rossetti: Ronon, John and Rodney, road trip to a storage space in Kansas.

hop, skip, jump
by Pares

The first thing they did after Rodney had rented the car (he had refused to let John drive, insisting that he hadn't survived aliens in another galaxy only to be killed in a traffic accident by a speedfreak space cowboy) was go to the bank. They'd had banks on Sateda, but they'd only been used by the very rich, and most real banking done by citizens were transactions through people Rodney had labeled "loan sharks". John has something called a "safe deposit box" there.

Ronon's a little surprised at the smallness of the box, and the lack of guns in it. Mostly it's full of papers (and not the kind you could trade for sandwiches and rooms for the night) and a handful of keys.

"Well what do you know," John had said softly, holding up a narrow brass key with a number 5 stamped on it in red. "I forgot I even still had this."

"What's it for?" Ronon asked.

"It's the key to a storage locker I had in Kansas."

"Oh my god, we are not driving to Kansas," said Rodney, plainly horrified.

"Why not? We've got a month, and anyway we should show Ronon around a little."

Rodney grumbled a little more, muttering about an eight hour road trip to retrieve what would probably turn out to be some pressboard furniture and a stack of old Playboys, but he bought a map and drew on it and Ronon figured it had been settled.

"What's Kansas like?" Ronon still wasn't so clear on the concept of countries and state lines, and having never traveled widely other than by gate, he'd actually been kind of fascinated to learn that one planet could hold as many landscapes as the Lanteans claimed their Earth did. ("There are places that are frozen year round, like Ni-Ma? And there's more than one desert?") It hadn't occurred to him that each planet might hold more than the lands immediately around the gate. It made him itch to return to Sateda, to see it by puddle jumper, since he'd been unconscious the last time.

"It's... corny," John said gravely, and Rodney slapped a hand over his eyes and groaned.

"Can I drive?" Ronon asked.

"No. Also no, and no, and hmm, oh yeah, a thousand times no."

Eventually, though, Rodney pulled over on a straight away in the middle of fields of grain that John assured him was corn, and let Ronon get behind the wheel. ("I can feel him staring at me. It's interfering with my concentration!") John had pointed out that the SGC had fitted Ronon out with a driver's license, so he might as well get a chance to use it.

"If you see another vehicle, just... don't hit it," Rodney said with a longsuffering sigh. "And also, if you see a restaurant, pull over. I need coffee."

He drove for eighty-six miles with Rodney barking in his ear about the speed limit, but mostly just insisting that Ronon keep both hands on the wheel at "ten and two". At the next gas station (Rodney refused to piss on the side of the road, even though he did it all the time on missions), Ronon gave the keys back to Rodney and stretched out sideways on the back seat. He'd decided to just sleep until they got where they were going; Kansas was boring, as far as Ronon could tell, and the summer glare was hard on his eyes. He wondered if Teyla was enjoying Washington D.C., and if Elizabeth was letting her drive.

Once they finally got where they were going, Ronon was disappointed. There was an ugly, boxy set of buildings made out of flimsy looking metal and a large lot full of various ugly, rusting vehicles. The box that had been assigned to John was at the end of a row of units that all looked the same but for the numbers painted on the ribbed whitewashed doors.

"Hmm, climate controlled," Rodney said, and Ronon thought he sounded approving.

John unlocked the heavy brass padlock and lifted the door with a rattling screech. He looked relaxed and quietly satisfied at the cool gush of air that floated out to meet them, and Ronon saw a small room full of brown cardboard boxes. What was with these Lanteans and boxes, anyway? John crouched down next to one and ran his knife along the taped seam, opening it to reveal… Ronon wasn't sure. John heaved out a stack of brightly colored cardboard squares, thin and flat like Rodney's file folders, but printed with pictures and words he could read but didn't make much sense.

"Vinyl?" Rodney said. "You've got a vinyl collection?" He sounded incredulous.

"And a Swiss turntable," John said amiably. He was smiling down at the cardboard square he held in his hand, Ronon leaned over his shoulder and read, "Greetings from Asbury Park." Maybe they were letters from friends of his? But the next one in the stack had a picture on it Ronon recognized; Johnny Cash.

Rodney was reading off what sounded like names, or maybe places: Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Dolly Parton, Elvis Costello, Ramones, ACDC, Joan Jett.

"I'm only surprised you don't have a Cher album in this mess."

"No comment," John deadpanned.

"So this stuff is all music?"

"They're the old-fashioned versions of those CDs I lent you," Rodney said absently. "Hey, Ray Charles!"

"Who's that? Is he like Johnny Cash?"

"No one's like Johnny Cash," John said reprovingly, rummaging in another box.

"No, no, he was a famous pianist." At Ronon's blank look, Rodney continued, "Piano. It's an instrument, you play it—this is a picture, anyway." He held up the "vinyl" in his hand and tapped the glossy cover. There was a guy on a bench sitting next to a big box with teeth. "He was blind, but he played anyway. Really, he was an amazing artist."

Ronon studied the cover again; except for the glasses, Ray Charles looked like his first sergeant at corps.

"Can we play some on the way back to Colorado?"

"No. They aren't made to play in a moving vehicle. You know, you could have told me," Rodney said to John. "We'll have to rent a van now to get this stuff back. And I'm not driving another eight hours, so we'll have to find a decent hotel in this wasteland."

Ronon picked up a box and balanced it on his shoulder.

"Can we rent one here?" he asked.

John lifted his hands and tugged the box out of Ronon's grip, staggering a little before stacking it on top of some other boxes.

"We don't need to rent a van," John said soothingly.

"But-- but it's your stuff!" Rodney looked sort of outraged on John's behalf. "We can't just leave it here. Although, maybe you're right, I bet we can get them to ship it—"

"Rodney, I don't need it. I never did. I mean, if I had needed it, I wouldn't have forgotten about it anyway. It was just kind of nice to know it was here." John shrugged a little. "Now give me the keys," he said in a wheedling tone.

Rodney clutched them to his chest, giving John a narrow eyed look.

"I told you, we're staying the night here. We can drive back in the morning, after I have had a dinner that involves barbecue and a breakfast that features home fries."

"It just so happens that I know a great place," John promised. "Farley's. Best barbecue in the state."

"What do you need the keys for, then? Just give me the directions."

"Well, it so happens that this key," he said, showcasing a little silver key in the palm of his creased hand, "is to my old Cessna 210, which is sitting in a hangar at Hutchinson about forty minutes away. I sold it to Hal Brown before I left, but if it's still there, he'll lend it to me with a full tank of fuel. And from there, it's just a hop, skip and a jump to Barton Field."

"And where's that?"

"Just outside of Vegas," John grinned at Ronon full force and Ronon ("You know, Vegas," John had said. "Showgirls in fancy costumes, high-stakes poker—" "Buffets," Rodney had broken in.) grinned back.

END