This Is The Definition

The Oregon coast was an empty sprawl of white lined with lush hues of green, almost a mimic of the mainland. They were pushing northwest. For no reason other than it was up and away from Colorado Springs, and maybe they’d reach Canada before they had to turn around.

Rodney bitched about the motels, and Ronon compulsively watched the weather channel. And Rodney mocked Ronon for compulsively watching the weather channel, and then they ate tacos together. Or burgers and fries, fried chicken. Roast beef sandwiches. Theirs was a simple relationship.

Teyla took long walks to stretch her legs, and John didn’t worry.

They stopped for ice cream at almost every roadside stand. They stopped for hot dogs and chips. They stopped for beer. Good beer, mainly, though John wasn’t picky anymore.

Leaning back against the car door, arms crossed over his chest, grinning, John was so goddamn happy it seemed surreal. He thought it might’ve been a sign he was finally cracking; he’d never had so much fun on a road trip, crowded in a rented convertible with two aliens and, well. Rodney.

They were parked on the side of the road, two wheels in grit and gravel and weeds, and Ronon had the bottoms of his pants rolled up, calf-deep in the ocean shallows, an ice cream cone in each hand. The chocolate was melting past his fingers, faster than he could lick, and his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter, watching Rodney stomp in from where he’d gotten tackled by an enthusiastic wave.

Teyla was curled in the passenger seat behind him, fiddling with the radio, still fascinated after days with the array of music pouring out of the speakers. She liked Stevie Nicks. She liked Yes and The Kinks and Memphis Slim. She liked Nick Drake on long stretches of dark road, and they were all silent at Way to Blue, top down, inky humid night thick around them, stars distant pinpricks with hazy, clinging rings.

He pushed his sunglasses up his nose and called out, “Let’s go, kids,” and chuckled when Rodney rolled his eyes at him.

“This is fun for you, isn’t it?” he snapped, dripping all the way up the beach, sand coating the exposed skin of his legs. His blue t-shirt was plastered to his chest, outlining his nipples, his softly rounded belly. His cargo shorts were sagging below his knees.

“No wet clothes in the car,” John admonished cheerfully. He reached in and popped the trunk, and Rodney circled ‘round to the back, shucking his shirt unselfconsciously.

John watched with a contented half-smile.

Ronon bumped his shoulder with a sticky fist, one ice cream completely gone, the other already down to a leaky sugar cone. His jeans were splotched with it, the hems, slipping further down with each step, lying at mismatched levels against his ankles and narrow, bare feet.

Teyla’s wandering fingers paused in the middle of the Beach Boys, and Rodney slammed the trunk shut, striding back towards the front of the car with a towel and an absent, sweetly on-key, “I feel so broke up, I wanna go home.”

John arched an eyebrow at him.

“What?” He shrugged. “It’s catchy.”

Ronon finished off his ice cream with one big bite, and slid into the backseat behind Teyla, long legs bent, knees high, toes curling over the edge of the leather. He tipped his head back, dreads spilling over the polished red paint, eyes closed against the sun.

Rodney squeezed John’s arm as he passed, climbing in beside Ronon.

They had hours of daylight left. Then they’d have all the hours of the night, and John would drive for as long as he could, foot pressed even on the gas, fingers loose on the wheel.