Work Text:
It's not like 47 is a connoisseur of fine suits or a consciously fashionable man by any degree. The black suit and red tie combo he regularly don's is a simple matter of business. He's heard the few bystanders that notice his presence comment on how "Striking" the look is, but he's never gone out of his way to appear as such. That being said, 47 is aware of his "Strong jaw" and "steely eyes" and isn't above using his looks to his advantage. The typical rabble is weak to said jaw and eyes; a calm, deep baritone can do wonders for persuasion, as well.
He had felt something akin to fun while posing as Kruger in Paris. Of course, 47 would never divulge just how impressed he was with himself after strutting down the catwalk. He may have been genetically assembled to kill, but perhaps the powers that be had missed his true calling. He almost cracks a smile at the absurd little thought.
He puts no effort into his looks other than to ensure that no one see's through his carefully crafted charade. Disguise is a part of who he is and a key aspect of his business.
That’s why he is currently in the back of a wet bar kitchen in the Himmapan Resort, dragging the now naked and unconscious body of Abel Da Silva toward a conspicuously placed deep freezer. He must admit, the young man is deceptively heavy.
The drummer's clothes, however, are a perfect fit. No matter how strangely snug the pants were on 47. Hipsters and their skinny jeans.
Now to find Jordan Cross and impress his way to murder.
Mr. Cross was, quite frankly, a bitch to find and get a hold of. It took 47 an hour of pacing where Cross was supposed to be. Of course he knew exactly where the young rockstar was, but he very well couldn’t show up in the bathroom stall the young man currently occupied and chat about how he was the best drummer alive. Or drown him out in the toilet bowl. Well, he could do that last bit. He'd done it before to far uglier marks. But he hadn't gone to the trouble of becoming Abel Da Silva just to drown a twenty-something in his own piss. Also, 47 quite looked forward to a potential drum solo. Bet Diana didn’t know he could drum.
His pacing lands him momentarily in front of a floor to ceiling mirror situated on the wall by the grand staircase. He catches a glimpse of himself and is a little surprised by how well the god-awful floral button-up tank suits him. Even more surprising is how well the skinny jeans present his legs and buttocks. 47 deems himself good-looking; damn good, in fact. He's not too much older than the real Abel, or his mark; the thought crosses his mind that maybe he should add more clothes like this to his personal wardrobe. Or any clothes that aren't white button-ups, black slacks and red ties.
Upon brief reflection, 47 deems his previous plan too bland in the face of the discovery that he is "Hot". Jordan Cross will still die, but perhaps 47 can make him die feeling sexually confused, maybe frustrated. Add some suffering sprinkles to this murder cake, if you will.
He glances once more at the mirror. Damn, this tank really shows how well muscled his arms are.
From the stairwell he can (finally) hear his mark snapping angrily at that Dezy woman. Something about deliberately telling his father to mind his own business and that he didn’t want a birthday party. The time has come; 47 leans coolly against the wall in front of the staircase as he pretends to not hear Diana giving him the rundown on his target. He levels an icy stare at Cross as he rounds the corner.
"What the fuck do you want?!" He snaps when he notices 47 staring. Dezy looks exhausted, probably from dealing with the debacle that was the surprise party. Jordan Cross seems as though he can be a handful at times. And that feels like an understatement.
"Abel Da Silva. Pleasure to meet you too, Handsome." 47 isn't sure if what he said came out dripping with sarcasm or sultriness, but it certainly came out dripping.
"O-oh. You're Quentin's replacement. Cool, I guess." Whatever it came out as, it certainly got Cross to button his temper for the moment. Not to mention that odd look on his face at the word 'handsome'. Maybe this trivial seduction plan has potential. "Follow me, man." Cross gestures up the stairs. "I wanna see what you can do." Ah yes, 47's drum solo. His time has come at last.
They make their way to Cross' makeshift recording studio and there in the middle of it all is a quite lovely, pristine looking drum set. 47 inwardly sighs; yet another lost calling in life. Not that it matters; 47 is, once again, quite content with being a hitman.
"Ok man, let loose." Cross gestures towards the powder blue Drums and a few of his sound crew stop what they're doing to take note. 47 is reminded of Paris; a large group of people paying attention to him that doesn’t involve chasing or gunfire.
He sits on the stool and picks up the drum sticks; Time to work his magic.
His demonstration only lasts about thirty seconds, but apparently it's enough to get both Cross and his crew clapping. Cross seems genuinely impressed, which 47 is relieved by. It's hard to enjoy killing someone when their throwing a tantrum like a child.
