Summary: Tim meets a new 'friend'
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
"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
"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."
"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)