A/N: Like I said, I just needed a bit of silliness to read, and given I haven't been able to find a story with that for a while, this happened.

Enjoy! Let me know what you think!

Ray knew he shouldn't have let his guard down. He knew his brothers were up to something, yet he'd let himself get distracted anyway.

In his defense, the Green Team guys did take priority, and it was easy enough to lose himself in the motions of running through each individual check before running the second check on the group that Mac was managing.

But he should've known better, and he should've kept a closer eye on the pair.

Hindsight really was a bitch, sometimes.

.

As they approached fifteen thousand feet, Brock, Clay, and Tommy made their way down from the upper deck, their parachutes secured tightly, and their gear and in-flight oxygen masks firmly in place.

Ray eyed the pair intently, looking for any sign they had something planned, but found nothing. Perhaps he really was being paranoid - after all, pulling a prank when jumping out of the plane was probably one of the stupidest things anyone could do, because it would absolutely kill them.

"Alright you two," Tommy said, and Ray gave them another once over. They weren't weighed down like the Greenies were - so aside from their combat pants and jacket for warmth, their goggles and helmets for safety, their pony bottles and breathers for oxygen at such a high altitude, and their headsets on with their radios tucked inside their jackets so the onboard Jump Master, Michael, could give them their instructions, they looked naked in comparison. "My check is complete; it's Mac and Ray's turn."

Clay and Brock nodded, turning to face the two SEALs dutifully. To the untrained eye, they looked every bit the perfect representation of a Navy SEAL.

A hilarious notion, really.

Mac, who was standing at his left, turned to him. "Which problem child do you want?" The fact that all the teams knew that Brock and Clay had a reputation was as sad as it was inappropriately hilarious. "I'm happy with either."

Ray chewed his lip, his gaze flipping between his two brothers thoughtfully. "I'll take Spenser," he decided eventually. The truth of the matter was that Brock was a lost cause – that kid lived for the crazy train, and had perfected his time on it down to a fine art. That, and Trent was really the only one who had any control over the brunet at the best of times. He'd always held a sliver of hope that he'd be able to rescue Clay from the Brock-Express, that his mentoring might mellow him out over time if he kept at it.

It was a farfetched hope, but not one he was willing to let go of just yet.

He'd admitted once to Naima that if he'd known just how well those two were going to get on when he'd pushed for Clay's selection, he wouldn't have bothered.

He'd have fewer grey hairs as a result, and only one lunatic to deal with.

Mac simply nodded and waved at Brock to join him off to the side. Ray walked up to Spenser and started the pre-jump checklist. "Whatever you're planning, you don't have to go through with it," he reminded the blond, tugging one strap, then the other. "'Make good choices' is a motto for a reason."

"'Live life on the edge' is another," Clay countered with a grin.

"You little shit!" he exclaimed, unable to help himself. "You are planning something!"

"I never said that," Clay replied blithely. "It's just a good motto, is all."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

Clay rolled his eyes and gave his shoulder a pat. Ray refrained from smacking it away. "Ray, I swear we're not going to do anything when we're jumping, okay? Relax, we're not stupid."

"Good," he muttered, relieved. "Seeing you two splattered all over the landing spot is not what these kids need, and I have better things to do with my life than fill out the paperwork."

"Rude."

Now that he knew the pair weren't going to do anything stupid, he was happy enough to joke with the blond. It was amazing what losing several hundred pounds of brother-related worry could do to one's mood.

"And I happen to think our splatter would look quite fetching, actually," Clay continued. "It'd be a bit of a challenge getting a good pose when we hit the ground, but I think we could manage it."

Ray's good mood evaporated with his derisive snort. "Does it matter? It's not like anyone will remember what your faces looked like." As soon as he said it, he questioned why the hell he had. Participating in idiotic conversation was absolutely beneath him, yet he'd done it anyway. Furthermore, it only served to encourage Clay to continue, which he did.

"They will if they put up a statue," Clay countered immediately, oblivious to his annoyance. "Use it as a target for the jumpers, and a reminder that the navy lost two of its best SEALs in a tragic accident."

Ray looked at Clay. Clay looked at Ray. "No," he grunted after a stare down that he had to put an end to, knowing full well Clay would carry it on for as long as he could, goddamn stubborn prat that he was. "You won't get anything nice like that. I'll make sure of it."

"I think it'd be a great centerpiece for the LZ, is all I'm saying. The inscription could read 'Here is where -'"

"I'm done!" He said far more loudly than he needed to, shoving Clay away from him in disgust. "Checklist fucking complete."

