[ high flight ]

by biblio

Alvin Trotter appears here with the kind permission of his creator, Lt.Mac.

Johnny sat pleasurably in his leather reading chair, enjoying the feel of its butter-softness against his bare back, the cool conditioned air playing against his chest and belly, across his thighs and around his calf muscles where they were stretched out to the footrest.

A glass of whiskey. The latest edition of Playpen open on his lap. Soft intimate lighting from the reading lamps. Rain drumming on the roof, lulling, keeping him in precious peace. After a long day tree-hopping his way from one hot L.Z. to the next, a chopper full of blood and vomit and shattered grunts, this was sheer bliss. He drank in the quiet pleasures of the senses. He was held spellbound by...

...long, long legs and firm rounded buttocks. The wondrously lithe, deep curve sweeping down from the hip to the waist, sweeping up from the waist to the ribcage. Slender arms, a glimpse of smooth golden skin. The supple back and the subtle broadening at the shoulders. The vulnerable arc to the nape of the neck. The rumpled, silky strands of light brown hair.

Myron stirred suddenly and Johnny raised the Playpen in front of his face, unfolded the centre pages ostentatiously, reached for his whiskey, smirking.

It drove Myron crazy, just like his sitting here in nothing but his light blue cotton skivvies. And his Army issue socks. The socks were a great touch. Myron was like, why everything else? Why not the socks too? He hated the socks.

Johnnie lived as high as he flew and it drove his straight-laced roomie crazy. Myron scowled at him for a moment, holding his place in the book. Dostoyevsky. Like 'Nam wasn't depressing enough. Myron gave the tiniest, disbelieving shake of his head and turned back to his book. Johnny eyed him complacently. Crazy. Johnny just drove him crazy.

Myron settled down again, settled back into that world where words flowed through his mind in colour and sound, like a movie. Johnny thought often and often that Myron flew high in his own mind if he managed it nowhere else.

Johnny admired...

...the expressive face, the determined chin, the straight lips with just a hint of a kissable curve, the long straight nose, the arched eyebrows. The phenomenal eyes. The dreamiest, darkest velvety brown you could imagine. And then some.

Johnny couldn't deny it. His roomie, best friend and bete-noir was hot. On a scale of one to ten, ten being the number of years you'd get in Leavenworth if you did any of the things he made you think of, Myron was a solid eleven.

Nobody massaged a huey like Johnny, not another pilot in-country came close. He was at the top of his game. Cream of the crop. King of the hill.

Except in Myron's eyes. To Myron he was an itch that couldn't be scratched, a perpetual thorn in his side, a constant source of annoyance and irritation. Everything. Every single thing he said and did rubbed Myron up the wrong way.

Johnny kinda enjoyed it. Myron had Zeke Anderson handholding him through the war, he didn't need Johnny's adoration. He snapped and snarled, was snide and sarcastic, sparked off Johnny like he sparked off no one else. Had done since the moment they met.

Johnny would have hated Myron if he hadn't liked him so damn much.

For all his fiery nature, for all his tempestuous outbursts, scratch the surface and Myron was the sweetest guy anybody knew. He was a total pushover. Everybody who knew Myron knew that.

Nobody knew that better than Johnny McKay, the only blind spot Myron had. He had not been able to resist the thought of moving in with Myron, the temptation to drive him crazy up close and personal had been too much for him. It was a blast. Myron never cut him any slack and Johnny returned the compliment. It wasn't so much a friendship, more a balanced stalemate of equal adversaries.

Myron always read the same way, lying on his side, back to Johnny and his socks, left leg bent at the knee under the outstretched right leg, poised on his left shoulder, book held in his arms out in front of him on the bed. Read most every night he spent in the hootch.

Johnny admired the view. He appreciated beauty of any kind. Hell, he was a born hedonist. Only one thing touched the rush he got from flying and that was sex, the highest flight of all.

