of fanfic.
A word of warning, though – poor Carson doesn't escape entirely unscathed either… I hope he packed the Tylenol... ;o)
Chapter Five - Greetings Frae Glasgow
This was his saviour…? This, as Sheppard had so glibly bragged, was his 'medical miracle worker'…?
Still frowningly studying the deer-stuck-in-headlights human before him, Ronon Dex then grunted. If this human, this Carson Beckett, really was the best doctor in all the galaxies he could name, then – well, in still deeply sceptical eyes, the powers that be in those galaxies had lowered their standards.
All the doctors he'd ever known had caused him nothing but pain. Nothing but brutal suffering. The rarely found sensible ones, Ronon now smugly reflected, usually ran for their lives at this point – hence his surprise when this latest lamb to the slaughter continued to walk resolutely towards him.
The voice, too, for all its strangely accented uncertainty, also held a trustworthy directness.
"Hello… I normally don't make house calls like this, but then again, this isn't really a house, is it...?"
Shrewdly watching his every move, Ronon nodded towards the medical field kit in Carson's hand.
"What's in the case, doc…?"
To his surprise, the voice came back slightly stronger this time. Briskly firm, ready to take charge. No deceit to it either. It was, in the Satedan's still unwavering eyes, an interesting development.
"Surgical implements… diagnostic tools, various drugs… analgesics, antibiotics…"
Still struggling to follow this tumbling flurry of words, Ronon glanced quizzically at Teyla.
"What…?"
Realising that some proper introductions were long overdue, Teyla gracefully did the honours.
"Ronon, Dr Carson Beckett… Dr Beckett, Ronon…"
He'd reached them now, giving the Satedan his first, decent view of this unlikeliest of saviours. Stockily built, he was several inches shorter than Sheppard and, Ronon guessed, slightly younger too. Clear, straightforward blue eyes met and held his, from a face that expressed the same gentle honesty – the concern within them too genuine, too natural, to be feigned as Carson nodded a still wary greeting.
Never a fan of idle chit-chat, Ronon did the same, a trace of a smile quirking at the side of his mouth. Evidently this deer-eyed doctor with the strange name and even stranger accent felt the same way.
"Pleasure…" Carson muttered, making an admirable, if short-lived, attempt to stare Ronon down.
"I understand you have some sort of a transmitter on your back…" he went on, just as briskly – striding past Ronon to deposit his medical kits and rucksack of equipment on a nearby boulder. "Well, have a seat and off with the shirt now… let's have a look…"
Taken slightly aback by this shift in authority, Ronon re-asserted it via a terse order to Teyla.
"A little help…"
Complying without complaint, Teyla helped Carson to remove the bulky shirt from Ronon's body – her surprise at the scars on his chest matched only by the shock generated by those on his back.
"My God… tell me you didn't try to cut this thing out yourself…" Carson said at last, clearly shaken – already shocked eyes creasing still more, in outraged sympathy, as Ronon merely shrugged.
"Yeah, I tried once… with a mirror… couldn't quite reach… most of it's been done by doctors…"
"No one I know who calls himself a doctor would do this…" Carson retorted, shaking his head – anger at this corruption of his profession radiating from him as he rummaged through his med-kit.
Silently filing that anger away for further consideration, Ronon then turned to watch him work – his surprise now joined by curious interest at recognition of the technology in Carson's hand. A complete stranger to the Pegasus galaxy, able to use the gift of the Ancestors…? Interesting.
"Is that Ancestors technology…?"
"That it is…" Carson nodded, still studying the only Ancient device he felt happy to handle. Frowning at its readings, he then took a nerve-steadying breath. This was not going to be easy. "Listen, you have to put that weapon down and lay down…"
The response was all he'd expected, compassionately understood – and silently dreaded.
