Closed Good Ol' Boys
The three drunken rowdies had managed to become even more unpleasant in the past few minutes, making grabs at the waitress along with half-coherent indecent remarks. At Dietrich's mild-mannered and polite attempt to get the woman away, one of the men shouted in their direction. "Wait yer turn, guvnor! Sallie's tendin' to us now!"

Gordon scowled, standing and taking a step towards the men. "You might be too drunk t'realize this, but you're actually interfering with the young lady's work."
Oliver was taken aback, he had not been talked to in such a manner in… well… he couldn’t remember. Gordon was already advancing, and Oliver looked around the room for some kind of manager. He was uncomfortable leaving the woman without saying anything, but he did not like the idea of escalating the situation themselves.

The man stood up, he had a good three inches at least on height on Gordon. “Ye might be too drunk ‘realize when ye should walk away, mate?” Oliver moved to Gordon’s heel, worried that the man might actually be right.
By the time the big bloke made his threat, it was already too late to dissuade Gordon from a fight. As far as he was concerned, the three men had provoked him, not only by treating the poor waitress so carelessly, but they'd insulted the Doctor. Gordon snorted. "Think I'm afraid of you?" The manager was noticeably absent, not that he was looking for them.

"Think y'should be," the man replied, as his mates also got to their feet, with various levels of unsteadiness. The woman, Sallie, slipped back behind them, towards the kitchen. With her gone, Gordon might have let it be, if it hadn't been the final straw shouted by one of the three men. "'Hey! Come back 'ere, y' stupid bint!" 

Gordon landed the first blow neatly on the ringleader's jaw - what followed was far messier, and far more damaging to the furniture of that particular corner of the tavern.
Dr. Dietrich flinched when Gordon dived at the man. He scampered around the perimeter, looking for a way to pull Gordon out of the fight. His circling seemed to have gotten the attention of one of the cronies. He ran for the doctor, ham-like hands outstretched for his neck. Oliver knocked a chair in the thug’s way which bought him a few seconds to dive at the man pummeling Gordon’s face.

The work Oliver did with his hands was delicate and precise, but throwing this punch was far from. His whole arm shook with the force of the impact. With the hand that wasn’t throbbing, he grabbed Gordon by his lapel. “Let’s go, Brandt.” One man was throwing the chair aside, and the other wouldn’t be long ruffled by a blow from a man about half his girth. “Now!
The odds had been stacked against him from the beginning, and Gordon wasn't idiot enough to guess they were. He'd just hoped he'd have more luck or skill to hold his own for long enough . . . long enough for what wasn't really in question, as Gordon was far more concerned with gaining the upper hand, getting the big man off balance and more importantly, off him. At least while he was still standing. It might've been alright if two of the three men weren't teamed against him, if his head wasn't pounding.

He tasted blood - probably his own - the Doctor seemed to be holding his own but Gordon was sure that wouldn't last long. Damn it, he hadn't meant to drag Dietrich into a common tavern brawl. So when the Doctor pulled him away, lucky Gordon didn't instinctively elbow him aside, he didn't hesitate. "Right," he said, definitely tasting blood, making a dash rather unsteadily for the door.

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