Chapter Text
“Wanna get out of here?”
One of the groomsmen, your arm looped through his, is looking at you, the maid of honour. And as much as you love Bob & Lucy – whose wedding is literally about to happen right this minute – you’re sick to death of this guy already.
“Oh, are you offering to leave?” you quip.
He turns over his shoulder. “Lucy, you need nicer friends.”
“You need better manners,” the bride replies. She smiles nervously at you, and you smile reassuringly back.
You were overjoyed for your best friend when she told you about the guy she’d started seeing: a naval aviator with a heart of gold who kept visiting her at the library where she works. When she asked you to be her maid of honour, you cried with joy.
The job has its perks. It also has its downfalls, including one particularly muscly, blonde, annoying, frat boy-ish downfall: Jake Seresin, one of Bob’s best friends, also known by all his friends as Hangman.
You were curious to finally get to know some of Bob’s friends; Phoenix, you met at Lucy’s bridal shower and already consider a friend of your own. Rooster, you liked as soon as he gave you a firm handshake and a warm smile at the rehearsal dinner. Payback has already taught you a cool handshake; Fanboy, it turns out, has the same favourite show as you; Coyote is a bit reserved, but it’s nothing you can’t crack. Hangman, though? At the rehearsal dinner, he was loud, abrasive, cocky, and self-obsessed. His whole down-home, yeehaw, Texas charm braggadociousness? It’s not doing it for you.
“Watch out for Hangman,” Phoenix had told you. “He thinks you’re cute.”
“The feeling is not mutual,” you said.
“Dang, girl,” Coyote laughed. “Leaving him out to dry.”
“Only doing what his name suggests,” you responded.
Coyote high-fived you. “Hangman, have you heard this girl?”
Hangman looked up at the sound of his name, giving you his best fall for me look: one that you returned with a glare.
Okay, so Coyote’s kinda cool.
***
“I didn’t know men still carry handkerchiefs,” you tell Hangman. The reception is in full swing, and he has followed you into the corner where you went to have a moment to yourself with a glass of champagne. In fact, he’s been following you around all night.
“Oh, you caught that?” he says, obviously pleased. When Bob burst into tears at the sight of his bride in her wedding gown, Hangman gave him a kerchief from his pocket.
“Hard to miss.” You take a sip of your champagne. “It was cute.”
“I have my moments, sweetheart.” He winks at you, lifting his beer in a toast; you clink your glass against the bottle. “How about you finish that glass and dance with me?”
Dare you say the thought is… appealing? He looks so regal, almost glowing, in his dress whites. And you do love to dance. You stare at the bottom of your glass. “What makes you think I’m the dancing type?”
“I have a sense about these things.” He leans an elbow on the table, closing the space between the two of you and gazing down at you. That smirk is so self-assured.
“Shame.” You put your champagne glass on a table and start to retreat towards the head table, where the bride and groom overlook the party. “I think I hear Lucy calling my name,” you say with a laugh. “One dance, Bagman. I’ll tell you when.” You laugh even harder at the sight of his face smiling back at you with that hungry look – that groomsman intending to bed the maid of honour bravado that, so far, hasn’t impressed you much.
According to Phoenix, calling him “Bagman” is one of the best ways to get under his skin. You intend to weaponize this fact to its fullest extent.
***
Hangman manages to corner you again: this time while you’re chatting with Rooster and Phoenix. Rooster keeps touching Phoenix’s shoulder in a way that seems more than friendly. From across the room, you keep trying to make eye contact with Bob or Lucy so you can be all these two? Did you know? But they’re busy receiving visitors to their table, Bob’s arm around Lucy as she tilts her head back and laughs at something Coyote just told her. In fact, it’s seeing Coyote that makes you wonder where his right-hand man, Hangman, has gone, and the answer, of course, is to wherever you are.
“You're like a dog with a bone,” you tell Hangman when you notice him at your elbow.
He’s taken off his hat, and he tucks it under his elbow. “I am a fighter pilot, sweetheart. I’m not likely to take my sights off a target.” He smiles; his eyes are green and cool, a soft shade, but they simmer with heat, and when they’re focused on you, it’s enough to make your knees a bit unsteady.
“Wait, you’re a fighter pilot? For the Navy? Wow, I – I’m shocked. This is the first time I've heard.”
“Alright, alright,” he laughs. “Time to cash in on that promise you made me.” Plopping his hat down on a table, he offers you his hand. “One dance?”
You sigh heavily and place your hand in his white-gloved palm. “For Lucy,” you say pointedly as he leads you out onto the floor.
“That’s just the thing, honey,” he says, draping a hand on your waist. “I may have promised the handsome couple that we’d aid and abet their getaway.” Clasping your hand in his, he waggles his eyebrows, his eyes crinkling as he grins his TV-perfect grin.
You twirl around under his arm, smiling back at his mirth. “What do you have in mind?”
The two of you move in a circle, your back to his front; he places his hand on your elbow as he leads you around. “Surely a cultured woman like you is familiar with 'Dirty Dancing'.”
You look over your shoulder at him. He looks at you. The way his eyes smolder, you might actually commit a crime with him if he asked.
Just maybe not today. “Absolutely not,” you say.