He resolutely ignored the muffled laughter that surrounded him.

"Thanks Ray," Michael said, clapping him on the shoulder, before turning to Brock, Clay, and Tommy. The man either hadn't heard the conversation or had figured there was no point addressing it. "You fellas are cleared hot once we've got the go."

As though taking that as his cue, the crewman yelled; "Five mikes till green!"

Ray nodded and turned his attention back to the tadpoles, acutely aware of what was racing through their heads now that they had confirmation their jump was about to come: nerves, fear, adrenaline, excitement, and a myriad of other emotions.

He remembered them well, because they were ones he still felt even now.

The training they underwent in preparation for their first jump was extensive – some might even call it excessive – to ensure nothing went wrong. But there was a bit of a difference between jumping from the training tower that was two-hundred and fifty feet high, to walking out of the plane at fifteen thousand feet. For those who had never skydived before, it was frightening – and he could see that fear on several faces in the hold.

Suddenly, he was infinitely grateful for Brock and Clay's presence. Their relaxed demeanor, jokes, and general tomfoolery was hopefully a soothing balm for the new recruits. If they could see more experienced people acting casually professional – or as close to professional as those two could manage inside the wire - then it would show them there was nothing to worry about, and that they'd conquer their fear in time.

An alarm sounded, and the ramp started lowering. Ray grabbed the headset he'd left on the nearby table and put it so he could continue talking to the men as the air started screaming in the hold. "Okay Greenies, welcome to the fifteen-K drop off zone."

"Tommy, ready when you are," Michael called, his own headset firmly in place.

Tommy gave him a thumbs up, and turned to the crewman, waiting for the green light. The man had a single finger raised; the red light still active as he waited for the all clear from the pilot. The light went green, and the crewman gave them the signal.

"Reynolds, Spenser. Let's do this."

His brothers both nodded and strode to the tail side by side; their backs straight, their chin's held high. Tommy was two steps behind them, the assessment now on. Out of the corner of his eye, Ray saw all the tadpoles watching the pair intently; whether it was to see if they'd do something, or genuinely wanted to see what a true jump looked like, he had no idea. Brock lifted his fist, which Clay bumped – and then his brothers held hands as they jumped in perfect sync.

"Oh for fucks sake," he muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Weeeeeeee!" was the responding yell as the pair vanished from view. Tommy was visibly shaking his head as he jumped after them.

He turned to the recruits and wagged a finger in their direction. "They are not the example to follow until you have at least a hundred jumps, you hear me?" Probably more than that. The greenies were grinning and laughing, and Ray just shook his head. If that was to be the extent of their plans, he'd take it.

.

He was, once again, so very wrong.

They were back in the air ninety minutes later, which meant the jump planning for twenty-five thousand feet could begin.

Ray was standing with Tommy, Michael, and Mac as they reviewed the Greenies first jump, and the consensus was that all four of them were impressed with how well the tadpoles had performed their first high altitude dive.

In fact, it had been surprisingly successful.

He caught the side eye Tommy and Michael gave one another and raised a hand to silence them. "No, I don't want to hear it."

"But -"

"Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum's presence had nothing to do with how well these kids jumped," he argued hotly. "I refuse to believe those two idiots wield that much power."

The three men snickered. "Sorry Ray," Michael countered, "but I think you're wrong. I've seen a lot of groups come through here over the years, and this was by far the best one we've had in a long time. We always have at least two vomit when the ramp first opens, but no one so much as twitched towards the bucket."

"Hell, even the crewman was impressed," Tommy added. "Said he didn't need to use the supplementary oxygen on the way down like he usually does if he wants to breathe without the stench."

Ray was too busy pinching the bridge of his nose and staring at the floor that he missed Clay sneaking around the middle of the plane. The tadpoles of course noticed, but none of them breathed a word about it – all of them looking forward to seeing what would happen next.

.

When they were given the green light again, Ray was very confused when Ronan Keating's dulcet Irish voice suddenly filled the hold.

He looked around wildly, looking for the source of the music as the first few chords of 'I believe I can fly' started up. "Oh hell no!" he yelled, glaring at his brothers shit eating grins from where they were standing by the central seats.

Tommy, who was waiting near the ramp had facepalmed, and waved his other hand at them to go, not even bothering to look. He was likely adopting the 'if I can't see it, it's not happening' mentality - a core frame of mind for the senior members of Bravo these days.

"I beeeeeelieve I can fly!" Clay yelled through his mask, in sync with Ronan as he and Brock started running towards the opening.

