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She has faced fifth gen fighters, evaded surface-to-air missiles in hostile territory, and punched out of a burning hornet in the middle of a nosedive into the Pacific without breaking a sweat, but it's the sight of an all too familiar, spectacularly tanned, naked body lying face down in bed next to her that has Natasha questioning every single choice she has made in her life. The hangover is excruciating, her tongue feels like sandpaper, and her body is the kind of sore that would normally signal a great night if only it didn't involve the idiot next to her.
"Why does this keep happening?" she asks herself. And God. And maybe even Satan himself as he starts to wake up next to her with a groan.
"Phoenix, has anyone ever told you that you're a blanket hog?" Hangman grumbles as he tugs on the only sliver of bedsheet left that is not currently wrapped around her like a burrito. If literally anyone else was lying next to her, Phoenix's voice might have slipped into a sexy whisper as she admitted to ulterior motives while offering to keep him warm, but it's Hangman so the only thing she feels is mortification and self-hatred. He turns over to look at her, supporting his weight on an elbow like he's posing for Botticelli in fifteenth century Italy, not an ounce of shame on his face.
"For fuck's sake," Phoenix exclaims as she tosses a pillow at him to cover up, "this isn't a goddamn nudist colony."
"It's nothing you haven't seen before," he says with a wink that promises that he'd be more than happy to refresh her memory if she has forgotten what it feels like to have him pressed close. Natasha drops her head into her hands with a groan. Maybe this would stop happening if she could just forget the way their sweaty bodies scramble to create friction as the current sizzles between them, but her stubborn brain insists on adding new clips to the highlight reel whenever they're drunk. She should be lobotomized. Natasha is about to tell him this is all his fault when he beats her to the punch with "You're the one who seduced me, Phoenix."
"Only in your wet dreams, Bagman," she snorts. He arches an eyebrow and patiently waits for her vague memories to sharpen into a focus that indicates otherwise before Phoenix hisses, "Fuck."
*
Everything leading up to last night's rendition of Yet Another Colossal Mistake is mostly a blur, but she remembers snippets: many toasts to Maverick and Penny's happiness with pre-wedding mint juleps that are heavy on the bourbon; the sun glinting off Jake's aviators when he shows up to the beach wedding in a striped seersucker suit and navy blue tie that makes him look like a hot, blonde version of Colonel Sanders if he was rebooted in the same Hollywood factory that created superheroes designed to make grown women defend CGI as an art form while ogling some himbo's pecs in IMAX; the matching pocket square he wordlessly hands her when she can't stop crying during the vows; the reception at the oceanfront ballroom where the newly married couple dances to "At Last"; the real reception hours later at The Hard Deck with an open bar, too few appetizers, and a steady stream of 80s pop rock with unironic saxophone solos playing from the jukebox.
Phoenix is waiting at the bar with Hangman for another round of drinks for the group when she feels his fingers brush her spine as he leans in to tell her that she looks good tonight. She's wearing a strappy black dress with a slit high enough to border on indecent for the old admiral crowd from earlier and heels that make her as tall as Hangman for once.
"You look like an unemployed librarian, Bagman," Phoenix lies as she turns around to grin at him. They have been on leave for two weeks and he has taken this time to grow a beard that has the effect of making him look devastatingly handsome while also drawing attention to his stupid mouth. She watches the tip of his tongue dart out to lick his bottom lip as if in slow motion and wonders what that would feel like against her body as if she doesn't already know from previous experience.
"Maybe I should start reciting the Dewey decimal system," Hangman whispers in her ear, his smirk so obvious that she can practically hear it behind his words. He smells like citrus and jasmine, heady and familiar and completely out of place in an institution where Payback and Fanboy are currently trying to flick peanuts into each other's mouths with pool sticks.
"You know how to read?" She laughs at Hangman's faux pout. Natasha can see the bartender making his way towards them next, a shot clock now projecting onto the bottom of her field of vision as she debates how this night is going to go. When she curls her hand around the tail of Jake's tie, Natasha can't be sure if it is to maintain her balance or to keep him close while her lips brush the corner of his mouth and she suggests that they get out of here so he can impress her with all the big words he knows.
