Falling In Love Will Kill You (Frerard)

Him

You'd think someone with Frank's kind of connections would be able to find anyone at all who could fix his roof, but when you take everything into consideration, Frank's connections aren't as suited to the art of re-tiling as they would be to other types of rooftop activity.

Of course, he'd asked Oliver to get someone on it as soon as he'd noticed the cracked tiles. But for some reason, it's two weeks later and there's still a bucket on Frank's marble countertop in the kitchen, catching drops of water that continue to permeate the roof of his New York penthouse.

In most cases, Oliver was a great assistant. Granted, he was usually gathering all the information that Frank needed in order to commit a murder, but you'd think hiring someone to fix Frank's roof would be a walk in the park when he works for a world class assassin. Apparently not.

Frank trusts Oliver with his life, literally. Oliver is the only person alive to know that Frank is one of the best assassins in the game. Well, just about everyone in the game knows he's the best, but only Oliver knows that he, Frank, is an assassin. Oliver had been thoroughly vetted in the interview, which was set up to look like just an ordinary personal assistant interview. Afterwards, he was still being vetted. Frank had kept up the pretence that he really was just in need of a personal assistant for a little over two months before he decided he could trust Oliver, and even then he was willing to have someone deal with Oliver if he had decided that he was too moral to do the job. He probably would have found someone who could blackmail him, as blackmail isn't exactly Frank's forte. Frank doesn't think he'd have been able to kill Oliver, he's never been a part of the death of someone who wasn't going to die anyway, whether the assassin was Frank or someone else, so he guesses that he's pretty damn lucky that Oliver was up to the task.

Having Oliver around made everything a hell of a lot easier, and it also gave him an extra layer of security, as now, no one engages in direct contact with Frank, only with Oliver, who goes by a pseudonym when in contact with clients: Cipher. Honestly, Frank has no fucking clue why Oliver picked that name, it's kind of pretentious and douchey, but the kid helps him kill people for money, so he can't really complain.

If Frank has a nickname, he's unaware of it. He's never given himself one, and people seem to send him information for jobs just fine. Sometimes he wonders if there's confusion when people talk about him, because he knows people talk about him. He likes to imagine a situation that goes something like:

'He's done another job, clean hit, never seen.'

'Who has?'

'You know, 'him.'

'Him' who?'

'Fucking 'him', you know, best in the game, 'him.'

'Oh, 'him.'

Although the idea that assassins, or other professional criminals, get together to chat about the latest gossip is a bit far fetched, he's pretty certain that the police talk about him. There's no way he could be famous throughout an entire community of criminals and not have someone slip some information to the appropriate authorities, probably by someone who backed out of the game. But he's also 100% certain that there's no way they could know who he is, no way they could even be close. He makes sure of that.

Frank sighs as he places the newly emptied bucket back into place on the countertop, leaning against a cabinet and running a hand over his face. Now, he isn't a millionaire, but he isn't that far off, either. He's goddamn rich, he doesn't need a fucking bucket ruining the decor of his $50,000 kitchen. He doesn't like to admit it, but he's pretty proud of his apartment. He worked hard for the money he has, and he likes to show that through the interior design of his home. It's kind of a guilty pleasure of his, and he spent way too much time and money working with various designers in order to make it perfect. He always keeps it neat and tidy, clean and secure.