Drabble
Summary:  Tim meets a new 'friend'

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Tim knows he has this thing for older, dangerous men in positions of authority, but he's afraid this is taking it to a new extreme. This guy's *old*. Way older than Bruce. Older than his dad, even. But when he talks this amazing British accent comes out and slithers down Tim's spine.

"Are you all right?" The man asks, and really shouldn't the guy in the mask and cape with all the assorted explosive goodies stuffed in his belt be asking that?

Then again, Tim's just a wee bit confused about... well... almost everything at the moment, so he supposes he could be excused from acting all heroic for minute or two. "That... that was..."

"A vampire." The man announces in a clipped, yet dead sexy, tone.

"But, they're not-"

"Dear boy, if you say 'real', I'm afraid I shall quite regret having saved you from becoming a midnight snack."

"Sorry." Tim says sheepishly. "It's just kind of... I mean, I've seen a lot of stuff, believe me, but never something like that." He stares at the pile of dust.

"Yes. I think they mostly stay away from your type.  Something about people with the ability to shoot heat beams out of their eye sockets, and lift buses with their pinkie fingers puts them off."

"Oh." Tim wonders how he's going to explain this to Bruce. 'Hey, I saw some guy shoot another guy with a crossbow, but don't worry, the second guy was already dead. Kinda.' He put a green gloved hand up to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Suddenly, with a speed and stealth that belied his age, the man's beside him. "Are you quite sure you're all right?"

Tim catches the subtle scent of some sort of cologne.  He resists leaning in for a better whiff. "No, no,
I'm fine. Just, wondering how I'm going to explain this."

"You could always say he was a roving gang member on PCP." At Tim's dubious look the Brit lifts one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. "You'd be surprised at what people'll swallow if they're too afraid of the truth."

"That might work for the general public, but the guy I work for is..."

"A more exacting master?"

"Uh..." Tim can feel heat rising in his cheeks.  "Well... that is to say... Sorta."

The man looks heavenward and sighs. "I had hoped young people would be a touch more civilized on the east coast."

Tim scowls.

"Have there been any disturbances in your cemeteries?"  He watches Tim shake his head. "Then I would say this was an anomaly. Your town is rather well known for having an... interesting element. No, I'd say it was either incredible stupid, or was just passing through on it's way to that lovely little cesspool south of here."

Tim makes a mental note to tell Dick to stock up on garlic. Just in case. "Oh. Well, okay then. But, if it wasn't an anomaly?"

The man seems to measure him for a moment. "As I said, watch the graveyards. And, the morgues. Be suspicious of a sudden abundance of neck wounds. And, here," The man pulls a pen and a piece of paper out of one of the pockets of his jacket. "Here's the number to a cell. It's not mine, I don't care for the bloody things. But, if there's trouble, ring, and ask to speak to Giles."

"Giles." Tim takes the paper and tucks it into one of the pouches on his belt. He smiles. "Thanks."

"Yes. Well. Quite."


Tim Drake (Robin) / Rupert Giles (BtVS)


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