*
"So we'll just pretend that this didn't happen," Natasha tries to say conclusively as she slips on a canary colored sleeveless dress. Her voice would have held more conviction if they hadn't had a quickie in the shower five minutes ago – there's a drought warning in California; water conservation is the first responsible thing she has done in the past twenty-four hours! – or if they hadn't paused long enough last night for Hangman to grab the overnight bag from his hotel room down the hall before they stumbled into her room to finish tearing off each other's clothes in private. God, if this were a murder, they'd get life for premeditation.
"Again." Sensing her confusion, Hangman clarifies, "We'll just pretend that this didn't happen again. And again. And again. And again. Gee, Phoenix, how many times are we up to by now?"
She doesn't have to look in the mirror to know that she's blushing, but Natasha covers up her embarrassment by shooting a furious glance at his reflection and sneers, "I've blocked it out because you're a terrible lay."
"Oh right," he snickers, "you keep jumping my bones because the sex is so bad."
As she crosses the room to grab a blazer, Natasha shrugs so cavalierly that it would shatter anyone with even the slightest bit of humility, but she's talking to a man who has never had a crisis of faith in his entire life. In fact, she'd argue that Hangman displays more unearned confidence regarding topics that he doesn't have the foggiest clue about than actual experts in the field. Naturally, he's downright insufferable when it comes to the things he's good at: flying, flirting, and fucking. Natasha will begrudgingly admit – only to herself; she'd rather die than tell him – that he is fantastic in bed. For a guy who spends most of his waking hours being a selfish prick, he is surprisingly attentive in the sack. The sex has only gotten better each time as if he keeps updating a cheat sheet of what drives her crazy.
Before her brain can skip down memory lane again, Natasha says quickly with an evil smile, "I'm trying to be more charitable to those with limited skills." She reaches up to the back of his neck to fold down his popped collar while Jake finishes tying a Windsor knot.
"You're Mother Teresa if she had a dirty mind and—" Natasha clamps her hand over his mouth and feels him smirk against her palm. Why can't she stop touching him? Did the part of her brain responsible for inhibitions get knocked loose last night when they were boning?
Phoenix needs to put more distance between them if she's going to convince him that the best course of action is to ghost each other despite having literally the same social circle of only eleven other people who can do what they do at an elite level. Instead, she tells Jake that this stupid tie makes him look like he works for the IRS, reaches over to tug it loose, and throws it somewhere behind her. Her muscle memory of doing the same thing last night when she had far less clothes on is so visceral that Natasha would've tripped backwards if his hands weren't bracketing her hips. His neuronal synapses must fire off with the same sense of déjà vu as hers because it looks like there's an imaginary line tugging the corner of his mouth into the shape of a knowing grin when he looks at her.
"Penny will kill us if we're late to brunch," she mumbles, as much for her benefit as it is for him. The newlyweds rented out an entire floor of rooms at the famous Hotel del Coronado for the squad so that Mav could be sure they'd all be there for one last breakfast together before he left for his honeymoon.
"We've still got thirty minutes."
"And?" Natasha refuses to be the one to initiate this again.
"I only need ten."
"That is really not as impressive as you think it is, Bagman," she starts to quip, but his hands are already lifting Phoenix up and pressing her back against the mahogany paneling of the closet door. Natasha's fingers curl into his hair as he kisses up her neck and asks if that's a challenge.
*
Most of Natasha's impulsive decisions carry a sheen of madness to an outside observer. She joined the navy and now routinely flies missions that would be more at home in the pages of a comic book than in real life. It is crazy but no crazier than the things that those around her are doing so maybe that is what keeps her from losing her mind.
After they save the free world with their fancy flying but before Mav announces that he's getting hitched, Cyclone grants the entire squad three weeks of leave to blow off steam. It is surprising but the way Bob explains it, there was a study done by the University of Utah in 1995 that discovered that exposing pilots to repeated stressors without the appropriate support systems in place – namely no time off after a completed mission – led to deteriorating performance, which in turn resulted in greater human error, aviation accidents, and the loss of millions of dollars' worth of aircraft. An independent cost-benefit analysis by the navy found that giving flyboys a few weeks off after a big mission was fiscally and politically more favorable than fishing dead pilots out of the water or holding out their hands to increase the congressional budget to recoup for the planes they flew into mountains before they shuffled off this mortal coil. Sure, Cyclone is being more generous than most, but he is also making sure that they'll be ready for the next impossible task once they return.
