Notes: A fic that explores the volitile relationship between Goldman and McKay after they become hooch-mates. The story is set in season three, after Ruiz and Taylor have returned from being MIA and while Pop is away dealing with his son. This was a little something that hit me over my brief break from college. No betas were sacrifi... err, consulted for this. All mistakes are my own.

Disclaimer: I don't own them. I'm not making money off them. I love them dearly and promise to give them back in the same condition I found them. Don't sue me, it's not worth the effort.

Consequences, Part 01
-by Nati_A

McKay walked past the Operations tent and winced in sympathy for his errant bunkmate. For as little time as Goldman spent in the hooch, McKay never could understand the other Lieutenant's reaction to sharing it. Despite the unpleasant memory, he wouldn't wish Myron's day on anyone, not even the VC. The pilot slowed his stride a bit as he watched Goldman point emphatically to the map, while Fontaine and Colonel Stringer grilled him about the latest mission.

Goldman's team had gone out on a five-day recon that had unexpectedly stretched into eight days in the bush. The boys had run into a full platoon of NVA on day five, and they'd spent the next three days playing a deadly game of cat-and-mouse. Fontaine had remained behind, whispering fallacies in Stringer's ear and causing Team Viking trouble. He insisted that there were no NVA in that sector and had even suggested Goldman was 'crying wolf.'

Team Viking's mission had been planned based on Fontaine's information. They were sent out to locate VC supply/storage sites and record their positions. Several substantial ammo depots were suspected to be in the target area. Some sites would later be seeded with doctored ammo. Others would be either destroyed or captured by larger teams. Locating the enemy stockpiles and remaining undetected were critical points of the mission. They were to simply gather vital information at this stage.

Goldman's men hadn't found any weapons, munitions, or other stockpiles in the area. Fontaine had dicked them around from a distance. He insisted that the ammo was there, but that Team Viking wasn't looking hard enough. McKay had heard them shouting at each other over the radio while he waited for the farce of a mission to be aborted and his pick-up orders to be issued. Unfortunately, Stringer seemed to agree with Fontaine, and had ordered the group to repeat the search pattern a second time despite the close enemy activity.

The working relationship between Fontaine, Stringer, Goldman and Anderson had been going steadily downhill for some time. The Colonel had been suckered into believing Fontaine's world of 'intelligence' and was quietly sending SOG teams wherever the CIA man wanted. Not even Team Viking's skill and successful record could produce results with the shoddy info their last few missions had been based on. Stringer was constantly pressing his lieutenant for a better showing from his men.

McKay was beginning to wonder if he should watch his buddy bit closer. A man could only take so much before he cracked, and Myron was getting it from all sides. Fontaine wanted results and unquestioning obedience from men he neither respected nor controlled. Stringer wanted body counts, decisive 'victories,' and a mountain of paperwork. Anderson was none too happy with the recent series of inane missions, and he told his lieutenant so every time he reported in about the status of the team. And the guys held Goldman responsible for the poor decisions being made at the command level; they'd begun to look at him with disdain, almost like he was just another bit of brass looking for a promotion regardless the cost. They knew that wasn't really true, but lately, he was always the barer of bad news.

As a result, Myron had been a bubbling pit of snarling sarcasm. He was trapped with no option other than to obey orders. He did all he could in the field to make sure his men survived, but they still had to go out on each and every mission, no matter how rough it was. Goldman couldn't fight for his men anymore than he already was; the person he needed to beat sense into was smitten by the images of debilitating strikes against the VC/NVA that Fontaine painted for him.

It had been more than three hours since McKay had touched down with Team Viking aboard. Goldman was still being debriefed, still in his filthy tiger stripes, and probably still insisting that there really were NVA out there. How else does one lose two men and end up with wounded? The pilot could almost hear his friend's restrained yet sarcastic tone.

McKay knew Goldman was beat, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Doc and Anderson had been injured by the phantom NVA, and Team Viking had again lost a brand new sniper and RTO. If Myron held true to form, he'd assumed his Sergeant's role while he was down. Goldman would have first made sure his wounded were in the dispensary, and then gotten the rest of the men out of the medical team's way before reporting to Operations. That unthinkable delay was probably the cause behind the Colonel's sour mood and Myron's extensive debriefing.