He stared at Myron more and more often. So often that Myron's bush-sharpened senses picked up on the scrutiny. Myron was trying but he hadn't caught Johnny out yet.

Johnny stared and wondered. Wondered more and more often if he could massage Myron as good as he massaged his huey. It was a hell of a challenge. A wicked, wicked private fantasy. Myron seemed to have either the lowest sex drive or the highest moral standards of any man Johnny had ever met. He honestly wasn't sure which. Maybe both.

Myron had been celibate for months. It wasn't healthy. All those hormones raging, all those needs repressed. All that tension and frustration. A good friend should help out. Johnny took the pain, bore the brunt of all that nervous energy. He figured he deserved the pleasure, had earned the pleasure. His eyes dwelt on those firm, round buttocks. What was it Myron said? Oy!

Myron had obviously had enough for one night. He slammed the book shut and hunched an irritable shoulder, swung himself upright on the creaky cot, slunk over to the sink to wash his face and clean his teeth.

An almost impossible challenge. How can you seduce a guy whose idea of undress is taking off boots, jacket and trousers? Myron wore more clothes in bed than Johnny did around the hootch. He just didn't seem comfortable with his body. Or maybe he just wasn't comfortable with his body anywhere near Johnny McKay.

Johnny eyed his own magnificent physique smugly. He worked goddamn hard to keep in shape, to maintain the strength and stamina he needed to fly, but never worked those muscles too much. If he got too big he'd slow down, lose his razor-sharp reflexes. Would rather die than wind up in the peter-pilot seat. It was a delicate balance. He loved to pit himself against the weights, pushed that bit harder every day. It paid off in a near-perfect physique that he flaunted at Myron every chance he got, just to get a reaction from him.

There was nothing wrong with Myron's physique. Johnny had seen him often enough in the showers. He flew most of Myron's missions, they had pretty much the same schedule if Myron was on base. Nothing wonderful in them hitting the showers at roughly the same time. And nothing wrong with Myron's body at all.

...he always stood just so under the spray, one arm reached up to hold on to the shower handle, the other dreamily rubbing the water all over his chest and belly. Eyes closed, cigarette dangling. Had earned every drop of the hot water raining down on him and it showed. He was slender, graceful. Long lean muscles on a body pared down to it's essentials, every part of him taut and flat and supple. His body did its job perfectly, which was to get him over heavy ground in the bush as light as possible. Johnny looked at Myron and saw an elegant sufficiency. Saw it for the few moments it took for Myron to be irritated by his presence, towel off and leave.

Nothing to be ashamed of or hide, but still Myron hid his body away whenever he could. It was weird that a guy who was so confident professionally was so shy personally. Well, shy about the most personal stuff.

Johnny wasn't the only guy in this hootch to be at the top of his game. His job was hard for sure but - honestly - it wasn't as hard as Myron's. Myron was, maybe, a little too good at his job. With Anderson at his back, with his tiny squad of veterans from the old days at Ladybird, Myron could do most anything. For all they went through in the bush, for every crappy assignment, Myron lost fewer men than anybody else. He had Johnny's respect.

Myron hurt sometimes, hurt a lot, agonising over letters home to parents of guys he'd lost, agonised over the system and the utter futility of it all. He still got up every day and went out and did his job as best as he knew how.

Johnny always gave a hundred percent too, wasn't in him to give any less than that, but he gave Myron more. Took extraordinary chances, flew harder than even he knew he could. Wouldn't have Myron or his guys dying from anything he did. Or worse, from anything he couldn't do.

Tried to make up for the times when he had fucked up, when he'd pulled pitch with Myron and Anderson on the ground. Recently...the ultimate fuckin' irony...friendly fire. That wound was still raw, couldn't be touched. He never acknowledged these failings to Myron, just tried even harder to be better than his best when it mattered.

Johnny was dragged from his reverie when his roomie materialised suddenly right in front of him and twitched the Playpen out of his slackened grasp.

Cool green eyes gazed up into hot, fathomless brown. He'd set Myron off again. He was back in that doghouse. What now?