"Not a chance…"
"Now you listen to me…" Carson went on, the compassionate understanding wilting just slightly. Appreciable distrust was one thing. Outright stupidity and pig-headedness were quite another. "I've located the transmitter, it's in soft tissue next to the second thoracic vertebrae…"
"Good… cut it out…"
Damn it, he still wasn't getting it. Still not trusting him. Then again, given the way those butchers had sliced him open…
"I can't do that, with you sitting up like this…" Carson explained, fighting to keep his tone calm. "Now I'm going to have to give you some anaesthetic to make you sleep…"
"No, you're not…"
Silently moving the Satedan to the top of his pain-in-the-butt patient list, Carson stared at him in frank disbelief.
"Excuse me…?"
Sensing the eruption that was now simmering between them, Teyla stepped in to gently avert it.
"Ronon, you need to trust us…"
She'd just been trying to help – which made Ronon's reaction to her efforts all the more ironic. And, to Carson's now saucer-wide, horrified eyes, all the more terrifying
"I do… that's why he's here, and you're still alive…"
To her credit, Teyla didn't flinch, even as Ronon levelled his weapon straight towards her heart.
Then again, thankfully unnoticed, Carson was doing enough inner flinching for both of them – Ronon's next softly growled order met with a rapid nod of agreement and no trace at all of argument.
"Now, get to work, doc…"
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
It had taken him the best part of an hour to get his makeshift OR prepared and set up to his liking. And with so much at stake, not least his life and Teyla's, Carson Beckett wasn't taking any chances. His only comfort, albeit a tenuous one, was that Ronon hadn't complained at the time it had taken to set out his stall.
Even so, there was a threeway sense of relief as, still studying his efforts, Carson finally nodded – feeling honour bound to make one last attempt to talk some sense into the all-time patient from hell.
"Okay, I'm ready… look, I just want to say one last time, I really don't think this is a good idea… I'm going to be cutting very close to your spinal column here… if – if you were to flinch…"
"I won't flinch…" Ronon growled, in a tone of voice that left very little room for further argument.
Oh, crap…
Realising he was arguing a lost cause, Carson took a deep, steadying breath and flipped down his visor
"Okay, here we go…" he said at last, hoping he sounded a hell of a lot more confident than he felt. Absently noting how cold it felt in his hand, he selected a scalpel from Teyla's silently offered tray. Forcing himself to focus, Carson took another deep, nerve calming breath. Then another. And started to cut.
Almost immediately, he could feel Ronon's shoulders tense beneath his other, bracing hand – this knowledge of causing such agony to his patient crashing against everything Carson believed in.
"Easy, son… easy, I'm almost there… easy now, lad…" he said at last, wincing in his own private hell – not even trying to keep the relief, or the triumph, from his voice, as his forceps finally hit their goal.
"I think I got it…"
Working as quickly as he dared, Carson eased them back through walls of slippery, bloody muscle – another rush of giddying relief rushing through him as redly dripping metal finally, blessedly, emerged
Not surprisingly, that giddiness wasn't just affecting him now, as Ronon tilted warningly sideways. Only Teyla's lightning-fast reflexes saved him from a much heavier, more painful landing.
Helping her to gently ease his deadweight body to the ground beside them, Carson then met her eyes – the pride and relief he found there returned with just the slightest of physically drained smiles.
That, Carson Beckett now dazedly reflected, had been close. Very close. Too damn close. And when John Sheppard finally deigned to join them, Carson fervently vowed, he'd wring his bloody neck.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
They were impressive. Ronon had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that his surroundings were impressive. If not for the nerve-splitting pain in his back, he might have been able to appreciate them fully, but – well, for the moment, at least, the wonders of Atlantis' state of the art Infirmary would have to wait.
The gently exasperated voice in front of him, though…? Well, that was another matter entirely.
"So then, lad, here we are again… and I hear you're still needin' my help…?"
Ronon didn't remember doing so, but he must have nodded, since Carson now moved towards him – with, he noted dryly, rather more confidence than he'd done in yesterday's first, fraught meeting.
"Right then, lad, let's be takin' a look at ye… see how my handiwork's healing…" he added briskly, snapping on his gloves – the glance of amused relief which then passed between his two companions not passing unnoticed.