He dismisses them without fanfare and, like BB gun pellets spilling to the ground, everyone scatters in different directions to be around people who don't know about Mach speeds or how close they came to receiving goodbye letters. Natasha travels up the coast to Los Angeles to trade in flight suits for teatime and tiaras with her nieces during the day and frozen margaritas and girl talk with their mom at night. Unlike her parents who believe that top secret means they only need to make the right combination of guesses in the hot and cold game to hear about her missions, Natasha's older sister Kate is too familiar with the NDAs that come with being an entertainment lawyer to needle Natasha about the finer details of her job.
When Bob texts pictures from the family ranch in Montana, Kate peaks over her shoulder and asks if they're dating. Once Natasha finishes gagging, she tells Kate that it would be like dating their dopey baby brother Russell, who is currently showing their parents around Sweden while finishing up a PhD on the future of fusion reactors to achieve zero-carbon power. It is just the kind of thing she imagines Bob would be into if he turned to physics instead of the navy. It's also why Mav asking what she would tell Bob's parents if she killed him haunts her to this day.
While she is distracted thinking about Bob's mortality, Kate grabs her phone to scroll through the squad's group texts until she comes to a picture that Hondo insisted on taking to commemorate their temporary truce following the dogfight football game on the beach.
"Bradley's going for a whole Tom Selleck vibe, huh?" her sister asks. In their late 20s when Natasha was still about saving strays, she had dragged Rooster home with her for Thanksgiving one year because the alternative was him microwaving a Hungry Man dinner in the mess hall and listening to Jerry Lee Lewis on repeat. Her sister spent the entire night trying to figure out if Natasha was trying to soft launch a new boyfriend before deciding that it really was that Bradley was simply too pathetic to leave to his own devices.
"I think it's supposed to be an homage?" Natasha replies but before she can explain to what, Kate has already zoomed in on Hangman flashing the camera his best impression of the Blue Steel pout.
"Natasha," her sister gasps like the sight of Jake Seresin's sun kissed abs have scandalized all of Victorian society. "Tell me you are hitting this."
Natasha frowns at Kate. Normally, she'd launch into a tirade about standards and how she's not going to sleep with the first douchebag who looks good in Wayfarers and has a glistening six pack, but she has never been able to successfully lie to her sister and she doubts that losing streak is going to end now.
"Ugh, I regretted it both times." It's a conservative estimate, but Kate's always been about the bigger picture anyway. Before she can ask if there's an anatomical reason why, Natasha groans that her life would be much easier if Hangman had a weird dick.
"Really not seeing the problem with banging a dude named Hangman who looks like this, Nat."
"He's basically like James Spader in an 80s movie?"
Her sister appears to consider this for a long moment before she holds up her glass of frosé and toasts, "Congrats, baby sister. You're living the dream."
*
Despite her warnings not to mess up her hair, Hangman gets too handsy so they're twenty minutes late to the farewell-for-now brunch. Penny gives her a pointed look that Natasha resolutely ignores as she slips into her seat. Coyote is delivering a speech about the power of love with all the flourish of a fictional president imploring the world to rally against a common enemy to save humanity.
"That was beautiful, buddy," Bob compliments when he's done, wiping an imaginary tear from his face while the rest of the group starts a slow clap.
At the end of brunch, Maverick once again makes everyone promise to be on their best behavior like they're a group of feral children who have not yet completed their rehabilitation. After everyone swears on their aircrafts, Maverick turns to Phoenix and makes her promise to keep these clowns in check. It's the worst kept secret in Top Gun that even though Bradshaw's the one with whom he has all that emotional baggage, Natasha is Mav's favorite out of the group. She's the only one who listens to his instructions instead of tuning in for the first half of his orders and winging the rest, her dogfighting skills improving under his tutelage so that she has learned to execute a couple of signature Maverick moves almost as good as him.
"When did he become such a dad?" Fritz whispers to Omaha, which causes them both to immediately get the most dad glare of all time from Mav.
"It'll be fine," Hondo assures him when it is time to go. "How much trouble can they possibly get into?"
Mav's eyebrows lift clear to heaven. Quickly changing the topic, Rooster promises to call Amelia to check in while the newlyweds are in Portofino for two weeks and she's with her dad. It takes half a dozen more assurances that the world won't end if Maverick goes on vacation before Penny all but drags him into her little Speedster so they don't miss their flight.
