A/N: Hey folks! Hope your vacations are going to be as long as mine. I do intend to keep writing, so don't fret! But for now... "Yaaaargh! Throw 'em in chains, mateys!"

John had stopped drinking after his third cup of ale which, surprisingly, already seemed to be making him feel quite tipsy. It was strong and had very little aftertaste, which were definitely desirable qualities to his palate. But being out on a mission on an alien world, he didn't really feel comfortable and safe in allowing himself to become outright plastered, and apparently neither did Teyla. She drank very little of the ale and had preferred water for most of the evening.

And although Rodney hadn't had too much to drink either, he surely seemed to be enjoying the ale's effects as much as Ronon, Carson, and Henry were enjoying them. The evening was slowly beginning to wind down as those who had sought an evening meal began to leave and the regulars of the tavern began to fill the tables and bar, seeking to quench powerful thirsts. A few clumps of sailors and drunken merchants had surrounded the bar and were rowdier and noisier than the previous tenants who'd occupied their seats, and John was becoming more eager to call it a night and get some rest before preparing to head back to Atlantis in the morning. They still had to check in with Dr. Weir before allowing themselves to go to sleep anyway.

"It's been a pretty rough day for all of us," John said restlessly, but politely. "I think we should start heading back soon."

A few of the people around the table nodded solemnly, but there were no complaints. They were all tired and ready for a good night's sleep. Pushing their chairs back with a few loud creaks of protest from the grungy floor, they slowly and contentedly began to rise from their seats. Unfortunately for Ronon though, one of the swarthy men from the corner table had picked that very moment to walk behind his chair with drinks in hand. The chair knocked them from the man's hands to the floor, and what smelled of a good vintage brew spilt and ran in puddles of ruin.

The man stared down at the empty cups with surprise and annoyance, and then looked up squarely at Ronon with a piercing gaze. His voice was strangely accented and sounded harsh to their ears. "Just what do ya think yer doin'?"

Looking down at the spilt drinks, then back at the man, Ronon shifted his feet bashfully and seemed uncharacteristically unsteady on his feet. "Oh… Sorry about that."

The stranger's face hardened into a fierce scowl. "Yer sorry? Well, ya better be sorry 'nuff ta buy us a new round o' drinks."

The entire tavern had suddenly gone silent. Ronon simply stared at him dumbly and looked around curiously at the pervasive silence, but Henry at least still had the presence of mind to step in between them.

"I'm sure t'was just an accident, friend," Henry said confidently, and began to rummage through his pockets for some spare cash to pay for the accident. "Here, I'll take care of it."

But the man was not satisfied with this answer, and pushed Henry away by the shoulder with a firm hand before turning back to Ronon. "Oh, no, ya don't. Yer not gettin' away wi' this that easy. I think you should pay."

Ronon smiled smugly, his gaze unwavering, and chuckled under his breath. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I don't have any money."

All eyes in the tavern were on them, including both the barkeep's and John's nervous gazes. Hoping to diffuse the situation with a show of support, John stepped up to Ronon's side, and the others soon followed. John smiled politely and spoke slowly. "We don't want any trouble."

The man obviously wasn't impressed with the show, his face still implacable and stern, and he began to remove his long coat, which was dark-colored, sturdy, and warm, almost similar to a navy man's pea coat. A few of his buddies from their table stood and slowly came to a halt at his side, and John was suddenly nervous. These guys were serious.

"Absolutely no fightin' in here, lads!" the barkeep shouted angrily from behind the bar with a thick, foreign brogue in his voice. "Ya want ta fight, take it outside!"

"With pleasure," Ronon said, his grin broadening and a mischievous gleam shining in his eyes. "Shall we?"

"Ronon…" John whispered carefully, cautiously.

A tavern wasn't always a smart place to get into a fight. But Ronon held out an unsteady hand to hold him back. He was confident, at least, John thought; too confident.

"Relax," Ronon said simply. "I can handle this."

John rubbed at his forehead; a tension headache was starting to plague him. A smug smirk twisted itself into the offending man's features, and he smiled malevolently. With a motion of his hand, both he and Ronon were then seen shuffling out the door, neither one taking their eyes off of the other. With a concerned expression, John looked at Teyla, whose expression essentially mirrored his own, and they both hesitantly followed Ronon and the scowling man's friends out into the chilly night.

Carson and Rodney glanced over at each other, then at John's back as he left. Carson took the opportunity to speak up first. "Wha…? Are they completely daft?"

"You're telling me," Rodney moaned. He was tempted to follow John and Teyla outside just to see what was happening, but ultimately decided that he was better off staying right where he was. "Ronon's had a bit too much to drink, I think. I wonder if he'll decide to leave any of them without a broken nose."

With a worried scoff of agreement, Carson reluctantly took up the seat next to Rodney that Henril had recently vacated, who had preferred instead to settle himself onto a barstool to have another drink, intent on waiting out the trouble. Carson was just as curious as Rodney, but the doctor in him wouldn't allow any sign of approval be shown in regard to what the rest of his team were doing outside, and thus decided not to give them the satisfaction of an audience. So the two men simply sat back and watched helplessly as John stepped up into the middle of the crowd outside first.

