Sherlock BBC, Mycroft, his umbrella is a top-of-the-line vampire-staking device.
Discreet - Sherlock (BBC), Mycroft, PG
It was, of course, necessary to be discreet. Very discreet. Vampire hunters, as a whole, were terribly flamboyant people. Even if they were able to walk down the street without attracting much attention, a vampire could spot them a mile away. The heavy jackets that concealed hidden stakes, the rucksacks that hid crossbows, the stalking walk, the too-wary glances; most vampire hunters might as well put a lit sign above their head, advertising their profession.
There was a reason Mycroft Holmes held as much influence as he did in his "minor" position in Her Majesty's government. He was a keen administrator, an admirable troubleshooter, and the foremost vampire slayer in the United Kingdom. Those vampires that thought themselves clever, hiding in plain sight on the streets of London, often found themselves coming to a bad end, speared on the blessed silver tip of an umbrella.
What, run after the undead through the streets? Who did people think he was, Sherlock? No, better to stroll after them, meet them in gentlemen's clubs and boardrooms, then spear them through their hearts with a flick of the wrist and his invisible accessory. Who looked at a man's umbrella anyway? Particularly at someone like Mycroft, so outwardly concerned with appearances that his paranoia in protecting his suits from the slightest bit of moisture didn't raise a single eyebrow.
He climbed back into his car, his assistant reaching out idly to flick a few flecks of vampire dust from his collar before returning to her texting.
"Meeting in an hour, sir. Three possibles, two confirmed," she reported, sending along Mycroft's newest kill tally to the (very private) office betting pool.
He smiled very slightly, and laid his umbrella across his knees. "Let's not keep them waiting too long, shall we?"
"Anthea" smiled into her phone and handed Mycroft the silver polishing cloth as the car pulled into London traffic.
Leverage, Hardison /or& any, Hardison is secretly a vampire.
Orange Soda - Leverage, Hardison, Eliot, PG
Hardison drank deep, sucking down a fresh bottle of orange soda, much to Eliot's disgust.
"I still don't know how you can drink that crap," he growled, looking at the bottle sideways before turning back to Nate's briefing.
"Hey, this is the good stuff. This is like mother's milk, my own personal go-juice, the fuel for my fire-."
"Hardison, shut up before I toss that garbage out the window," Eliot snapped companionably.
Hardison smirked as he brought up the specs on the next target, a PR baron.
PR had done his kind a world of good throughout the ages. Legends, myths, and popular fiction had given rise to the most enduring vampire myths. Let everyone else search for a pasty-white, coffin-dwelling, blood-sucking, sun-phobic goth. They wouldn't be looking for a normal guy who could walk in the sun and maybe just stayed up a little too late.
And drank orange soda. Nothing went better with blood proteins than orange soda. Thank God for 20th-century confections; Hardison had been waiting decades for something to cover that damn iron taste.
Hardison hid a grin around another gulp of orangey goodness as Nate talked about their next job.