Evidently both of them were used to this peculiar voice giving out these defy-me-if-you-dare orders. And both clearly held its owner, this proudly lauded 'doctor of all doctors…' in duly respectful regard. In the eyes of his latest, still wary patient, it was an oddly comforting, increasingly humbling thought.
"I cannae do much for ye, son, if ye keep skitterin' away from me… bloody hell, lad, you're worse than Rodney..."
Frowning once more at this flurry of peculiar words, Ronon glanced quizzically across at Sheppard – allowing himself just the trace of a smile at the colonel's deadpanned, wryly shrugged translation.
"He… uh… means he can't do much to help you if… well, if you don't let him near you… and as for Rodney..."
It was clearly a familiar and ongoing, if somewhat irreverent, routine of gentle teasing between them. And, judging by the patient sigh that followed, the helpful translations were not always welcome.
"Yes, thank you, Colonel… I don't think we need to break out the universal translators just yet…"
As that colonel fell ruefully and, no doubt, sensibly silent, Carson returned his attentions to Ronon – a single raised eyebrow doing its usual, effortless job in wiping smirks from unwisely smug faces.
Yet for all their stern, no-nonsense expression, the gentleness in those eyes refused to waver – the trust they were silently asking from him finally returned as Ronon remained dutifully still.
Even with his life held in several hours of terrifying balance, this doctor had stayed true to his word. Where many others had failed, he'd managed to remove, and forever destroy, the bane of his life.
The source of his suffering, the Wraith's brutal means of control over him, was finally gone. For the first time in seven years, Ronon could consider himself as truly, undeniably free. And while its full meaning still eluded him – well, John Sheppard's fable had taught him enough. He owed Carson Beckett his life. If necessary, he'd give that same life to protect his 'Androcles'.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Damn it, Colonel, we – we can't let them take him like this, they'll kill him…! Do something…!"
His nerves already as taut as a spring, John Sheppard needed McKay's outburst like a hole in the head.
"In case you hadn't noticed, Rodney, they've got a hulking great knife at his throat…" he hissed, tearing his eyes away from the terrifying standoff in front of him to glare at his agitated team-mate. "And seeing as they're so keen to keep hold of him for themselves, they're hardly likely to kill him… but if we try to rush them, they'll kill him for sure… if we just try to reason with them, to negotiate…"
He'd tried to sound convincing, to offer an anxious friend the same reassurance he needed himself.
Except they'd already been standing out here now, in blistering heat, for the last forty minutes – trying to negotiate, through furious helplessness and bitter anger, the safe release of one of their own. And getting nowhere.
In the small part of his mind not consumed by frantic thinking, he could understand McKay's anguish. He'd no doubt meant all the credits, all the glowing laudations, as the simple tributes of a proud friend.
He could never have known, or anticipated, that his well meaning intentions would backfire as disastrously as this.
Oh yes, he'd happily told anyone who would listen, Carson Beckett was the best doctor he'd ever known. In fact, he was the best doctor in the galaxy.
For the last five days, the nomadic people of Tetrea had gratefully seen proof of that for themselves. In that time, Carson had managed to identify, and successfully treat, a virus that had ravaged their numbers for generations.
But from this simple gesture of help and humane kindness, that's where the trouble had started – because now they'd made it suddenly clear, terrifyingly clear, that they didn't want to give him back.
Their move had come without warning, too swiftly, for John Sheppard to do anything to stop it – the deadly glint of metal lodged at Carson's throat instantly ending all thoughts of protesting reprisal.
It had already left a telltale track of redness across his neck, from where he'd instinctively struggled. Held in a truly deadly embrace by his captors, stricken in helpless terror, Carson Beckett hadn't moved a muscle since.
And it was the frustration of his own helplessness that was grating at John Sheppard's nerves. He knew, from bitter experience, that the longer this standoff continued, the worse things would get. And for his assurances to try and calm McKay down, the brutal truth still nagged at them both.
Yes, the Tetreans would keep Carson alive for as long as they needed his help, but then what…? Taken prisoner by such dangerously unpredictable people, the answer just didn't bear thinking about.
