A/N: Right, so I hope you're all ready for the next installment of our present time armed forces AU (which I have decided on naming: "Speed, Surprise, and Violence of Action" - the potential motto of the US Delta Force Unit). I'm dedicating this first one to SuePokorny who, with her many and wonderful stories, have helped see me through this terribly long hiatus. I really hope you like it, hon.

All of you, enjoy!

~Catch Me If You Can~

"Let me tell you how this is going to work," the man shouts in heavily accented English, gesturing the revolver between Porthos and Athos. "You two will stay over there with your hands where I can see them, and your friend here…" He gives Aramis a none too gentle shove where he is lying crumbled on the floor, brown eyes blinking dazedly, and Porthos growls, although the sound is lost in the roar of the wind, "-will remove his parachute and give it to me. As grateful as I am for the ride, gentlemen, I really need to get going."

He grins at them, as if he finds this situation hilarious.

"A plane can only fly itself so long without a pilot."

They are gonna get some serious shit for this, Porthos thinks, as he with mounting anger watches Aramis drag himself up into a sitting position – difficult to do in a moving C-130 under normal circumstances, and a real pain when concussed. He can already hear Treville holler at them, the Captain's usual composure lost in the face of their "dereliction of duty",

"Someone hijacked your plane? How the hell could you let that happen!"

Porthos really hopes that Athos can work his diplomatic tongue because honestly, he has no idea how they came to share a ride with the Syrian arms dealer Nizar al-Masry. Their mission had been a simple "retrieve intelligence run", taking no more than 2 hours from start to finish and having nothing at all to do with the man in question. The day had been an easy one, without any sudden complications.

(There had been enemy fire sizzling past their ears the last hundred meters before they reached the C-130, but that's really just part of the job.)

They made it inside, miraculously without a scratch, and the small plane took off. After close to half an hour of relative peacefulness – their pilot a local who could work an aircraft as effortlessly as Porthos could work any ground vehicle – the plane made a sharp dive, causing all three of them to hold on tighter to their straps. Exchanging quizzical looks, Aramis had gotten up and thumped on the door leading to the cockpit. When there was no answer, he tried the handle, but it didn't budge. Frowning, he'd turned around – no doubt about to tell them the obvious, that it was locked – when the door had busted open and a vicious blow with the butt of a gun sent him sprawling to the floor.

Since then, al-Masry has moved closer to the back of the plane and the open ramp, half-kicking, half-dragging a disoriented Aramis in front of him.

And Porthos can tell that he is beginning to get frustrated.

"If I'm not out of here in thirty seconds," their uninvited boarder growls at Aramis, all pretense of politeness gone, "your friend will paint the inside of this plane with his brain matter. I suggest that you get a move on."

He makes a show of gesturing his gun directly at Porthos' head.

Aramis glowers at him – the effect somewhat ruined by how he visibly struggles to maintain his balance as the Lockheed makes another unexpected dive. Athos swears beside him as their grip on the straps tighten, obviously thinking the same thing as Porthos is,

This bird'll go down on enemy soil if we don't do something, and then we'll really be in the shit.

Aramis seems to come to the same conclusion. He throws a quick look past the gun waving nut job – who has now moved away from him and is in the middle of trying to get Aramis' parachute on – and out the open ramp. Something sparks in his eyes, something smug and just on the wrong side of crazy, and Porthos' stomach plummets to the ground 3 500 feet below them.

Athos seems to be even further in his cognizance.

"Aramis…" he grounds out, with a minute but sharp shake of the head, but the sniper only smirks at him.

In hindsight, all Porthos will think is that he really should've seen it coming; after all, their three-man-team isn't exactly known for their orthodox methods.

But right then and there, in that moment, he is one second too slow.

In one fluid motion, Aramis lunges forward, knocking both the gun and the parachute out of al-Masry's grip, and the momentum of it, with nothing in their way to stop them moving forward, nothing for them to hold on to, sends them both tumbling down, off the ramp, and out into the open.

3 500 feet above ground.

Without a parachute.

"Shit," Porthos breathes as he stares after them, momentarily floored, "fucking shit!"

"Don't just stand there," Athos shouts, already moving towards to the cockpit, no doubt to try and get control over their ride. "Get after the fucking idiot!"

Athos' voice is like a whip, and Porthos all but throws himself out after the two men.

The fresh air hits his face and eyes with refreshing familiarity, the roar of the wind intense. He spots Aramis easily; although it had taken him less than five seconds to jump out after him, his teammate is already a good hundred feet below him. Porthos dives, steers his way towards Aramis' sprawled out form. He doesn't think about the Syrian, or how the man is currently free falling to his death – doesn't even glance in his direction.

This is one death he will lose no sleep over.

It seems like minutes passes before he finally reaches Aramis, though he knows it can't be more than seconds. Aramis turns around when Porthos is mere inches from him, as if he somehow knows that Porthos is close.

The wind howls in his ears like a pack of wolfs, and Porthos reaches out both arms and drags Aramis to him, his hair an unruly mess that momentarily fills Porthos' vision. Aramis flings his arms around Porthos' neck, holds him tight, and somehow manages to get his legs around Porthos' lower waist.

The ground is a rapidly approaching blur and Porthos knows that he needs to release the parachute or they'll both turn into mush, but the rational part of him is overruled by the intense instinct not to let go of Aramis because he knows, Porthos knows, that if he releases the parachute and Aramis isn't able to hold on – because he's ghostly pale and his eyes can't seem to focus on anything but keeps blinking stupidly at Porthos as if wondering what he's doing there and what the hell are they doing! – then he'll keep falling when Porthos is pulled back by the force of the parachute and Porthos won't be able to reach him again.

