23. Desolate / Bob the Skull
Title: When all is Said and Done
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Characters: Bob, Harry
Prompt: 23. Desolate
Word Count: 795
Rating: PG (language)
Summary: Bob laments his spectral state.
Disclaimer: Not mine but I can dream, can't I?
Notes: Epilogue to Birds of a Feather
Table: Here There be Ghosts
The Skinwalker had called him impotent. It was a fitting description of how he had felt as he was forced to watch her slow torture of Harry. Each blow she landed against Harry's flesh cut straight to Bob's heart, flaying it with torment and frustration. Exactly as she knew it would.
There was once a time when he could have uttered a single word of Power to obliterate the bitch where she stood. But that was centuries ago, when he was a mortal sorcerer instead of an insubstantial ghost. His spectral state left him helpless to prevent her from beating Harry into a bloody pulp.
The theatrics had been for Bob's benefit, of course. The Skinwalker knew that Harry would rather die than divulge the location of the child she sought, but Bob was a different creature altogether. No blithe spirit, Bob would do anything to protect the only living soul he truly cared about. Even if it meant giving the bitch the information that Harry was so tenaciously trying to defend.
No fool like an old fool, he thought grimly.
Now, long hours later, Bob stood alone by the shop door and anxiously looked out the window at the night-shrouded Chicago street. Waiting. Hoping. Yes, perhaps even praying, supposing that any god was still willing to hear his plea.
Let him be safe.
The success of Harry's plan to stop the Skinwalker once and for all hinged on the Doom Box, a reformulated apparatus of Bob's own devising. If it failed then so, too, would Harry and all would be lost.
"See anything interesting out there?"
Startled, Bob whipped around in surprise. "Harry!"
"Some burglar alarm you turned out to be," said Harry with a smirk. "I think I want a refund."
"You're back." Bob was too relieved by the sight of him to offer one of his customary snide retorts. His gaze skimmed over Harry from head to toe, quickly inventorying hurts. "Relatively intact, I see."
"What can I say? The Box worked."
"Pop goes the weasel?"
"Then Wham, Bam, Thank You Ma'am," confirmed Harry with grim satisfaction. "There's one less Skinwalker in the world, thanks to you."
"Don't thank me." Bob quickly turned away, his expression pained.
"Why not? It was your Box."
"Which you would never have had to construct, much less use, had I not endangered you in the first place."
Aw, Bob, Harry sighed and mentally shook his head. Why are you always so hard on yourself?
"Okay, for argument's sake, let's say that's true," he said reasonably. "If I'd chalked the kid's problems up to an overactive imagination, I probably could have avoided all of this." Harry gave himself a negligent wave, encompassing the abrasions and bruises. "I'd be safe while the Skinwalker got the kid and his power. Hell, knowing her, she'd probably have killed his mom just for the fun of it."
"You would never have turned your back on that child," said Bob defensively. "You took his fears seriously."
"Not at first. I didn't want to take his money just to chase a few imaginary monsters, remember?" Harry moved to stand beside Bob, "You had to remind me what it was like to be small and alone, and that sometimes the monsters in the closet are real."
"Yes," admitted Bob, "I also recommended you consult the records of the High Council and you were very nearly killed as a result of that sage advice."
"But I wasn't."
"This time."
Harry held out his hands, pleading. "Bob," he said, his tone affectionate. "Lighten up, okay? You did what you thought you had to do."
"Small comfort, that. Do you have any idea what it's like?" Bob asked wretchedly. "To be so ineffective? Impotent? It's sheer torture, Harry! To be unable to assist or defend you against something like that . . . Thing? You'd have been better served throwing my skull and hoping to give her a concussion with it than rely on this accursed form."
"See, now, that's where you're wrong," said Harry confidently. "Maybe you can't smack the bad guys upside the head or spell them, but that's okay, Bob, because you protect me every day of my life."
"How?"
"You raised me," said Harry. "You taught me everything I know about being a wizard and how to defend myself against the Dark. And you never once gave up on me. Even when I gave up on myself, you were always there to get me back on track. That's pretty powerful stuff, Bob, and it all came from you."
"I was your servant."
"No. You were my uncle's servant. To me, you were always a friend I could turn to. Don't underestimate that." Harry snorted. "'Impotent' my ass."