Myron demanded


Was angry and on edge

"What? What the hell are you staring at McKay?"

"Miss January 1969"

Myron stiffened, gave Miss January a cursory inspection and demanded suspiciously

"What colour eyes does she have?"

Johnny wasn't dumb. He smirked up at Goldman, said slowly, confidently


He'd glanced at her for a nanosecond before he'd started to staring at the...

...sweet sinuous curves Myron made when he laid on his bed in just that way. Sweet enough to kick even Miss January into touch.

Johnny loved it when he made Myron mad. Those fine eyes flashing fire at him. He crossed his feet at the ankles and settled pleasurably back as Myron ostentatiously ignored the socks and tried to work out what to do next.

Johnny was gonna love this movie.

Myron was completely baffled. What could he say? He couldn't accuse John J. McKay of staring at his ass. And if he was staring, couldn't ask him, why the hell was he?

He was sure now that McKay was staring at him. He hadn't been able to catch him directly at it all night. Just knew in his bones it was happening. Had only just caught McKay, caught his stare reflected back at him in the mirror from the corner of his eye. Johnny's eyes had slid down the length of his back and settled on his ass.

He knew it and couldn't try to prove it without looking like an idiot.

McKay's green eyes narrowed and he jumped up suddenly from his easy chair, stood real close to him. A little too close. Myron jerked back a step involuntarily and could have kicked himself all over the hootch when McKay gave him a knowing, pitying look and said in that superior I'm so right there's no point arguing with me tone only McKay could manage

"Goldman. Goldman. Take my advice, man. Get yourself into Saigon and get yourself laid."

He winked, turned on his heel, twitched off his lamp and slid smoothly under his luxurious quilt, arms pillowed behind his head, green eyes alight with not very suppressed amusement.

Myron was blushing. He was almost as furious with himself as he was with McKay right now. Just because it had been a while for him...that was not making him think that the last of the red-hot lovers was eyeing him up. How had McKay dared stand there giving him that 'wishful thinking, man?' look? How dare he lie there right now with the same goddamn look on his face??

Myron couldn't think of a single thing to say that wouldn't get him in deeper or make him look even more stupid. Or worse, even more desperate. He turned on his heel and stalked over to the far side of his cot, turned his back and left McKay victorious in the field.

So what if he was a little...tense? That was McKay's fault too. He had lost even the little privacy he'd had when McKay had moved in. He knew how to relieve that tension, had learned to pleasure himself just like every boy had since the dawn of man. He could not bring himself to do it with McKay in the hootch any more than he could bring himself to pay for sex with a stranger. Consequently...he was a little...tense...right now.

He wished McKay would stay out even for a single night. McKay got laid enough for both of them but it was always in the afternoon while Myron was out humping the boonies. And McKay got this hootch to himself whenever Myron was out on a long range Recon patrol. Whereas Myron hadn't had one minute of peace, privacy or relief since McKay had moved in.

He had to get undressed and he knew McKay was watching him. Smirking all over his handsome face. He thought savagely that you'd have to go a very long way before you found a better physical specimen than Johnny McKay...

...Perfect physique. Perfect smooth, tanned skin. Perfectly even, blinding white teeth. Perfect rich brown hair, perfectly groomed. Perfectly proportioned face. Even the eyes. Rare green, not common or garden blue. Even his eyes were perfect.

He'd made Myron feel scrawny and inadequate from the moment they'd met, left him feeling ruffled and edgy. And not just from his can I help it if all the smart soldiers are in the choppers in your face attitude. It killed him to admit it but McKay had wall to wall charisma. Some kinda PhD in being handsome and wonderful. He flew high above it all, while Myron skulked, sweated and stunk in the weeds.

It was also tough to admit that McKay liked him too, cared as much about him as he cared about anyone over here. Always gave his guys better than his best.