It's only one second of nauseating fear before Porthos crushes it and roars in Aramis' ear, "Hold on!" He lets go, doesn't allow himself to think but reaches for the releasers and pulls. They both jerk when the parachute is released and the brief appearance of air between them is enough for the panic to resurface in Porthos' chest, but Aramis clings to him like a layer of extra skin – a layer of pale, slightly green skin.

Porthos bellows, "If you throw up on me I'll fucking shake you off!" because that's all he can think to say and Aramis gives a wan smile. His friend squeezes his eyes shut and rests his head on Porthos' shoulder, no doubt trying to will the world to right itself.

Grateful for the arid Syrian landscape – and for the dusk that somewhat conceals their descent – Porthos steers them towards a small gap between two mountain hills, where they won't be easily spotted by any possible passersby.

In the end, their landing isn't the smoothest, but considering they manage it without breaking any bones, Porthos isn't complaining. Aramis lets go of him just before they hit the ground, somehow managing to turn so that he lands on his side instead of his back and cracks his skull open on the hard surface, and Porthos angles himself so that he won't come down right on top of him.

He meets the hard impact of the ground with a grunt; it reverberates inside him but it's a welcoming feeling: one that he's familiar with and that shakes some of the adrenaline off.

Unfastening the parachute from the harness, he gets up just as Aramis staggeringly rises to his feet, one arm shot out to the mountain wall for balance, and retches.

Parachute forgotten, Porthos strides over to him, something hot and thick churning in his stomach alongside the concern.

Aramis looks up as he approaches: face a sickly green color and eyes glazed but sparkling with half-hysterical mirth.

"Well, I must admit that went far better than I thought it would," he quips, around a lopsided, somewhat shaky, grin.

"Are you alright?"

"I think Neil Peart has taken up residence inside my skull… but I'll live."

"Good."

The word is barely out of Porthos' mouth before he shoves Aramis against the mountain.

"What the fuck were you thinking!" he shouts, and it's far too loud in the surrounding silence.

The fierceness of his outburst takes them both by surprise, and Aramis winces when his head makes contact with stone but Porthos is furious; it pulsates in his veins like electricity, his muscles aching with the need to just punch.

"Well…" Aramis begins, but Porthos interrupts him.

"You jumped out of a plane at 3 500 fucking feet without a parachute!" he hollers, and he can't remember when he was last so angry. "What the hell did you even plan on doing!"

Aramis gives a small, cheeky smile and winks.

"One problem at a time, Porthos."

Porthos' mind goes completely blank, and it's all he can do to just stare at his friend: his friend who is squinting and who is most definitely concussed: who is grinning at him, almost unperturbed by the whole thing, even though he is several nuances paler than usual: who threw himself out of a fucking plane and who is a reckless, thoughtless, complete fucking idiot.

Releasing his hold before he feels compelled to wipe the smirk on Aramis' face off with his fist, Porthos takes a step back and releases a harsh breath.

"Unbelievable," he mutters, looking up at the rapidly darkening sky. "Fucking unbelievable."

Aramis at least has the grace to look apologetic, though still maddeningly untroubled.

"There was never any real danger, Porthos."

Porthos blinks at him, stupefied by the unadulterated conviction in his voice.

"You couldn't've known I'd reach you in time," he eventually says.

Aramis gives a soft smile.

"That's what faith is for, my friend."

Porthos swears he could punch him, fuck, he should have let the bastard fucking fall…

Drawing a deep breath, he forces some of the tension out of his system. After all, if he's being completely honest with himself, it's not like he's surprised.

Which, if he thinks about it, is probably worse.

He glances at his friend, who stands with his back against the mountain wall, eyes closed and breathing carefully controlled.

He frowns, concern dulling some of the anger.

"You sure you're alright?"

Aramis' lips twitch in a tired smile.

"Do not worry, my friend. It's just a concussion. Nothing I can't handle."

Porthos turns away with a short nod: calmer, but still too wound-up to be in a forgiving mood.

"Right."

Aramis sighs, frustration creeping into the sound.

Serves the bastard fucking right.

"Porthos…"

"Save it," Porthos grumbles. This is not a conversation he wants to have – not ever, if he's got any say in it – and they need to leave, to contact Athos and get the fuck away from this shithole so he can hit the gym and punch a hole through the speedbag. "Just don't fucking do it again."

Aramis doesn't say anything, which is probably for the best.

They both know he'd never be able to keep such a promise.

(Although Porthos is still angry, and more than a little exasperated by his friend's complete and total lack of self-preservation, he stays close as they, after a brief consultation with the map, make their way to the location where Athos is most likely to have landed, and when Aramis begins to stumble – his head probably bothering him more than he's willing to let on, the stubborn fucker – Porthos grips him by the arm and doesn't let go.

They both know he would never let Aramis fall.)

A/N: The "One problem at a time" comment is actually taken from the book Inside Delta Force by Eric Haney, wherein one of his fellow operators, only half-awake, throws himself out of a burning plane (which is still on the ground.) Haney later ascertains that the soldier in question thought that they were already airborne (being slightly disoriented by suddenly waking in Dante's inferno and all) and so he asked the man what he'd planned on doing when he'd gotten out of the plane that was, presumably, several hundred feet above ground, without sporting a parachute. The man answered, "One problem at a time, Sarge. One problem at a time."

I have no idea who this dude is/was. But man do I respect him.

This might also be a good a time as any to mention that most of the going-ons and expressions/jargongs in this 'verse is based on that book by Eric Haney, Inside Delta Force. For those of you interested in military biographies, I heartily recommend this one!