The pilot continued on to his hooch, silently wishing a bit of luck to his friend. McKay would do the only things he could... make sure the hooch was cool, put the beer in the fridge, and provide the inspiration for Goldman's next tirade. The tense Lieutenant was always a bit more relaxed after yelling about some unseen offense and venting his pent up frustration.

Goldman drug himself in the direction of his bed. Despite the dirt, sweat, and exhaustion, he was still angry as all hell about their last pointless mission. Unfortunately, there was little he could do. He was a soldier, and he did what the Army told him to do. It didn't mean he had to like it, just that he had to do it.

He'd been grilled by the dynamic duo for more than three hours; he'd checked with the doctor about his two wounded and stopped in to see with his own eyes that they were alive, albeit fast asleep; and he was finally free to crash for a few hours of well deserved sleep. He still had a post-mission report to file with the War Records department, but that would have to wait until morning. He could barely see straight, let alone pen a coherent and complete account of the debacle. Err, mission... he reminded himself.

Goldman had just reached the steps to his hooch when he heard familiar voices approaching from behind. Turning slowly and sinking down onto the top step, he sat and waited patiently for Taylor and Purcell to stop bickering. With Anderson out of action, Myron had more direct responsibility over the boys' daily lives. Sarge mediated the squabbles, smoothed over the damaged egos, and played the part of all-knowing protector. Goldman now had those roles thrust upon him, even if only temporarily.

Taylor took one look at his CO and regretted coming to him. By the looks of things, LT still hadn't had a chance to get cleaned up and get some chow. It'd been over six hours since Team Viking had gotten back to the base. He'd thought that the LT could help, but that didn't appear to be so.

"LT, man. You look beat..." Taylor began.

"Sergeant, I don't have the energy or the patience," he forestalled. "What's wrong now?"

"Well, LT..." Purcell began to answer his CO. But once the piercing gaze was directed at him, he stumbled over his tongue. "Uhm, we... it's... uh."

"Ain't not'in' we can't handle LT. Sorry to bother ya'," Taylor tried to cover while pushing Danny away. But Purcell had managed to untangle his tongue and was talking at the same time. "It's Ru, sir. He's real upset."

Goldman reached out one hand and caught Taylor by the belt. "Stay. Don't make me get up," he warned the black man before turning to look at Purcell again. "What's Ruiz gone and done? And is it gonna get my ass hauled in front of Stringer again?"

"Well, he split. We don' know where he's gone to. He wasn't coping with the bum mission well a'tall."

"LT, I'll take care o' this. Why dontcha get some shut-eye? We'll go find Ru. He's prob'ly off lickin' his wounds... still feelin' sorry fo' himself since Susanna got sent State-side." Taylor tried to give his lieutenant an out, tried to let him off the hook of responsibility. He didn't think Goldman would be much help given his current level of exhaustion anyway, but Purcell was too worried about Ruiz to notice what Marcus was doing.

"We already loo... OUCH! What was that for?!" Danny yelped as Taylor elbowed him in the ribs.

"Alright, Heckle & Jeckle. First, I need to get a shower. These fatigues are so stiff I can barely move... they'll probably walk off on their own when I'm not looking. You two check around the base: showers, latrines, watch towers, perimeter fences, back in supply storage where you can disappear between the skids and sulk, wherever. Be back here in 30 minutes with Ruiz. If ya' don't find him by then, we'll grab Griner and McKay, then head into town to look around. I just got the little pain-in-the-ass back, not gonna let him do something stupid now! Go!"

The two enlist men scurried off as Goldman pulled himself to his feet. He turned and saw McKay standing there blocking the doorway.

"Gonna get outa my way? Or do I need to make my point about shared space again?" he asked tiredly while stooping to pick up his rifle and gear. When he stood again, the only visible portion of the pilot was the arm that was holding open the hooch door. Goldman tried to make a mental note to ask Johnny why threats had worked this time, but his mental pen had long since run out of ink.

