.

.

Nobody has it in them to hunt and kill the likes of him. Ha! Not even sorry bastard known as Goatman. Far as he's aware of it, there's not been various reports of a Goatman-esque presence on the east coast.

Maple Bay has its Dover Ghost and that sort of ilk, but Robert always feels cautious anyway.

Most of all, he's gotta keep his wits about him. Guard up. Knife sharp and ready. There's some sickos roaming around these parts… ready to pounce on and assault some poor innocent fool…

He marches through the park, a little before midnight, flashlight brightly lit and pointed up. Betsy snorts and wheezes and drools, happily prancing ahead of him. She may be just a little Boston Terrier to everybody else, but she's got the soul of a pit bull. Ready to defend him.

It makes him goddamn proud to bring her on these solo cryptid investigations.

(Robert wipes under one eye, sniffling. A very manly sniffle.)

"Whatcha smellin', girl?" he asks, when Betsy slows down and tilts her snout towards the ground. She takes off with enough force to jerk the leash from his hand. The flashlight goes tumbling out of Robert's hand as well, dimming. "HEY!" Robert yells boomingly, swiping it up and tapping the flashlight with the heel of his palm, running after her. "Get back here… you little SHIT!"

Hell, if they don't stick together, one of them could get… …

Sweat collects heavily through his crimson t-shirt, dampening his pits and making a V-shape on his collar. Robert half considers throwing off his leather jacket, annoyed by the sweltering summer air.

He locates Betsy on the miniature, grass-aligned bridge, wagging her tail and ignoring Robert in favor of the new person. Damien's glossy-black fingernails expose, as he bends down and allows her to nuzzle his hand, barking for more attention. Damien has on his usual Bela Lugosi outfit, including the velvet, stiff cape. Most of his black hair tied back with a delicate, purple ribbon.

"Well… hello again, Robert."

Damien's voice comes off as rich and smooth, like a dash of sweet cherry liquor in Robert's morning whiskey. He pffts!, lifting his arm with the flashlight and casually leaning the item against the top of his own shoulder. "It's just you… whoo! The hell you doin' out this time of night?"

"It is most glorious, isn't it?" Damien proclaims, smiling up enigmatically at the clear, dark skies. "I wager you have your reasons, as I naturally have mine."

"Hm."

Robert eyes him, a little less cautious as Betsy runs back to her owner, her leash slobbered on. The lone, florescent-white light above Damien pales out his thin complexion further. It would be creepy, and add to his Robert's suspicions about terrible bloodthirsty creatures wandering in the night, but he already knows Damien's story. No self-respecting vampire would be against horror movies.

"Would you care for a stroll? I had been planning on visiting the cemetery by midnight… to give my condolences to the lost souls of this earthly realm and offer chrysanthemums."

"Another time," Robert mutters, nodding. "Betsy's gonna take a crap and then we're headin' home."

Damien nods in return, watching as the other man pulls out his lighter and a cigarette, giving into the quick, persistent impulse for a smoke. "Of course, Robert. I bid you goodnight."

Should have been the end of it, but Robert clears his throat, puffing out a trickle of cigarette smoke. "Hey, uh…" he grumbles, snatching up Betsy's leash. "Not to rustle your cape or anythin' like that, but how did you get…?" Robert makes eye-contact, waving impatiently to his own neck.

There's two pinprick scars on Damien's skin. Robert can admit he assumed vampiric, but…

"Mm," Damien says understandingly, and from there, something shifts, changes. The atmosphere around them, thickening, or Damien's own features pinching, shielding out traces of vulnerability. Robert immediately regrets the personal question but he waits in silence anyway.

Ain't nobody gonna be calling him chickenshit either.

"Wounded in the heat of battle." Damian's red eyeshadow and those purple contacts visibly appear paler underneath the streetlight. "My foe reached for his pronged skewer off a table of leftover corncob during one of our workplace luncheons," Damien explains solemnly, but with a frigid tone. "He tried to best me in this manner when his offensive language did not give the desired effect."

Robert's stomach churns.

He swallows hard, attempting to keep his rage inside him only. Maple Bay has never had a reputation for hate crimes, and if it ever did — Robert knew he would put an end to it himself.

Knife up.

"I was thinkin'…" Robert speaks up gruffly, unclenching his jaw and rubbing it. "Betsy could use the exercise. I'm headin' that way to the cemetery to get back to the Stop & Go mart."

Damien's bottom lip pushes outward, smeared with elderberry, when he grins and presents out an arm.

Robert finds himself thinking about it all night.

.

.

Dream Daddy isn't mine. So this delusional sapphic/queer is PROUD TO PRESENT: A SECOND SECRET SANTA FIC! I never thought I would be writing Robert and a smidgen of Robert/Damien fic before I wrote Craig/Dadsona BUT I DID LIKE THIS A LOT. EEEEE. I feel very lucky to be part of the Dream Daddy: A Secret Santa Event this year and I was assigned to "ghostnamedcasey" from Tumblr! Hope you liked this! :D I don't remember if they said in canon how Damien got the marks on his neck but I decided to kinda take it into my own hands. You can tell there was violent transphobia in Damien's past but I did not want to be explicit into it as a trans person. And to anyone reading this: thanks for checking out my first Dream Daddy fic and I welcome any thoughts/comments! Eeeeeeeeee!