The squad watches the Porsche until it becomes a speck in the horizon before Warlock turns to them and says, "You've got one more week of leave left. I don't care what you do or where you do it as long as I don't get a call in the middle of the night informing me that any of you have been arrested." With a curt nod of finality, Warlock and Hondo head inside for some more shrimp cocktail.
They're barely off the outdoor patio before Fanboy stands on top of a plastic chair and whoops, "Vegas, baby!" Realistically, they are going to get the same degree of blackout drunk in Nevada that they would right here at home, but the odds of screwing up are much greater in the city of sin and, therefore, infinitely more appealing to a group of people who thrive on defying the odds.
*
The problem with Hangman – and, God, there are so many problems with Hangman; most of the time, he's barely a facsimile of a person – is that he knows how to put his stupid mouth to good use. Jake Seresin can weave a tapestry of bullshit so exquisite that Sotheby's would want to put it up for auction. He convinces Lauren at the ticket counter to upgrade them to first class by licking his bottom lip and leaning in close to compliment her nail polish. His smooth talk and the subsequent fantasy playing in her head that involves running those same nails down Hangman's back is probably the biggest thrill Lauren has gotten today so Jake insists that it's a victimless crime when Natasha shoots him a look of disgust.
"Early bird gets the worm, fellas," Jake shouts out as they pass their long-suffering friends in the ticket line on their way to the first-class lounge. Hangman gives them a cocky salute to really pour the salt in their wounds.
"Et tu, Brute?" Coyote howls at her from the back of the line like a moron, the old ladies nearby shooting dirty looks at him for causing such a commotion at eight in the morning.
"I benefited from proximity!" Phoenix insists before disappearing behind the automatic doors. Turning to Hangman with a frown, she groans, "You're a freakin' idiot."
"An idiot who scored you more leg room. You can thank me whenever," he says with a wink. Natasha rolls her eyes and begs him to hold his breath so she can have even more room when he drops dead before the flight.
Naturally, their flight is delayed. There are only so many times that Phoenix can flip through the same issue of Vanity Fair before her eyes start to glaze over. Across from her, Hangman yawns while tapping on his screen repeatedly, undoubtedly playing Madden on his phone like he does whenever he doesn't have another outlet for his abundant energy. He has sunk down so low in his comfy seat that his legs are practically reaching across the beige carpeting to her. Natasha groans inwardly – where is her goddamn self-control? – before kicking him in the shin to get his attention and motioning towards the restrooms with her head. He gives her a broad smile and she hates herself.
"This is the last time," Phoenix insists a few minutes later when she's pressed between Hangman and the edge of the marble sink counter in the accessible bathroom at the Delta Sky Club first class lounge, his fingers sliding into her as he reminds her that's what she said the last time too. She knows he's right, which makes it even more infuriating, but maybe this is a How Stella Got Her Groove Back kind of thing. She's on leave, which is basically the military equivalent of being on vacation; if Angela Bassett can have a summer fling in Jamaica before putting her life back in order, then Phoenix can surely get sleeping with Hangman out of her system before they head back to the real world.
"Did I just blow your mind or something?" he asks her, waving a hand in front of her face. "I know I'm good, but—"
"Shut up, Bagman."
Jake shrugs casually like he can't be bothered to figure this out when there are more pressing issues at hand. Her hands pull at his hair once he decides to devote his energy to being useful as Hangman does a bang-up job of showing her what other hidden talents his stupid mouth possesses. He's still the most infuriating person she has ever met, but at least he takes direction well.
*
"Whatever happened to 'what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas'?" Natasha asks with a frat bro imitation that is designed to annoy Hangman because it sounds absolutely nothing like him.
"Still applies," Jake replies, pushing the strap of her tank top off her shoulder so he can kiss across her collar and down her arm like he's following a road map to somewhere unknown to her.
"You need to stop looking at me like that," she warns with a hiss.
"Like what?" Jake asks, annoyed that he needs to stop kissing her to ask for clarification.
This is a conversation that would feel less muddled if she wasn't in the middle of frantically pulling his clothes off, but Phoenix trusts that Hangman is capable enough to discern truth from horniness when she exclaims, "Like you've seen me naked!"
