They don't really care much about Christmas. They shop online for Jeanne and Kaleb and Madison and the fetus-to-be-named-later. They refuse to stoop so low as to buy gifts for the dog, though John starts coming home with more rawhide than usual, beginning just after Thanksgiving.
They've never had a tree, though John twined twinkle lights across and down the legs of the dining-room table that first year to make Rodney laugh. They exchanged gifts that year, having a contest to see who could get whom the ugliest sweater. Rodney won, but only by virtue of the LED display across the chest of the orange-grey-blue monstrosity that cycled "Ask Me About My Ears" in a marquee scroll. John still has it somewhere.
Gifts seem silly, after all they've been through. On Atlantis, they'd celebrated what Elizabeth called "Holiday," and what Rodney called "Non-Denominational Winter Tree-based Celebration of Values and/or Spirituality of Your Choice or the Lack Thereof With No Disrespect Intended." "Holiday" stuck.
Besides, they don't wait for holidays or birthdays for gifts - they've learned the value of immediacy. Plus, Rodney's not good at waiting, and he's very good at search and destroy missions. No-one's buying anyone a plane or a grand piano - except that Rodney bought himself a baby grand a month after he moved in and taught John "Chopsticks" and "Heart and Soul." John gets to fly planes at work.
The old couple who live in the enormous Tudor down the block have enough holiday cheer for everyone else, and John and Rodney have a perfect view from their roof. It's nice to sit out there in the dark and watch the lights twinkle and the entire herd of wireframe deer blink. The plastic Santa even has its charms, usually after a half-bottle or so of wine. The dog stays inside and alternates scratching at the window with giving them doleful stares.
Ronon once told them of a Satedan tradition, one reserved for their winter celebration. Neither of them can remember or pronounce the name, but they both remember the way Ronon explained it.
"You tell the truth," he'd said, his voice a familiar low rumble. "You tell a truth. That's the gift." It's a tradition that neither of them wants to see die.
It gets chilly on the roof, despite the temperate day, so Rodney pulls John between his legs to share warmth, pushing his face into John's neck. "I still have the sweater," he says. "The one with the caffeine molecule knitted into the pattern." At the time, he had ridiculed it, proclaiming its lameness in the face of the LED scrolling marquee.
John's gift is always the same. "I'm glad we're here."