"I beeeeeliiiiieve I can touuuuuuch the sky!" Brock added as the pair of them jumped off the ramp, going full starfish before they once again disappeared. Tommy leaped out after them – but only after he mimicked shooting himself in the head.

"I think about it every night and day. Spread my wings and fly away..." Ronan crooned to the cackling Greenies.

"Where the fuck is that goddamn speaker!" he snarled as he started searching the hold. One of the Greenies, with as innocent expression as he could manage, pointed at one of the chairs. He found the device tucked underneath the jump seat and turned it off with a vicious stab of his finger. He had half a mind to throw the damn thing out of the plane after its owner.

.

He was so going to kill them.

Ray had thought he was prepared for the final jump.

Thirty-five thousand feet was nothing to sneeze at, in fact it was the highest altitude a SEAL would ever jump from on a mission – and only ever as a worst-case scenario. It was why they included it in the training module; while supplementary oxygen was used on all three ascents, there was a big difference in pressure between the three altitudes, and it was important the greenies became familiar with it as soon as possible.

He'd spent most of the ascent glaring at his two brothers who were playing snap near to where he'd positioned himself, talking casually as though he hadn't ripped them a new one the moment he'd joined them on the ground.

What annoyed him the most was that the pair had stood there, nodding as he yelled, and simply pat him on the shoulder before walking back to the plane. What was worse was Brock's oh so helpful reminder just before they left him that they were technically on leave, and therefore weren't technically reporting to him, which meant he couldn't actually do anything to them.

It was annoyingly, infuriatingly, accurate. If this had been an official Bravo training, then he'd have every excuse under the sun to make their lives miserable for however long he saw fit.

But because he was overseeing the Greenies, and Brock and Clay were actually reporting to Tommy, he had no power over them.

It didn't mean he had to like it.

.

And he most certainly did not like it. Not one bit.

.

Tommy didn't seem to mind their antics. He was exasperated, for sure, but wasn't showing any outward signs of wanting to murder the pair. When he'd asked the man how he was so calm in the face of such idiots, he'd said some bullshit about it being a nice break from the norm. A breath of fresh air, or something equally ridiculous.

Ray had stomped off after that, extremely unimpressed.

At thirty-five thousand feet, with his oxygen mask firmly in place, Ray glared at his two brothers as they started their pre-flight checks with Tommy and Michael – knowing full well the pair had something up their sleeves.

He dreaded to think what it could be.

As it turned out, it hadn't mattered that he'd hidden Clay's speaker because the moment the ramp started lowering, another speaker hidden who knew where was activated by Brock - who fucking eyeballed him as he turned the song on with his phone – and started belting out Van Halen's 'Jump'.

The bastards stood there bopping along to the opening tune, arms waving about and dancing in perfect harmony - which told him in no uncertain terms the little shits had been planning this for far longer than they should've.

His eye twitched when he saw several of the tadpoles wiggling in place to the beat.

He pointed at the pair, then drew his thumb across his neck to communicate to the idiots that he was going to kill them. Both Clay and Brock waved back.

"Ah, can't you see me standin' here? I got my back against the record machine. I ain't the worst that you've seen. Ah, can't you see what I mean?" Van Halen sung, and Clay and Brock raised their hands in an exaggerated shrug.

"Ah, might as well jump!" Van Halen sang, and Ray watched with growing confusion as his brothers raised… their arms. Why were they raising their – wait. He recognised that position. That was one of Jameelah's gymnastics poses.

What the fuck were they doing?!

"Might as well jump!" Van Halen instructed just as the light went green. Ray watched in stunned disbelief as the pair ran down the length of the plane, and just before they reached the tail they leaped forward into a roundoff before twisting, perfectly executing three backflips and finished by leaping off the tail – both of them facing him as they delivered a salute before dropping out of sight.

"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!" he roared after them.

"Go ahead and jump!" were Van Halen's parting words to the pair.

Mac had collapsed on the floor laughing, his phone capturing Ray's expression and the roaring laughter of everyone else on board.

Ray was about ready to jump out after them, parachute be damned, if only to kick their asses all the way to the ground.

Later that night, gathered around a table in the Bulkhead, Ray was wedged between Mac and Tommy while Michael and the other Greenies were standing by the darts board with Brock and Clay.

His two brothers had a free night at the bar on account of everyone shouting their drinks, and everyone was rapidly getting drunk.

Mac nudged him, drawing his attention away from where the Greenies were bent over someone's phone, watching the video with wide grins for what had to be the tenth time that evening. "What?"

"If you ever want a break from them, let me know because I'll take them," Mac replied. "God knows my lot could use a personality injection; they're boring as shit some days."