"Listen," John pleaded with a small measure of desperation in his voice, holding out his hands in a display of peaceful intentions. "Let's not do something that we'll all reg—"

Before he was even given a chance to finish his words, a left hook from one of the swarthy man's friends connected with his jaw. All hell broke loose as the bodies of the swarthy sea men flung themselves against John, Ronon, and one even for Teyla. With hardly even a thought for a graceful or fair fight, the bodies and limbs became entangled together in an all-out wrestling match. Teyla was the first to find enough leeway to land a jab to the face of her attacker, and she forced him away angrily. John and Ronon had been at a distinct disadvantage, but their military training and prowess quickly assisted them in turning their attackers' anger against them.

But the offending men had no compunctions against fighting dirty, and one lashed out with a foot toward John's groin. John wasn't fast enough to effectively block it, though, and collapsed in a heap behind Ronon. The big Satedan nearly tripped on John's arm, but still somehow managed to hold his own as the two that had been attacking John refocused their attention on him. He was grinning like a mad man and having the time of his life.

Carson sighed as he and Rodney craned their necks to peer through the door, which had been carelessly left open, from the relative safety of their seats. They watched Ronon begin to effortlessly and single-handedly humiliate every single one of his attackers. Something brushed by suddenly against Carson's left arm, and he turned to see someone wearing a long, weighty, and worn coat settling himself down into the chair next to him. The man's beard was thick, dark brown, and flecked with a few strands of gray, but he didn't look very old, perhaps in his mid- to late-forties. Carson could not help but notice that the most striking feature of the man was his eyes, which were a blazing emerald green and squinted with contentment, likely a result of copious alcohol consumption.

"I should'na hired those fools," the visitor said wistfully with a soft chuckle, leaning forward slightly and placing a tankard of fine spirits on the table. "They can't seem ta fight worth a damn, it seems."

"Oh, no," Carson responded uncomfortably, but politely, trying not to make eye-contact. "I'm sure they're fine fighters, but Ronon is quite the warrior. I nary know a man that could even present him a challenge in a fair fight."

"Is that so?" he said, laughing heartily at the comment. "I hope ya won't mind then if I ask what ya do, then, if ya ain't a warrior."

Carson glanced at him suspiciously, but did not think not to answer, much to Rodney's uncomfortable amazement. "I'm a doctor. I heal the sick and injured."

"Are ya now," he said softly, displaying a mouthful of slightly crooked, yellow teeth; but at least he didn't seem to be missing any, which was more than Carson could say for the vast majority of the other patrons of the tavern. "That's a skillset ya got there, then. I'm sure it'll be comin' in handy where you're goin'."

"Excuse me?" Rodney asked incredulously. His heart pounded nervously in his chest; he did not like where this conversation was headed, but was thoroughly confused when the man would say no more.

With a laugh and shake of his head, the stranger rose from his seat and strode over to the table in the corner. Carson and Rodney watched him whisper something unintelligible to the remaining two men who sat there, and then watched him leave the tavern through the back. They had not heard the order that he'd issued, and were still in the process of exchanging curious glances when they happened to see five more men joining the two at the corner table, and they were then altogether quickly advancing toward their table. A few seconds later, Carson and Rodney were completely surrounded by them.

Rising uneasily from their chairs, the men surrounding them towered over Rodney and Carson. Rodney gulped uncomfortably, and one of them shot him a disgusting, nearly toothless grin. Before either he or Carson knew what was going on, the men had them both pinned against a wall and were holding them in ruthless elbow locks. Burlap sacks were placed over their heads and their wrists were bound behind them tightly and securely. No other patrons in the tavern had dared even consider making a move to help, not even Henry, who had retreated to the exit to break up the fight as it began to wind down. He knew what was going on, and knew that he had to act quickly.

Carson and Rodney were forced to march outside blindly and awkwardly for a while, their protests continually being ignored, and were then dragged into an enclosed space of some kind when they found themselves unable to continue without guidance. They were literally tossed into what felt and sounded like a crawlspace, which was hardly large enough to stand in, and were then chained and shackled at both their wrists and ankles before finally being left alone. The latch of a door being locked echoed eerily through the tiny space, and then the only sound that remained was the slight slosh of water in the distance. It sounded small and far away.

Slowly and carefully, Carson reached up and hesitantly lifted the sack from his head. "Rodney…? Are ye still here wi' me?"

It was dark in the enclosed space, pitch black even compared to the night just outside, which was lit by the dim light from the oil lamps strategically placed on various street corners. They appeared to have been thrown into a small bilge space inside a ship and had obviously been locked inside. The ceiling was low, and the crew's bunks and Captain's quarters were probably just above their heads. Ropes and cables to secure cargo were laid out everywhere, and the chains that secured the two men were looped through steel notches that protruded from the walls of the inner hull. The steady sounds of their labored breathing and the sound of the water was all he had to comfort him as his gaze finally found Rodney.

Sure enough, he was lying prostrate on the floor directly across from him, but seemed to be only semi-conscious at best. Blood had oozed and caked in his hair and scalp, and had dripped down his forehead from a wound hidden underneath a loch of his thinning hair. Carson had wondered why Rodney had gone so quiet all of the sudden while they had been in the process of being chained. He tried to move to his friend's side, but the chains were not long enough to permit him.

He sat back on his haunches and leaned against the hull, unsure of what to do. There was nothing to be done except wait until their captors made the reason behind their kidnapping clear. Carson sighed heavily, pulling his knees close to his chest against the cold drafts of air that seeped in under the door, resting his head against his arms.