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Characters: Bob, Harry
Prompt: 23. Desolate
Word Count: 795
Rating: PG (language)
Summary: Bob laments his spectral state.
Disclaimer: Not mine but I can dream, can't I?
Notes: Epilogue to Birds of a Feather
Table: Here There be Ghosts
The Skinwalker had called him impotent. It was a fitting description of how he had felt as he was forced to watch her slow torture of Harry. Each blow she landed against Harry's flesh cut straight to Bob's heart, flaying it with torment and frustration. Exactly as she knew it would.
There was once a time when he could have uttered a single word of Power to obliterate the bitch where she stood. But that was centuries ago, when he was a mortal sorcerer instead of an insubstantial ghost. His spectral state left him helpless to prevent her from beating Harry into a bloody pulp.
The theatrics had been for Bob's benefit, of course. The Skinwalker knew that Harry would rather die than divulge the location of the child she sought, but Bob was a different creature altogether. No blithe spirit, Bob would do anything to protect the only living soul he truly cared about. Even if it meant giving the bitch the information that Harry was so tenaciously trying to defend.
No fool like an old fool, he thought grimly.
Now, long hours later, Bob stood alone by the shop door and anxiously looked out the window at the night-shrouded Chicago street. Waiting. Hoping. Yes, perhaps even praying, supposing that any god was still willing to hear his plea.
Let him be safe.
The success of Harry's plan to stop the Skinwalker once and for all hinged on the Doom Box, a reformulated apparatus of Bob's own devising. If it failed then so, too, would Harry and all would be lost.
"See anything interesting out there?"
Startled, Bob whipped around in surprise. "Harry!"
"Some burglar alarm you turned out to be," said Harry with a smirk. "I think I want a refund."
"You're back." Bob was too relieved by the sight of him to offer one of his customary snide retorts. His gaze skimmed over Harry from head to toe, quickly inventorying hurts. "Relatively intact, I see."
"What can I say? The Box worked."
"Pop goes the weasel?"
"Then Wham, Bam, Thank You Ma'am," confirmed Harry with grim satisfaction. "There's one less Skinwalker in the world, thanks to you."
"Don't thank me." Bob quickly turned away, his expression pained.
"Why not? It was your Box."
"Which you would never have had to construct, much less use, had I not endangered you in the first place."
Aw, Bob, Harry sighed and mentally shook his head. Why are you always so hard on yourself?
"Okay, for argument's sake, let's say that's true," he said reasonably. "If I'd chalked the kid's problems up to an overactive imagination, I probably could have avoided all of this." Harry gave himself a negligent wave, encompassing the abrasions and bruises. "I'd be safe while the Skinwalker got the kid and his power. Hell, knowing her, she'd probably have killed his mom just for the fun of it."
"You would never have turned your back on that child," said Bob defensively. "You took his fears seriously."
"Not at first. I didn't want to take his money just to chase a few imaginary monsters, remember?" Harry moved to stand beside Bob, "You had to remind me what it was like to be small and alone, and that sometimes the monsters in the closet are real."
"Yes," admitted Bob, "I also recommended you consult the records of the High Council and you were very nearly killed as a result of that sage advice."
"But I wasn't."
"This time."
Harry held out his hands, pleading. "Bob," he said, his tone affectionate. "Lighten up, okay? You did what you thought you had to do."
"Small comfort, that. Do you have any idea what it's like?" Bob asked wretchedly. "To be so ineffective? Impotent? It's sheer torture, Harry! To be unable to assist or defend you against something like that . . . Thing? You'd have been better served throwing my skull and hoping to give her a concussion with it than rely on this accursed form."
"See, now, that's where you're wrong," said Harry confidently. "Maybe you can't smack the bad guys upside the head or spell them, but that's okay, Bob, because you protect me every day of my life."
"How?"
"You raised me," said Harry. "You taught me everything I know about being a wizard and how to defend myself against the Dark. And you never once gave up on me. Even when I gave up on myself, you were always there to get me back on track. That's pretty powerful stuff, Bob, and it all came from you."
"I was your servant."
"No. You were my uncle's servant. To me, you were always a friend I could turn to. Don't underestimate that." Harry snorted. "'Impotent' my ass."