Chapter Text
Peter curled his lip at the rotting corpse at his feet. What had been a peppy, blond artist who liked to sketch passerby was now another body for him to bury. He wondered if there was anyone to mourn this man. He supposed not, seeing as the artist had spent much of his time admiring Tony and trying to approach him.
That was Peter’s sole reason for killing him. No one could take Tony from him, and Steve Rogers was no exception.
Peter knelt by the head and extended a gloved hand that hovered over it. After a moment of thinking, he produced a permanent marker from his pocket and began writing. He supposed that he could’ve related to Steve, had he still been. They were both artists, though he suspected that Steve wouldn’t have appreciated his art.
Steve was a traditional artist. He stuck to sketch pads and pencils, paper and pen, and on one memorable occasion, watercolor paints that he’d used to make a portrait of Tony. That was where Peter had drawn the line; he wasn’t going to allow Steve to become this obsessive and risk putting Tony in harm’s way.
Peter’s art was more risqué, in a way that only Tony seemed to appreciate, and even then, his appreciation was private. His art involved dead bodies and blood, weapons coated in bodily fluids, and death certificates. He was usually picky with who he killed, but when his victims were involved with Tony in one way or another, he didn’t hesitate to strike. Tony took to calling him his guardian angel a couple of years ago, when he’d first found out about Peter’s proclivities. Peter couldn’t say he minded the title.
He finished writing with a flourish and tucked his marker away, before walking to where he’d parked his car a mile back. He needed to get home soon. Tony didn’t like it when he was late for dinner.
When he pulled up to the home that he shared with Tony, he spotted the older man peeking at him through the blinds that covered the living room window. Peter smiled broadly at the sight, and he was still smiling when he walked in and was immediately swept into his partner’s arms.
“Hey, husband,” Peter crooned, weaving his arms around Tony’s neck.
“Hey, yourself.” Tony planted a firm kiss onto his cheek before pulling away. “I’ve got meatloaf in the oven.”
“I love your meatloaf,” Peter hummed appreciatively. “How was your day?”
Tony ushered him towards the dining table, which was already set with cutlery, plates, and wine glasses. He tore some of the bread in half and stuffed it gently into Peter’s mouth to tide him over until dinner. Peter tended to get hungrier than he did himself.
“Someone called in about a body they found in an alley. Would you happen to know anything about that?” Tony crossed his arms accusingly. “I told you to tone it down. We’re busy as is.”
“That wasn’t me,” Peter said honestly, “but I did kill someone today…”
Tony sharpened his glare. “Peter.”
“I’m not apologizing for it; his behavior was becoming more concerning,” Peter defended, his words muffled due to the bread weighing down his tongue.
Tony waited impatiently for him to finish chewing before making his rebuttal. “We agreed that you would talk to me before killing anyone. Now I’ve got more work to do, and you know what that means? Less time with you.”
“I’m sorry for not talking to you first.” The words rolled out of Peter’s mouth without hesitation.
Tony sighed. “I forgive you. But do it again, and you’re sleeping on the couch for a month, at least.”
“Yes, sir,” Peter agreed hastily. “I think the meatloaf is ready. You want me to check?”
“Like you’d know what to look out for,” Tony snorted, brushing past him with a smack to his ass before he pulled open the door to the oven. The aroma that came wafting out was heavenly, and Tony bit back a grin when he heard Peter’s stomach rumble loudly in response.
The next morning, Tony wasn’t surprised in the slightest when he was called to investigate a body that had been found near the town’s quarry. He drove down there with anticipation bubbling beneath his skin, wondering what the crime scene would look like, and he was even less surprised when he neared the water and spotted the unmoving body belonging to Steve Rogers.
Peter hadn’t told him who he’d killed last night, and Tony mentally patted himself on the back for guessing his victim’s identity correctly, though the feat wasn’t all that incredible considering the context clues he was privy to. Steve had been a thorn in his side for a couple of months now. His clear interest in Tony—which was never entertained—had been becoming more aggressive as of late, and Tony found himself grateful to have him gone.
His darling Peter, always working several steps ahead. Tony decided he would stop by his office after the investigation and gift him a bouquet of flowers as thanks. Perhaps he should take Peter out on a date. It had been quite a while since they’d gone out together, after all.
Tony turned his attention to the body beneath him. Already, flies were flocking to Steve’s slack face, which Tony noticed with interest had familiar handwriting scrawled across it.
If you run from me, I will pursue.
Not for the first time, Tony was glad to be married to Peter. Their intimate connection made the message less threatening, less ominous, given that it didn’t bode well for anyone other than him.
Steve’s pallid throat was painted with shades of purple and blue that sank deeply into him, telltale signs of strangulation. Tony checked his neck, just to confirm what he already knew; it was snapped.
Tony held back a small coo, hoping to avoid attracting the attention of the other detectives on the scene. His baby was so talented.
He needed to call ahead on that bouquet, have it made early so that he could simply pick it up and take it to his husband.
Peter’s art needed praising, pronto.