And here Hangman literally stops what he's doing to give her a look so incredulous that Natasha feels her face burn hot before he even gets the chance to say something aggravating like, "But Phoenix, what do you think is happening right now?" or "I've seen you naked so many times that I can draw you like one of Jack's French girls."
To his credit, what he actually says is fractionally less douchey than she imagined: "Is this your way of introducing blindfolds into our dynamic?"
*
"I have so many questions," Jake squeals as he bursts in through the terrace doors once Rooster is gone. The glee in his voice is so irritating that Natasha contemplates shoving him back onto the balcony and locking the doors behind her to let him suffer in Nevada's oppressive dry heat all night. She had tossed out Hangman's short sleeve button down onto the balcony with him when she was scrambling to remove all traces of him from her room before letting Bradley in; now, she notices for the first time that Jake's shirt is already soaked through with sweat, the white cotton obscenely clinging to him like he's the chiseled romantic lead in an Austenian period piece if the wardrobe department was also into tiny anchor prints and shopped at Bonobos.
"You're getting no answers," she quickly says, clearing her throat. Natasha already feels bad enough that her raging case of blue lady balls forced her to rush Bradley through coming to terms with the realization that he was not betraying Goose if he let Mav in as the father figure that they both wanted him to be; she doesn't need to hear any commentary about allusions Rooster made to their extremely brief romance while Hangman was eavesdropping from the balcony like an unrepentant shit.
Natasha glares at his elated face. Is she more annoyed at how much he is enjoying this or that he's not even the slightest bit bothered by it? Phoenix would need a much stronger drink than what the hotel mini fridge has to offer to figure that out.
"You and Rooster, huh?"
"Me and Rooster nothing," Phoenix shoots back even though she knows better. "I don't expect a sociopath like you to understand friendship."
She is not about to tell him about the one and only spectacularly awkward date she had with Bradley where making flirty small talk with each other during dinner was so painful that they ducked out before the entrees arrived to go to a one-night-only showing of the Terminator sequel at Portside Cinema in an effort to avoid talking about their non-romance for at least the two hours it took for killing machine Arnold Schwarzenegger to understand why human beings cried. Immediately after the credits started to roll, the projectionist, who was extremely high by then, shouted from his little booth up top that he was going to play it again right the fuck now, this is a goddamn masterpiece so that in lieu of having a conversation, Rooster wordlessly gave her a celebratory fist bump to cement their extremely platonic friendship before shouting, "Fuck yeah!" at the guy who was most definitely getting fired tomorrow morning.
"Probably took you to dinner and a movie like an amateur," Hangman speculates.
"Going to dinner and a movie is a perfectly acceptable—"
"Yeah, yeah. The height of romance for unimaginative nerds everywhere. I am shocked it didn't last, Phoenix."
"For the last time, there was nothing to—"
"Alright, Joey Potter," he says, raising his arms in surrender, "I don't need to hear about what Bradshaw journaled in his Moleskine after you let him get to second base out of pity."
Phoenix rolls her eyes because there's no point in arguing with a toddler. Nevertheless, she can't stop herself from reciprocating with, "What would you know about romance, Bagman? You're hardly an authority on the matter."
She once left him in her apartment for five minutes while she went downstairs to grab Thai food from the delivery guy only to return to find Hangman had hijacked her Alexa to start playing Color Me Badd's "I Wanna Sex You Up" at full volume as mood music the moment she walked back in. Natasha nearly dropped the green curry in her haste to shut the door before her millennial neighbors assumed she was the one with terrible taste, but completely failed to curb her laughter as Jake danced his way towards her like the ousted member of a boy band going through an identity crisis. Did she want to sex him up? Indeed, but that had more to do with the stellar success of his core workouts than it did with any smooth moves on display.
"You want romance?" he asks now, making a face like he can't believe how quickly this conversation has turned into a trash fire.
"From you? God, no!" she exclaims, equally horrified that he would even go there. Why would she want to buy the cow when she is already getting the milk for free?
"Thank fuck," he exhales with the kind of relief that usually comes from dodging a bullet.
He runs a hand through his hair. Like the overheated exhibitionist that he is, Hangman undid all the buttons of his ridiculous shirt at some point during their discussion, so Phoenix has no choice now but to follow the bead of sweat trickling from the dip of his neck down his chest to uncharted territory below. The only thing Natasha wants to do is down a shot of tequila and chase it by licking the salt off his skin. Her hand curls around his flank for balance as she pulls herself into his personal space and hisses, "If I wanted all this conversation, I would've turned on Colbert, Seresin."
