Lora prompt
Pete babysitting Robbie-- any age.
There were days Pete thought Manda didn't want children because she didn't want to share the consoles. But kids knew how to share. Watch Robbie hunched over his controller, tongue creeping out the side of his mouth as he tried with every six-year-old neuron he had to get Mario over the jump. Paul wouldn't let one in the house but Uncle Pete was always happy to babysit at his and Manda's place, where the games were. Robbie seemed particularly fond of the bits with Yoshi.
Paul and Michael were taking the younger set to the doctor, for some vaccine or other Robbie'd had years ago. Pete wanted to make a wisecrack about taking a litter of kittens to the vet but he couldn't pull it together in his head in time, so he just stood by the door with Robbie and waved.
Robbie was a great kid, tall for his age and solid in that puppyfat way, big bright eyes and hair that was always untidy and a grin like a picket fence. He squeaked when he was really worked up about something, which just about killed Pete with how cute it was since it was clear the kid had no idea what he was doing. He could tie his shoes and read on his own and manage a bike and carefully, laboriously make Michael a cup of tea, though he warmed the water in the microwave. He still slept with Scheherazade and, while not afraid of the dark, was afraid of the bathroom mirror in the dark and so insisted on lights anyway. He thought the you've-got-something-on-your-shirt noseflick was the best joke ever concieved.
Robbie dropped the controller to sign "Ahh!" when Mario ran right into a Goomba and fell off the edge of the stage. Pete didn't try to stifle his laughter, and he sat next to Robbie and ruffled his hair. Robbie gave him a wounded look: Pete said "Want me to show you the trick of it?"
Robbie'd absorbed all of Paul's independance *and* Michael's obsessive stubbornness: he shook his head, pink lower lip protruding, and climbed into Pete's lap as if the vantage point would make the console obey his thoughts instead of his fingers. Pete hugged him loosely and rested his chin on the boy's head. When the rest of the Fleming-Walkers turned up two and a half hours later Robbie was asleep with his head on Pete's leg, the game paused at the same level, Pete's big hand moving over Robbie's back like a metronome.
There were days Pete thought Manda didn't want children because she didn't want to share the consoles. But kids knew how to share. Watch Robbie hunched over his controller, tongue creeping out the side of his mouth as he tried with every six-year-old neuron he had to get Mario over the jump. Paul wouldn't let one in the house but Uncle Pete was always happy to babysit at his and Manda's place, where the games were. Robbie seemed particularly fond of the bits with Yoshi.
Paul and Michael were taking the younger set to the doctor, for some vaccine or other Robbie'd had years ago. Pete wanted to make a wisecrack about taking a litter of kittens to the vet but he couldn't pull it together in his head in time, so he just stood by the door with Robbie and waved.
Robbie was a great kid, tall for his age and solid in that puppyfat way, big bright eyes and hair that was always untidy and a grin like a picket fence. He squeaked when he was really worked up about something, which just about killed Pete with how cute it was since it was clear the kid had no idea what he was doing. He could tie his shoes and read on his own and manage a bike and carefully, laboriously make Michael a cup of tea, though he warmed the water in the microwave. He still slept with Scheherazade and, while not afraid of the dark, was afraid of the bathroom mirror in the dark and so insisted on lights anyway. He thought the you've-got-something-on-your-shirt noseflick was the best joke ever concieved.
Robbie dropped the controller to sign "Ahh!" when Mario ran right into a Goomba and fell off the edge of the stage. Pete didn't try to stifle his laughter, and he sat next to Robbie and ruffled his hair. Robbie gave him a wounded look: Pete said "Want me to show you the trick of it?"
Robbie'd absorbed all of Paul's independance *and* Michael's obsessive stubbornness: he shook his head, pink lower lip protruding, and climbed into Pete's lap as if the vantage point would make the console obey his thoughts instead of his fingers. Pete hugged him loosely and rested his chin on the boy's head. When the rest of the Fleming-Walkers turned up two and a half hours later Robbie was asleep with his head on Pete's leg, the game paused at the same level, Pete's big hand moving over Robbie's back like a metronome.