"Yeah Man! Yeah that was cool…" Cross says, "All right, you're like some kind of machine aren't you?" He laughs a little.
"I might as well be." 47 says in his usual monotone.
"Oh man, nicely done… Why don’t you walk with me, Abe?" Cross waves his hand for 47 to follow. Which he does; this is exactly what he wants, to be alone with his target. God, Cross is just making this so easy.
"After you." 47 would be grinning if he knew the image wouldn’t be inherently terrifying. He just found out he was hot; he doesn’t want to ruin the mystique just yet.
On the way to the atrium roof (Really, this young man is just asking to be murdered mysteriously.) Cross jabbers some nonsense about "Abe" doing his job well and appeasing this "Heidi" woman. Also something about pitching an idea? 47 could really care less; he's already gotten to play the drums today, Ken Morgan is dead, hidden in a laundry basket in the basement and now his current target is leading him to his own murder scene. It's been a good day by all accounts, and 47 got a new outfit out of it as well. He can't wait to tell Diana about this over coffee.
"Climbing the cultural ladder, I see. Good work, 47." Diana pipes in as the two of them walk onto the roof.
'Oh, so now she feels like talking. No comment on the drum solo, Diana?' 47 thinks to himself.
"So, I like your style. It's very tight, kinda new age, y'know? You uh, you should talk to Dexy when we get back to New York. So, who's reppin' you Abe?" Cross seems a little nervous, a little shifty, but 47 isn't worried. He really doubts this kid knows what's coming.
"Small agency, very low profile. You wouldn’t have heard of them." 47 says as he joins Cross by the railing, looking out over the river.
"Old buddies from school, huh? Don’t have the heart to let em' go?" Cross laughs as he looks over to 47, who shrugs. "Yeah, thought so... Look, believe me man. You gotta aim higher."
"Oh believe me, Mr. Cross, I am." 47 gives a small smile as he crosses his arms against his chest. He's banking on his confidence coming across as flirtatious, but considering this isn't something he actively partakes in, he feels like he's flying blind. It's a bit thrilling if he's being honest. Is this what it's like to have a social pulse?
"W-woah, no no no. Just Jordan is fine, Abe. Only suits and crew call me 'Mr.Cross'." Cross is smiling nervously and can't seem to look directly at 47, so he assumes that the "flirting" did indeed have some effect.
"Alright, you were saying, Jordan?" 47 shifts his weight against the railing; Cross' attention snaps to 47, who is still smiling. The look on Cross' face is mildly uncomfortable and a little warm-cheeked. Why? He's the one that wanted "Abe" to call him by name. 47 can't help but to find Jordan Cross a little more than ridiculous.
"A-anyway…" Cross clears his throat and leans over the railing on his fore arms.
"I have this project coming up and- and I could use a solid drummer. Like you." Cross' former rockstar confidence has resurfaced.
"Going solo, Jordan?" 47 leaves the railing and moves a step or two away from Cross.
"Yeah, that’s the plan. You in, Abe?" Cross cocks his head to where 47 is in his peripheral.
"Hm. A hired gun. Not a partner." 47 says. Cross stands up a little straighter, giving 47 a questioning look. "Someone who does the job without getting noticed." 47 drapes his arm across the young man's shoulders. Cross regards the action, but doesn’t tell 47 to get off him.
"Oh, so you're interested?" Cross waivers a bit but the confidence is still there in his voice. 47's face gets a little closer to Cross', and the young man doesn’t really seem to mind
"It's what I do." 47 trails his palm up Cross' chest till its resting over his heart, which he can feel pounding through Cross' white deep vee.
Cross is about to say something with a dreamy look on his face when 47 decides to hit the kill switch. The Hitman sweeps his leg under a much unprepared Jordan Cross, using the palm on his chest as a leverage point as he flips him over the railing. Cross lands with a smack on the glass roof of the atrium patio. The roof spiders and splints underneath the impact of his weight and he can barely catch his breath as the roof shatters, dropping him to his death in a shower of fine shards. Cross screams until he hits the ground with a satisfying crunch.
47 knows it's not necessary to get the last word in during a kill, but that felt mandatory. Get Cross all hot and bothered and then let him go with a cool one-liner, honestly how could he not?
"Target down. Skillfully done, 47." Diana, once again, buzzing into 47's earpiece as he calmly makes his way to the dock on the river where his escape boat was waiting.
47 consider's wearing Abel Da Silva's outfit to Coffee with Diana just to accentuate his point.
END