*
"The vibes are off," Callie says with narrowed eyes, motioning at the space between Natasha and Jake with her fork. Many aviators are superstitious, but Callie is a couple of energy crystals away from becoming one of those New Age Reiki healers who can sense an imbalance in a person's aura by waving a hand over their chakra.
"Oh please, not with the goddamn vibes again, Halo," Hangman begs through a mouthful of burger.
"She's right," Coyote chimes in, peering from Natasha to Jake like he could unlock a mystery if he looked hard enough at their faces. "You two have been less hostile than usual."
"I just threatened to stab him with my dinner fork," Natasha points out disbelievingly.
"Yeah, but, like, affectionately," Fritz offers, his eyes hazy from having too many fruity drinks in massive cocktail glasses because he likes the little umbrellas.
"You can't stab someone affectionately," Natasha huffs.
"Not true," Fanboy says. "It happened to me once. We continued dating for six months until she keyed my mom's car because I forgot our three-quarters-anniversary."
"We can talk about how you need to look for love in better places later, Mick," Payback says, patting his WSO on the shoulder before turning back to Phoenix. "Where did you guys disappear to last night when the rest of us were at the craps table?"
"I went to see the volcano eruption at the Mirage," Natasha replies immediately, prepared for this interrogation for days.
"I was taking a nap." She looks at Hangman like he's the dumbest person she has ever met, but Jake just shrugs and tells them that it's exhausting being this good looking all the time. "You guys could use some beauty rest yourselves."
It should not work at all, but the idea of Phoenix and Hangman hooking up is so unhinged to anyone who knows either of them that even a sprinkling of something that sounds like it could be true is enough to throw everyone off the trail. The conversation quickly shifts to how stupid Omaha was for thinking that he could score last minute tickets to Adele's residency for this week like she was some fourth-tier singer wiling away her last days before retirement and not, as Fritz drunkenly shouts, "a goddess with the voice of an angel, dammit!"
Fanboy convinces everyone that since they only have two more sleeps left in Vegas, they need to hit up a club tonight. It sounds exhausting, but he's practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, so no one has the heart to say no. Natasha is determined to stay away from Seresin because the last thing the rumor mill needs is more fodder, but to her surprise she doesn't have to convince him to go with the plan because Jake has already come up with his own. Hangman spends most of the night surrounded by a group of increasingly drunk twenty-somethings who have come to Vegas for a bachelorette party. She sees his hand on some leggy blonde's thigh when she goes to the bar to get Bob a seltzer, rolling her eyes as she spots the silver sash with bride to be emblazoned across in sparkly pink letters. Natasha doesn't really care that he's shamelessly hitting on this woman as much as she's bothered by how much of a cliché it is. If he's going to screw a stranger, the least he could do is find one who presents more of a challenge.
Once she comes back to their booth, Bob tells her miserably that this place is giving him a migraine over the sound of an amateur DJ playing a medley featuring The Chainsmokers. It's a valid reaction to music that is awful, but once the strobe lights start to kick in and it feels like they're trapped in a Tron remake, Bob really does look like he's going to be sick. Phoenix shoots off a quick text to the group telling them she's going to take her wingman back to the rooms before he throws up on someone's Jimmy Choos.
Natasha offers to hold back Bob's hair while he yacks, but apparently half the battle is getting out of the aggressively loud nightclub and into a softly lit elevator streaming the dulcet tones of innocuous Muzak. Bob tells her that he's totally fine now and she should go back to the party, but Phoenix would rather strangle herself with DJ Dipshit's Beats headphones than suffer through another moment of that. Truthfully, she's really looking forward to taking a bubble bath and wrapping herself in one of those fluffy cotton hotel robes before crawling into bed and watching Vegas Vacation in Vegas like the universe intended.
She makes it through the first half of the movie before someone starts rapping their knuckles on her door like she's holding auditions to be in a Van Halen cover band. At first, she thinks it's Bob looking for company, but the knocking is so obnoxious that her wingman would have to be possessed to be that grating. Natasha is not even surprised when she opens the door to see Hangman's fist in the air, that persistent level of being exhausting only achieved by those who have been honing their craft for years.
