Chapter Text
The bride was shot in the lobby, and the groom died on the dance floor with a knife in his back. There are several others dead in the banquet hall—the entire the wedding party and most certainly all the immediate family members. At the very least, most of the wedding guests had fled at the sound of the first gunshot, which made the work quicker.
Law enforcement bought off. Venue staff paid to simply leave. No one will come to this ruined wedding reception for the rest of the night. All in all, a mission success.
A lone waiter pulls up a chair next to the wedding cake. There’s a good chance the cake is the only untouched item in the entire room; four tiers of frosting and fondant still white and pristine, edible pearls carefully placed at the edges. When the waiter cuts into the lowest portion, the flavor is chocolate with some sort of jammy fruit center.
Spy almost forgets to pull off his disguise. He sets the plate down, slipping off the paper mask. The disguise fizzles away, leaving just the austere waiter’s uniform, which had been a nice change of pace from his usual suit.
Spy finally drops into the chair, grabs the slice of cake, and starts eating. No sense in wasting the dessert. He knows how much these things cost and besides, he hadn’t the time to eat anything before completing his objective. After a moment, he reaches for a nearby bottle of champagne and a glass.
At the sound of shuffling near the reception hall doors, Spy hooks a second glass with his fingers. He pours for two.
Sniper closes the door. He has the bride gripped by the collar, dragging the corpse behind him like a game animal. The rustle from the petticoat of the bride’s dress echos between them, the beads and sewn-in gems scraping softly as Sniper hauls her across the dance floor.
Spy watches, eating his cake. Sniper doesn’t strike him as the repentant or guilty sort, especially when getting paid for a job, and he isn’t sure what to feel when Sniper slumps the bride’s body next to the groom and squats down to rearrange the limbs. That isn’t like Sniper at all—there’s not a bone of romance in him, nor a taste for dramatics.
“Hm,” says Spy, as Sniper rearranges the corpses; he makes them hold hands. “I did not think you’d be one for romantic theatrics.”
Sniper stands back up. The way he dusts off his hands and nudges the groom’s wayward foot with his boot seems to suggest otherwise.
“Nah. Our client requested it,” Sniper says, arms crossed as he inspects at his handiwork. “Thought I’d do it m’self since you were doing most of the leg work.”
Spy cuts himself another slice of cake, this time from the second tier. Vanilla, presumably, with some kind of tangy buttercream center. He eyes the bodies.
“Our client did seem a bit spurned and unhinged.” He takes a bite, lifting a hand over his mouth to cover his chewing before adding, “You should tip the bride’s head on the groom’s shoulder.”
Sniper does. He gives the poses another considering look. “Ah, ace. Thanks.”
Spy waves a dismissive hand. It isn’t rare to have requests for specific corpse arrangements, especially for framing an intended victim. Spy hopes Sniper thought to charge extra for it. If not, Spy will just take it out from Sniper’s cut for the consultation.
“That vanilla?” Sniper asks, perking up, now that the job’s done.
Spy holds up the plate and the second flute of champagne. “Plenty of cake to go around. And drink.”
Plenty of cake, but Sniper goes over and puts a hand on the back of Spy’s chair. He leans close with his mouth open, waiting, even before taking the glass of champagne.
It’s only after Spy feeds him a bite that Sniper allows a cheeky little toast between the two of them.