"Myron. I can handle looking for your guy..." McKay didn't even get the offer completely out before Goldman was scowling at him.

"I've seen the way you 'handle' things," Goldman interrupted. "First pretty nurse, barmaid, prostitute... hell, even a nun's fair game, and you'll be searching with the wrong head." Myron's word had been slurring together before from fatigue, but he was winding up for a full rant. The clipped, precise pattern had returned. "I need Ruiz back ASAP. We're going back out at dusk tomorrow."

Johnny did some quick calculations. Goldman had been unexpectedly stuck in the bush for eight days, having prepped for only five. He's been under enemy fire, lost men, and had others wounded, including his dedicated Platoon Sergeant. Prior to that, he'd had several daylight scouts with Fontaine and a few 'select' others trying to alleviate the base's even-present sniper problem. Myron had just spent the past six hours dealing with post-mission red tape and fulfilling his responsibilities to his men. Now, he had a little over 24 hours to find a missing man, who most likely took off on his own to drown his sorrows in cheap booze and hot flesh. There was little time available for rest, recovery, and preparation for tomorrow's mission.

There was no way Goldman could do it all alone. McKay had a very bad feeling about this. This had to be some sort of punishment for failing to find Fontaine's precious targets. Myron was going to go back out, tired, sluggish, and without his veteran sergeant at his back. Johnny didn't like this at all.

"Goldman. I can do this," he insisted.

"Uhn-uh, no way."

"Let me do this? You're dead on your feet, man. If you're going back out tomorrow..." he tried to reason, but Goldman refused to listen.

"McKay, just stop!" Myron moved a hand as if to bat away the pilot's words. "I have things I need to get done, and playing one of your games isn't on my list."

"Games? What games? I'm trying to help."

"What games?! The screw-with-Myron game... or the watch-the-bush- rat-try-to-get-out-of-this-one game... or my personal favorite watch-Lieutenant-Uptight-blow-his-stack game. Those games; the ones you play all the time at my expense," he raged, standing up and harshly stowing his gear. He set aside canteens to be filled, banana clips to be refilled with ammo, and tossed the webbing onto his shelf with a loud thud.

"You think I'm setting you up? How the hell could you think that?" McKay was baffled by where this idea had come from. He sincerely wanted to help, and Myron wasn't having it.

"Because you use people McKay! You spend your days flying high above us sorry fuckers stuck in the jungle. You lay your women or kick back with your porn, while the rest of us spend every moment on edge, trying to stay alive," Goldman was no longer holding back. He took all the negative thoughts he'd ever had about the pilot and threw them at him. Slowly, he stalked towards McKay, steadily forcing him to back across the room towards his own cot.

"You look at how people can make your life better, and then you manipulate them." Myron continued to yell. "You do it to every woman you meet; every one is a potential fuck. You do it to all the guys around you when you strut and boast about your flying skills; you make them want you flying their missions, just to feed your own ego. Hell, you did it to me," he said before turning and heading back across the hooch to his bed. Stripping off his clothes and tossing them in the corner, he tried to reign in his temper.

"What?" was the only word McKay could voice in his shocked state. He never realized Myron though he was this shallow, but he was beginning to see how his confident attitude could be misconstrued.

Goldman heard the confusion in McKay's voice, interpreted it as feigned innocence, and went off again. "You picked this hooch, not because we were friends, but because I'm rarely ever here for more than a handful of days per month. I didn't have much stuff that you needed to move out of your way. It's almost like you've still got single's quarters. But me, I got screwed. I spend my days out there fighting to keep myself and my team alive... always wondering if the orders I'm giving are going to get someone killed, wondering if the route I've chosen is taking us straight into a trap."

Myron paused briefly to push his own insecurities and self-doubt from his mind. He continued calmly and with a resigned expression, "And now, my few moments of solitude are gone. I spent my down time arguing with you or stomping out of here pissed off. I was just another person to be played in John J. McKay's manipulation of the Army."

Finally, with a pounding headache and no more desire to verbally abuse his room-mate, Goldman grabbed his things and headed for the showers.

Part 02