When asked, Brock and Clay had cheerfully told everyone they'd been preparing for this for months by signing up to the gymnastics gym just to learn how to do the backflips with their gear on. That's right - it hadn't been a spur of the moment thing. They'd planned it. Right down to the dance routine, courtesy of the students and trainers at the gym who had agreed to help them when they learned of his idiot brothers' reasons.

And all this was something Mac apparently found admirable. What the fuck?

"Remind me tomorrow and I'll arrange the transfer papers," he muttered, taking a long swig of his drink. He had no idea if anyone else on Bravo had seen the video yet – which thanks a fucking bunch for that, Mac – but if not, it was only a matter of time. "I want those two bastards out of my hair for at least a decade."

Mac and Tommy cackled wildly at that. He didn't give a shit what Jason said about it; Brock and Clay were fucking grounded.

An undetermined amount of time later

.

"Brock." There was a poke to his cheek, which he ignored. "Brock." There was another poke that went ignored, although that was a little harder to do the second time around. "Brooooooock."

The rapid-fire poking was impossible to ignore. "Wha?" he mumbled, looking up blearily. "Wazzit?"

"You sleeping?"

He tried blinking the fuzziness away from his eyes, but failed miserably. "Noooo." He'd been waiting for his liver to catch up with the rest of him, so he'd decided to take a five-minute breather. He'd lost track of how many drinks he'd had a while back, but he sure as hell was glad he wasn't paying for them.

"Phew!" Clay said brightly, slinging an arm over his shoulder and jostling him far more than necessary. "That's good. I thought I'd woken you."

"You're drunk," he said accusingly, wagging a finger at one of the two Clay's he could see. There was a fifty-fifty chance he got it right, so he was confident about his chances.

"Drunk?!" Clay protested, scandalised as he shook his head. "I'm not -" he paused and swallowed visibly. "Oh. Hm. Yes. Yes, I might be. You are too, though."

"Nooooo," he hiccuped. "I'm just very, very tipsy."

Clay scoffed and waved a hand dismissively, and just about went careening off to the side when he lost his balance. "Sure, sure," he muttered when he stumbled back to the table, leaning on him heavily. The blond went quiet, so Brock laid his head down again – only to startle upright when the blond slammed his hands on the table an inch from his face. "BUT!"

"Jesus, Spense. What?"

Clay held his phone out. Blinking rapidly to try focus his eyes, he took the device. He was still seeing double a minute later.

"My eyes need to sober up. What am I looking at?"

Clay heaved a sigh of annoyance. "I got a bingo, silly. C'mon Broccoli, pay attention."

"What?!" he frowned at the phone, and through his swimming vision could have sworn he was looking at a picture. "I'm... why am I looking at a picture of... what is that?"

"What?" Clay took his phone back and laughed far too loudly for Brock's drunk eyeballs. "It's a dog with an ice-cream cone on its head. Someone stuck the picture in the men's bathroom. Cute right?" Clay turned the phone to show him, but was apparently also having depth perception issues as he smacked Brock's poor, poor nose with the screen. "Oh, sozzies."

"Ow," he whined. Clay shook the phone at him, and he took it reluctantly – only to find the bingo card and that Clay had indeed won. "You did." He pouted at the phone, disappointed. If Sober-Brock's memory served correctly, he still had three squares to go. "Naw. My wallet's all sad now."

"Naw, that is sad," Clay said solemnly, patting him on the shoulder. "Sorry wallet. Thanks Brocky boy."

Brock sighed sadly, before catching sight of Ray who was on the phone, shaking his head as he looked at them. Knowing their Den-Mother, he was probably calling them a cab. Or calling Jason.

Oh boy.

Chapter notes: According to the US Department of Defense website when I googled US Military parajump training; During Ground Week, you learn how you're supposed to jump, activate your reserve parachute and recover from "the drag" - being dragged across the drop zone if the wind catches your chute. During Tower Week, trainees learn about all the bad things that can happen, like landing in trees, water, etc., and how to get out of those situations. You then get to practice what you've learned by jumping off a 250-foot freefall tower - something that's often harder for students than jumping out of an actual airplane.

And on Wikipedia when I googled High-altitude military parachuting: In military operations, HALO is also used for delivering equipment, supplies, or personnel, while HAHO is generally used exclusively for personnel. In typical HALO/HAHO insertions the troops jump from altitudes between 15,000 and 35,000 feet (4,600 and 10,700 m). Military parachutists will often reach a terminal velocity of 126 mph (203 km/h), allowing for a jump time under two minutes.