Carson's thoughts had clearly followed the same track, and come to the same terrifying conclusion – eyes that were wide in panic and pain swinging, once more, to the only person who could stop it from happening.
Yet beyond their terror, their stricken helplessness, John Sheppard could now read something else – something that made him, with undetectable smoothness, slowly adjust his grip on his P90.
His friend was clearly planning some kind of bid to escape. John just wished he knew what it was. All he could do was pass the message to the rest of his team – and pray the Tetreans didn't notice.
Luckily they were too distracted in controlling Carson, dragging him back towards their camp, to see, or hear, the briefest of covert whispers.
"Carson's planning something… get ready…"
To his open relief, McKay's potentially disastrous response failed, mercifully, to materialise. Instead he just nodded in silent acknowledgement, leaving it to Ronon to cynically mutter the obvious.
"He's no warrior, Sheppard… how can you expect him to fight…?"
"I kinda think that's the idea… just be ready…" John hissed back, defying any further argument – leaving him free to pass an equally vital, unspoken message back to their captive friend.
'…whatever you're planning, Carson, we've got you covered…'
It may have been a trick of blindingly strong sunlight, but the stricken face seemed to relax a little. There was no such doubt, though, over the abrupt, far more pronounced relaxing of Carson's body – its sudden collapse to the ground coming as a complete, shocking surprise to everyone around him… except, of course, to Carson himself.
As his startled captor struggled to haul his deadweight body upright, a single leg lashed outwards – the consequent doubling over of its target giving Carson just the precious few seconds he needed.
Taking advantage of every one of them, he wriggled and struggled until he regained vital balance. With strength borne of pure adrenalin, Carson then slammed his forehead against that of his captor – its force of impact causing captor and captive alike to stagger a few vital, precious feet apart.
John Sheppard now gladly did the rest – which, all things considered, was really just as well. Having Glaswegian kissed his way to freedom, Carson Beckett was in no fit state for a second attempt.
His next, groggy-headed awareness as he slumped to the ground was a flurry of motion around him – McKay and Teyla running protectively to his side while two furious, unmistakeable voices joining the cacophony of agony which erupted through his skull.
"Drop that knife now, or so help me, I'll drop you right here, right now…! Now, drop it…! Get away from him...!"
"You so much as breathe too loud, I'll blow your head off…"
Beyond the mind-splitting agony in his head, Carson felt a shaky smile make its way to his mouth. Furious colonels, even angrier Satedans, he dazedly reflected, really had quite the way with words. It was an oddly comforting thought as Carson then surrendered, inevitably, to deep and silent darkness.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Somewhere between making it back to the Jumper and leaving Tetrea, a minor miracle had taken place. On top of all the doctorates that he never tired of citing, Rodney McKay had somehow gained another. In fact, they'd all become medical experts as they'd carried their unconscious CMO into the Jumper.
Laying him flat on one of the seatbanks, Teyla and Rodney had done all they could to revive him – no mean feat as John Sheppard had banked and arrowed the Jumper into the relative safety of Tetrean space.
The knife wounds to Carson's neck and along his collar bone had been thankfully superficial – the bleeding from them easily controlled, blessedly stopped, by field dressings from his medical kit.
It was the bloodied lump on his forehead, though, its associated concussion, which was still causing considerable concern. In the thirty minutes since they'd run for their lives from the Tetrean villagers, Carson Beckett hadn't moved, hadn't flinched. Hadn't made a sound. Being slung over Ronon's shoulder as they'd raced back to the Jumper certainly hadn't helped his already fragile condition.
It was now proving a real struggle to keep their bruised and bloodied CMO vitally conscious – although where his newly assigned deputy was concerned, it wasn't for the want of trying.
And it had to be said that the bedside manner of Dr Rodney McKay left rather a lot to be desired – especially to an already sore and suffering real doctor who now found himself on its receiving end.
So far, he'd been poked, prodded, blinded by penlights and almost asphyxiated with smelling salts. Not surprisingly, Dr Carson Beckett, MD, had now distinctly, and most definitely, had enough.