"Are you drunk?" she asks, unamused. "What kind of idiot bangs on the door like that this late at night?"
"It's 10:30, Grandma. Besides, I was trying to perfect 'Hot for Teacher,'" he says because of course he was. She'd tell him that she caught onto that, but it would make him too happy and she's not really about that right now. "Are you going to let me in or what?"
"What happened to Blake Lively?"
Jake slowly smiles like has become privy to top secret information. "Her name is Joannie. Really nice gal."
"I don't care," Natasha practically sings, her head leaning against one side of the doorframe as she shoos him away. "Run along now."
"They had tickets to Cirque du Soleil so I walked the ladies to the Bellagio—"
"I'm really not looking for a play-by-play, dickface."
"Unlike you, I was at least trying to throw the squad off our scent!"
"Why are you here?" she asks. Before Hangman can reply, Natasha's eyes go wide and she starts to tell him that if he's trying to convince her to have a threesome to fulfill some kind of Gossip Girl fantasy, she's going to impale him with a bar spoon.
"For Christ's sake, she's getting married in seventy-two hours! I'm not a homewrecker, Phoenix!"
"Aww, a man-whore with morals! How very Moulin Rouge of you, Bagman."
He gets very close and whispers, "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, Phoenix?"
Natasha sighs. She really, really does. Ugh, what the hell is wrong with her? Is it a brain tumor? It must be a brain tumor. "If you set a six o'clock alarm again, I'm murdering you before you can hit snooze and then going back to sleep in a pool of your warm blood," Natasha warns before letting him into her room.
*
On their last day in Vegas, Bradshaw remembers an hour before they need to be at the airport that they forgot to take a picture in front of the Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas sign. After some begging from Coyote and a wad of blackjack winnings from Bob, the shuttle driver agrees to make a detour so they can do the obligatory tourist thing, mumbling about Instagram culture the entire time that the squad is posing in front of the sign until someone just shouts at him to take the picture already. It's off center and a little blurry, but no one is keen on stroking this dude's ire, so they pile back into the car and make it to the airport just in time. It's a packed flight so not even Hangman's charms can get them an upgrade this time. The main waiting lounge is packed with frazzled parents trying to herd their screaming toddlers as they form a line to board first; Natasha misses the good life.
When they finally get on the plane, it feels like they're headed to Siberia as they make the long trek to the back for the last two remaining empty seats, Coyote snickering something about karma as they pass him by. He's never going to let that first-class snub rest. Thankfully, the hour goes by quickly and before she knows it, they're about to start making the descent back to California soil.
When she turns her head to look out the window, Hangman is looking at her with a very curious expression. She had already told him earlier in the morning that this thing was fun in the way that getting water boarded must be fun, but they really couldn't keep doing this now that they were going back to their real lives and responsibilities. What happened in Vegas had to stay in Vegas.
"What?" she asks now, a little exasperated that he won't stop staring.
"So I was thinking—"
"That must've been a struggle."
"Ever heard the phrase 'whatever happens on the west coast, stays on the best coast'?"
No, she hasn't because Natasha is pretty sure he just made that up, but then Hangman's face explodes into a smile that could burn up the sun and plunge them into infinite darkness because that's just the kind of thing that someone as terrible as Hangman would do to keep getting in her pants. She has the worst taste in men, but if he's going to go to the trouble of shamelessly using such a terrible pick-up line, the least Natasha can do is see it through.
Once they get off the plane, she invents checked luggage that doesn't exist so that everyone will be gone by the time they get into the back of his car in the nearly empty short-term parking lot. She can feel him smiling against the side of her neck when he kisses her. It's so messed up that, because she almost forgot it was Hangman for a second, Natasha thought it was maybe a little charming. She blames this lapse in sanity on all the sun in Nevada; she should've worn a hat. Now she has sunstroke and who knows how long that will last and this madness will keep going on.
Hangman pulls her over him like he can't get enough contact, their hands now entirely too familiar with each other's bodies for this to involve much fumbling anymore. It should freak her out, and it kind of does because the last thing she needs is to be intimately familiar with Bagman of all people, but there's hardly any bite to her voice when Phoenix starts to say, "This is absolutely going to be…"
"The last time," Hangman finishes as he kisses the hollow behind her ear. "Sure, sure. Whatever you say, Phoenix. You're the boss."
Well, at least he got that part right.