Myron liked McKay but he would find it easier to show if Johnny wasn't so goddamn perfect all the time, so sure of himself he set Myron's teeth permanently on edge.

Whenever he felt low or uncertain or just downright snarky he went to McKay and they got into a fight. It always gave him a lift. If he wanted reassurance, wanted petting or soothing, well, Zeke's hootch door was always open to him.

It was kind of a juggling act keeping both Zeke and McKay more or less happy. Zeke wouldn't set foot in his hootch when McKay was in it, wouldn't talk with him the way Myron had come to depend on, not with McKay's eyes on him. Zeke was also tired of refereeing their fights. So Myron went to Zeke if McKay was here and Zeke always came to him if McKay was out for a few precious hours.

It annoyed McKay that he confided in Zeke, he accused Myron of not liking him. It wasn't true, it was just that he was Zeke's friend too, was so close to his trusted platoon sergeant that he couldn't imagine getting through this war without him. Knew that Zeke was a one-officer guy and he was the officer. Zeke depended on him too, only had Myron to talk to, wouldn't trouble the men with his worries. They'd watched each other's backs so long it was like second nature to them now. Zeke came first. He couldn't deny it. That was the way it should be. But...he just about maintained a balance between all three of them.

Having McKay...literally...watching his back was a new and very disturbing factor. He honestly didn't know what to do about it for the best. He could not be that frustrated. Could not be. Could he? Could not be imagining it. No! No...Johnny was staring at him. Definitely. Question was...why?

Myron sat down and unlaced his boots, slowly, giving himself time to think it through. It was beyond belief that McKay of all people might actually be...the penny dropped.

Trotter. It hadn't been that long since gentle, dreamy Alvin Trotter had been medevac'd out of here. Trotter, with his premonitions and his weird dreams about him. Myron had made a tactical error and mentioned those dreams to McKay and Johnny had smirked and told him in front of his guys that his own best dreams were about Myron.

McKay teased him worse than Zeke ever did and would go to elaborate lengths to push every button Myron had. He shoulda known that offhand remark would come back to bite him.

It was just McKay's sense of humour to make Myron think he was going...funny. He'd stare and stare and deny it, make Myron suffer for weeks as the joke got better and better. He'd tell everybody about it. Would tell Zeke about it. No way!

Myron pulled off his socks, put his boots ready to hand by his clothes stand. No way he was gonna let McKay put him through this, torture him for weeks. He needed a strategy, a feint to draw McKay out, make him commit and blow his cover.

He knew exactly what to do, knew exactly how to call Johnny's bluff. He wasn't sure how to look seductive to another guy but he was gonna give it his best shot. Johnny wouldn't be able to resist pushing the joke further and when he did, Myron was gonna get him but good. He'd make Johnny suffer for weeks, torture him for once.

He walked around to the end of his cot, trying not to be too obvious, slowly started to unbutton his jacket, fixing his eyes on McKay's face. If McKay wanted to stare, Myron would damn well give him something to stare at.

Johnny actually sat himself back up a little, raising himself up on his elbows. He was mesmerised by the inconceivable sight of Myron Goldman doing some kind of striptease. Nothing overt, just unbuttoning his fatigue jacket with maddening deliberation, soft eyes fixed on Johnny's face. Subtle. Erotic. Sexy. Erotic? Myron??

Myron eased the jacket back off his shoulders, shrugged it down, its weight sliding it down his arms, pooling at his wrists. Eyes daring Johnny to make something of it.

A gentleman would put a stop to this right now, admit he'd been caught red-handed, apologise, smooth it over, need to get out more man, don't mean nothin'...

Johnny was able to accept the fact that he was no gentleman with great fortitude.

Myron's hands went to unfasten the button on his fatigue pants. Johnny fought himself, strenuously resisted the urge to jump up and put on some music for him.

His killer smile flashed across his face. Much as he was enjoying this stunning performance he had standards to maintain.