"F'r G'dss'ke, R'dn'y, bu'ger off... 'r so h'lp me, I'll blo'dy Gl'sgow kiss you too…!"
Trying to make sense of Carson Beckett's accent when he was tired and irritable could be difficult. Trying to understand it when he was tired, irritable and heavily concussed was close to impossible – but still highly entertaining to all those lucky enough not to be in direct range of its mumbling wrath.
As much as he was enjoying it, John Sheppard now felt some brotherly intervention was called for.
"Hey, will you two kids settle down back there…? You're giving me a headache…!"
The plaintive protest from one of those kids was faint with pain and exhaustion, still tellingly slurred – but it still caused John Sheppard's already broad smile to proudly and happily widen.
"Y've got a he'dache, son…? Th'nk how I blo'dy feel…!"
Winking back at an equally amused Teyla, John then glanced across to his other cockpit companion – dryly noting that his expression varied between humouring amusement and complete confusion.
"These two like this all the time…?" Ronon asked at last, jerking his head towards the two in question.
Turning in his seat to follow the Satedan's line of sight, John Sheppard then grinned and shrugged – turning a convenient blind eye to Teyla's raised eyebrowed, quizzical disbelief at what he said next.
"Oh yeah, pretty much… luckily they've got me around to… um, you know, keep 'em in line…"
Watching McKay still fretting and fussing over their injured friend, he then grew slightly more serious
"Hey, just hang in there, Carson… I'll have you home soon, then we can get you to a real doctor…"
"'m a real d'ct'r…" came the inevitable, slurrily peeved response as Carson tried to sit upright – this recklessly unwise move thankfully checked by Teyla as she eased him back down again, holding him gently cradled in her lap.
"Yes, Carson, we know that…" she soothed him, keeping a gentle hand of restraint on his shoulder. "But you are also injured, so we must look after you now. Just try to lie still, we are almost home…"
Glassy blue eyes squinted up at her for a moment, before Carson managed a faintly conceding grin.
"'kay…" he finally murmured, trying to focus his eyes on the hand that now gently stroked his cheek – all further protest melting away into a contented sigh as Teyla rested a soothingly cool, dampened cloth across his forehead.
Watching him nestle more snugly into Teyla's lap, Rodney McKay couldn't help but raise a peevishly miffed point.
"Hey, how come I don't get all this Florence Nightingale treatment when I get hurt…?"
"Must be those big, beautiful, baby blue eyes… right, doc…?" John Sheppard chipped in with a helpful wink – the inevitable sulky reminder that 'I have blue eyes too…' falling on conveniently deaf ears.
Beyond all the teasing, though, those baby blue eyes were starting to drift closed once more – prompting another round of gently chivvying calls to persuade Carson to open them again.
"Hey, Carson, stay with us… come on, buddy, you've got to stay awake…"
"Yes, Carson, you have a concussion, remember…? You cannot go to sleep, you must stay awake…"
"Aye, l'ss, I – I know… need to – to ke'p me 'wake… ke – keep me t'lkin'…" Carson murmured – his eyes then widening, in puzzled surprise, as a new voice gruffly compelled him to do just that.
"You fought well, doc... took guts... didn't think you had it in you..."
Rising from his seat, Ronon then ambled through to where Carson was lying and planted himself on the seats opposite - clearly determined to play his part in keeping him conscious.
"This kiss from Glasgow, doc… tell me about it…"
Equally surprised by Ronon's unexpected contribution, John Sheppard then felt himself smile as he listened to an albeit sleepily rambling account of 'Glaswegian kissing.'
Only a week ago, the Satedan had kept Carson Beckett at gunpoint for several harrowing hours. Yet that daunting experience had still forged a special bond of respectful friendship between them.
Forever indebted to the gentle doctor who'd saved his life, Ronon had become his lifelong guardian – prompting a softly proud afterthought as John turned back to piloting his team, his family, safely home.
"Yeah, way to go on the greetings from Glasgow, Carson… we'll make a diplomat of you yet…"