“Come on,” he says, leading you in a little jig to the side and back. “It’ll totally work — everyone’ll be busy watching me be the second coming of Patrick Swayze and those kids can get outta here, undetected. Stealth mission. Easy peasy.”
You peer at him. “Are you always this full of it?”
“If by it, you mean charm, charisma, and dancing skills to boot? I sure am, sweetheart.” He does a little flex. Like, actually curls his bicep while smirking and holding your gaze.
You exhale a long, exasperated sigh. “Amazing,” you say, “That you’re actually one of Bob’s friends. I didn’t know he kept company with such…”
“Hotties?”
“Assholes.”
He barks a laugh. “Ouch. Surely I’m not that bad.”
“Oh, I think you just might be.”
“Might be… too good to be true? Darlin’, you are not the first to think so.”
You give him a sharp look. He merely smiles his thousand-watt smile, a spotlight all its own, extending his arm out so you can twirl away and then back into his embrace. He is right about one thing: he is a great dancer.
As you move around the floor, the music changes: “Time of My Life” starts playing.
You stop abruptly, looking at Hangman. His grin is so wide it’s almost blinding.
What the hell. It could be fun. You lean up on your tiptoes and whisper into his ear, “Tell me when.”
As the song builds, a space clears. You move to the other side of the dance floor. Hangman peels off his gloves and tucks them into his breast pocket, then motions to you; you take a few running steps, then leap up as his hands grasp your hips.
You barely make it over his head when his hand slips off your thigh — the slippery satin of your dress is to thank — and everything happens so fast.
You crash onto his shoulder. He goes to tuck you against his chest but only manages to snatch your arm; you cry out in pain as it wrenches out of its socket, and you hit the floor with a thud. Your shoulder is on fire. You go still, trying to take stock of what just happened, but the pain is so intense you can barely breathe; you hold your arm to your chest, and the room tilts.
Just as fast as it happened, Hangman bundles you up into his arms and rushes you over to a table, plopping you gently into a chair. He kneels down next to you; vision swimming from the pain, you try to focus on him. His face is intent, his bravado replaced with a look of urgent concentration as he examines your shoulder. You hiss as his hand skims over the muscle. The hubbub of the injury has caused the dagger squad to crowd in with interest. You hear Phoenix’s voice: “It’s dislocated, Hangman.”
“Can I take your arm?” Hangman murmurs to you. “I have to set your shoulder.”
You might argue back, but your brain is too fuzzy to compose an insult and you nod quickly, tight-lipped.
Gently, Hangman takes your hand and extends it out, causing you to hiss in pain. “Coyote!” he barks over his shoulder. “Get her something to drink!” He looks at you, and his voice goes soft as he says, “Sit up straight. Take some deep breaths. And darlin’, try to hold still.”
Wincing, you do your best, trying to get more air into your lungs. Coyote appears and hands you an iced tea; “To distract you,” he says. Your hand shakes as you take a sip.
Hangman brings your arm forwards a bit; Phoenix gets down on his other side and starts talking to you, asking you about your work, how you know Lucy, and do you have any pets? Then Payback pops up next to her — “Y/N, I made you this out of a napkin!” It’s a little flower. Baffled, you grin incredulously as he tucks it behind your ear. Rooster calls on you, and when you look at him, he breaks out into the goofiest dance move you’ve ever seen, and the whole moment is so ridiculous that you burst out laughing.
Phoenix and Hangman have their heads together. “Keep dancin’, Rooster!” Hangman calls.
He rotates your arm. The movement is firm, but gentle; you gasp in shock as pain sears across your shoulder, and there’s a horrible click as the bone pops back into place.
Immediately, the pain lessens. The dagger squad starts whooping in victory. You take a deep, relieved breath, Hangman’s hands still grasping your arm.
“That feel okay?” he asks. The abrupt change in his demeanor is startling: he’s looking at you with utter concern, as if only now that he’s fixed it has he realized what just happened.
You nod, gently touching your shoulder in wonder. “Actually, it does.” It still hurts, but nowhere near as much; your hand is more steady as you take a sip of your iced tea. “Thanks, Jake.”
He runs a hand across his face. You notice his fingers shaking. He looks at Phoenix, then back at you, something desperate in his expression.
“You took that like a champ,” Phoenix tells you reassuringly, patting Hangman on the shoulder.
“You know what they say,” pipes Fanboy, on the other side of you. “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”
“Now that’s a callsign,” says Rooster, and the whole team starts laughing and whooping — someone touches your good shoulder in a congratulatory way. All of a sudden, there are plans to take you to the hospital in Rooster’s truck, just to make sure your arm’s all taken care of; Payback heads back to his DJ station to keep the party going, Phoenix takes your other arm and helps you out to the truck (you don’t miss the surreptitious kiss Rooster places on her forehead once she’s helped you into the front seat), and Coyote and Fanboy wave goodbye as you pull away from the venue.
But there’s no sign of Hangman. Rooster’s phone, stood up against the console, doesn’t light up with any texts from him. One hospital visit later, Rooster’s pulling away from your apartment and it’s something like 3 in the morning and you ease yourself into bed and fall straight to sleep.
All things considered, the distraction worked: so well, in fact, that Hangman disappeared, too.