"I know a couple bars off Tu Do Street, pay you sixty bucks a pop, act like that"

Myron's eyes burned, lips thinning with annoyance. Johnny knew that look real well. He was enjoying himself hugely. As long as Myron was prepared to stand there coming on to him with this outrageous striptease Johnny was prepared to lie right here and enjoy it.

His wicked, wicked fantasy was just getting better and better. He knew Myron real well. He'd never get the zip down. He'd cave, scuttle back behind his cot, turn his back and blush for a week. Straight-laced, straight-arrow, by the book Goldman.

The smile was ear to ear now.

Myron looked at McKay's killer smile and brazen amusement. He's daring me. The sonovabitch is actually daring me to do this. No way is McKay gonna win this one. No friggin' way. He slowly, slowly pulled down the zip.

When Myron's hands started to ease the pants down Johnny realised he was actually serious about this. The pants slid down over his narrow hips and then down those long, lissome thighs. Johnny wasn't amused anymore. He'd been admiring, sure, idly fantasising, sure, but he would never actually put the moves on his roomie, sure. Actually…was not so very sure about that right now. Not sure at all.

Myron was starting to turn him on. The pants hit the floor and Myron stooped and picked them up, his eyes never leaving Johnny's face. Stood then with both hands fisted at his hips...

...long, long legs. A line that split his torso from the base of his throat all the way down, disappearing into the waistband of his skivvies. Smooth skin. Seemed golden all over. The lean muscles ridging his taut, flat belly. Nothing overt, subtle, nicely defined for interested eyes to see. A little sprinkling of hair way down, leading up to the navel...leading down to...

Myron saw McKay's smile falter and knew he'd turned the tables. The joke wasn't nearly so funny when it was on McKay. He smiled triumphantly and turned on his heel. If Johnny started on this joke, well, now he'd have something to say too. He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes alight. No... McKay clearly wouldn't dare open his mouth about this.

Johnny was fighting a bad desire. Myron had emptied half a clip into the hootch floor when Johnny's music got too loud, intruded on his side of the hootch. Right now he obviously wanted Johnny to…that little come hither look over his shoulder as he headed slowly to the bed...he wanted this...But...If Johnny was wrong about this, God knows what Myron would do to him if he walked over there right now and laid hands on him.

He fixed his eyes on those firm buttocks again. Myron could only kill him once and given the performance he'd just seen he'd die happy.

The smile grew. What the hell. Who wants to live forever?

Johnny surrendered to his bad desire.

Myron didn't realise he'd called down arty on his own position until it rained, danger close. Two warm, muscular arms slid around his waist and two even warmer lips settled into the tender hollow between neck and shoulder. It scared the bejesus out of him.

McKay hadn't been joking at all and now he thought Myron had been coming on to him, throwing down a challenge a hot blooded guy like McKay couldn't resist.

Dear God! Johnny seemed to have more pairs of hands than him and he couldn't keep them to himself.

Johnny had never seen Myron so playful. All this gentle tussling was very arousing. If Myron wanted to play, man, they could play all night.

Myron had to put a stop to this right now. McKay was getting more and more arou...amorous.


Myron froze...Oh God! What was he...

Johnny slid a hand down Myron's belly, easing his fingers under the waistband of the skivvies and out again, tantalising, enjoying the feel of those softly ridged muscles jumping under his palm. Enjoyed it so much he slid his hand down under the waistband again, right down, stayed down, stroking, caressing, worshipping.

Johnny was past the point of no return with Myron. God! The feel of him! Swelling now against Johnny's enticing clasp, responding to the sensual age old rhythm.

Myron was absolutely paralysed by the sensations Johnny was arousing in him, by the way his body was betraying him under that persuasive hand. A warm tongue licked the sensitive spot behind his ear and then Johnny turned him around and Myron tried desperately to pull himself together


Johnny's hand curved confidently around the back of his head and pulled him into a kiss, tongue sliding straight into his open mouth, sensuously stroking his tongue.

Johnny worked his hands down the length of Myron's spine and under the skivvies, finally put his hands where he'd wanted them all night, hands cupping then fingers kneading the muscles in Myron's buttocks, pulling him close as the kiss got wilder, Myron's arms around his neck, fingers entangled in his hair.

Myron was only human and Johnny was pushing buttons he didn't know he had. God was he! Sheer lack of breath forced them to break the kiss.

Johnny had never dreamed Myron could be so passionate. His killer smile flashed and he said in a sultry tone only the ladies had heard 'til now

"Oh yeah!"

A beat and they were melting into one another, kissing fiercely. They were wearing too many clothes, hands fumbling at waistbands and then encircling each other, wanton, gasping out loud at the pleasure of it.

They found the bed more by luck than good judgement, tumbled down, moving their hips powerfully against each other, hands feeling sleek muscles work and slide under them. They couldn't get close enough, kissing insatiably, sheened now with sweat, flying high, moaning their pleasure as they made the highest flight of all, orgasmed together, backs arching in utter mutual gratification.

They collapsed side by side in a tangle of arms and legs, breathing hard.

Myron was stunned. Where the hell had that come from? He gave Johnny a helpless look, saw his own confusion mirrored.


Johnny had to agree with that quiet, bewildered comment, sighed


Johnny stared at his roomie, best friend, bete-noir. Myron was hot in ways he'd never imagined.

"This can't ever happen again"

Johnny agreed - reluctantly - with Myron. He knew in his soul you had to pay for it when you had this much fun. Confirmed the way it had to be.

"Never again"

Myron excused

"It was the heat of the moment. We just got...carried away"

Johnny was...actually he was starting to get carried away again. He rolled onto his back, pulling Myron on top of him, gave him a look that would have melted stone. He wanted another heated moment right NOW.

Myron tried half-heartedly to pull away from the embrace, murmured

"After...tonight...this will never happen again"

Johnny sat up taking Myron with him, arms circling one another, Myron's long legs hooking around his back. He said emphatically

"Never - ever - again. AFTER tonight"

They stared at each other solemnly for a moment and then kissed hungrily.

Myron sidled out of the hootch without waking Johnny, who was safely back in his own bed. Neither of them knew what the hell had come over them, why they'd both behaved so out of character. The best they could come up with was...Stress. Tension. Plain old fashioned curiosity.

They'd been all over each other while the mood lasted but Myron was sure it would never happen again. They couldn't regret it, they weren't children, and they had both wanted it for it to have happened at all. He flushed. If he was being scrupulously honest, they had both wanted it over and over again until they were absolutely sated. They couldn't regret it but they would never repeat it and they would never, ever tell another living soul about what had happened between them. In other words, they would never, ever tell Zeke.

Strangely enough, a lot of the tension had eased between them. Things should have been more awkward but they weren't. He thought they might get along better now. He still wanted some space between them for a while, to recover his balance and put what had happened as far behind him as he could. He was headed over to beg Colonel Stringer for a three-day pass. Zeke could manage just fine without him for a few days. He swung by the mess hall on his way, checked out the day's menus on the board. Jumped a little as a friendly voice rang out behind him.

"Mornin' L.T. Sleep well?"

Myron kept his eyes fixed on the board. He couldn't bring himself to meet Zeke's eyes right now, not while he could still feel Johnny's lips and Johnny's touch burning on his skin.

"Like a baby Sergeant"

Zeke glanced at the board. They'd outdone themselves. L.T. was obviously annoyed, he could see a flush of red on the boy's face. It wouldn't kill the kitchen staff to occasionally remember that one of Barnett's officers was Jewish, cut L.T. a little slack on the menu.

"Sweet and sour pork. That's all? Nothin' else? Oy!"

Zeke sympathised. And...he always enjoyed fraternising with his L.T. away from the base, liked having the boy all relaxed around him, burdens lifting even if only for a few hours...

"Whaddya say we eat at Lou Lou's tonight L.T.? Grab a couple cold ones"

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