The Dresden Files / Bob / 49. Limit
Title: If at First You Don't Succeed
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Characters: Bob, Malcolm
Prompt: 49. Limit
Word Count: 975
Rating: G
Summary: Bob receives a bit of encouragement
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me. Just passing through.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
In the deepest heart of the night, only one creature stirred within the Dresden household. A tall, pale form bent over a single sheet of paper that lay upon the spotlessly clean kitchen counter. His aristocratic features were set in a scowl of extreme concentration as he narrowed his focus and willed the paper to move.
It remained oblivious and unchanged.
With a deepening frown, the ghost reached out an elegant hand. Once more focusing his will, he attempted to grasp the bright green flier with spectral fingers. His hand passed through paper and counter alike without moving the page so much as a hair.
Bob glowered at the flier. It lay there mocking him.
Merde, he mentally cursed but uttered no sound aloud. He did not wish the members of the sleeping household to witness his continuing (and constant) failure.
Although his efforts had never been met with the slightest promise of success, he resolutely refused to give up. There was far more at stake now than there had ever been in his long and sordid past. If he could manage one truly physical feat - even a mere poltergeist display! - then there was hope that he might one day actually prove useful in defending those few living souls he had come to cherish.
Bob bent once more to his task, drawing upon the electromagnetic energies in the atmosphere that helped him to visibly manifest. Shaping his intent within his mind's eye, he attempted to fashion that energy into an ectoplasmic force that might-
"Whatcha doin'?"
Startled, Bob snapped bolt upright and turned sharply toward the small voice. Five year old Malcolm Dresden stood within the kitchen doorway and looked up at the ghost with wide brown eyes. His red and blue Spiderman pj's and his short, sandy blonde hair were equally rumpled by sleep or, perhaps, the lack thereof.
"Why are you not in bed, young man?"
"I'm thirsty." Malcolm padded softly across the tile floor in flannel-shod feet and stood on his tippy toes to see why the counter was so interesting. He didn’t find cookies or toys or anything really good up there. All he saw was the green paper he'd brought home from school.
"There are juice boxes in the ice box," said Bob helpfully. Lamentably, he could not himself fetch a glass of water for the child. Neither did he wish the boy to attempt to drag a chair to the sink and risk an injury (or waking his parents) by rummaging through the cupboards for a beaker.
But Malcolm had momentarily forgotten his thirst. Instead, he was frowning at the paper. "Are you mad?"
"Why would I be angry?"
"Mommy was mad."
"She was not," Bob assured the child. "She was concerned by your teacher's summons, yes, but not angered by it. There is a difference."
"You were making a mad-face at the paper."
"I was concentrating. Again, there is a difference." The boy looked doubtful and Bob sighed. "If I were indeed angry, it would only be with myself. Not you."
"Why?"
Bob hesitated before he replied. His ego loathed the thought of exposing his constant failure to anyone. But then, this child was not just anyone.
"I was attempting to move the page," he confessed.
"Move it where?"
"Anywhere. Just move it. Period." Bob lifted his hands slightly, as if about to demonstrate that there was nothing up his impeccably tailored sleeve. "I cannot touch physical things in the way that you can. I cannot hold nor lift so much as the tiniest hair without a physical form by which to do so."
"Because you're a ghost?"
"Correct."
Malcolm thought about that for a moment. "Polerguys can and Daddy says they're ghosts."
"Poltergeists," Bob absently corrected. "It is a different manner of spirit that possesses a means of channeling energy from the Nevenever. I cannot."
"So … they're different ghosts but they're the same."
"Yes."
"Like boys and girls are different and the same."
Bob nodded slowly, considering the analogy from a child's perspective. "In a manner of speaking."
"Can I help you move things?"
"I would be glad of your encouragement but I am afraid the rest I must attempt on my own."
"I can't help?"
"Not in this, I'm afraid."
Malcolm frowned. "I can't tie my shoes."
Bob blinked at the child without comprehension. "I beg your pardon?"
"I can't tie my shoes," he repeated with a very serious expression. "I try and I try and Mommy shows me and Daddy shows me and even Susan tried to show me once when no one was looking and I can't tie my shoes. Mommy has to help me." His young face set with determination. "But I'm gonna do it. Someday I'm gonna tie my own shoes."
"Of course you shall," said Bob with gentle encouragement. "I have no doubt of it."
"Daddy says I've gotta keep trying. If I try hard enough and long enough and I really, really practice, I can do anything."
"Well, your father certainly would know from personal experience," said Bob with a hint of pride in his tone. "He has overcome many such obstacles. He needed only learn to believe in himself and in his abilities."
Malcolm took a step closer and, lifting a small hand, brushed it through one of Bob's own. He expected the cold tingling chill of the ghost against his own warm fingers and was proud that he shivered only a tiny bit.
"I believe in you," he said with a child's absolute conviction.
Bob's expression softened. With such simple faith and innocent reassurance, how could he not one day move mountains?
"Thank you. That means much to me." Bob stooped down in order that his pale blue gaze might meet Malcolm's brown on an equal level. "And never doubt that I shall always believe in you."
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Characters: Bob, Malcolm
Prompt: 49. Limit
Word Count: 975
Rating: G
Summary: Bob receives a bit of encouragement
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files do not belong to me. Just passing through.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
In the deepest heart of the night, only one creature stirred within the Dresden household. A tall, pale form bent over a single sheet of paper that lay upon the spotlessly clean kitchen counter. His aristocratic features were set in a scowl of extreme concentration as he narrowed his focus and willed the paper to move.
It remained oblivious and unchanged.
With a deepening frown, the ghost reached out an elegant hand. Once more focusing his will, he attempted to grasp the bright green flier with spectral fingers. His hand passed through paper and counter alike without moving the page so much as a hair.
Bob glowered at the flier. It lay there mocking him.
Merde, he mentally cursed but uttered no sound aloud. He did not wish the members of the sleeping household to witness his continuing (and constant) failure.
Although his efforts had never been met with the slightest promise of success, he resolutely refused to give up. There was far more at stake now than there had ever been in his long and sordid past. If he could manage one truly physical feat - even a mere poltergeist display! - then there was hope that he might one day actually prove useful in defending those few living souls he had come to cherish.
Bob bent once more to his task, drawing upon the electromagnetic energies in the atmosphere that helped him to visibly manifest. Shaping his intent within his mind's eye, he attempted to fashion that energy into an ectoplasmic force that might-
"Whatcha doin'?"
Startled, Bob snapped bolt upright and turned sharply toward the small voice. Five year old Malcolm Dresden stood within the kitchen doorway and looked up at the ghost with wide brown eyes. His red and blue Spiderman pj's and his short, sandy blonde hair were equally rumpled by sleep or, perhaps, the lack thereof.
"Why are you not in bed, young man?"
"I'm thirsty." Malcolm padded softly across the tile floor in flannel-shod feet and stood on his tippy toes to see why the counter was so interesting. He didn’t find cookies or toys or anything really good up there. All he saw was the green paper he'd brought home from school.
"There are juice boxes in the ice box," said Bob helpfully. Lamentably, he could not himself fetch a glass of water for the child. Neither did he wish the boy to attempt to drag a chair to the sink and risk an injury (or waking his parents) by rummaging through the cupboards for a beaker.
But Malcolm had momentarily forgotten his thirst. Instead, he was frowning at the paper. "Are you mad?"
"Why would I be angry?"
"Mommy was mad."
"She was not," Bob assured the child. "She was concerned by your teacher's summons, yes, but not angered by it. There is a difference."
"You were making a mad-face at the paper."
"I was concentrating. Again, there is a difference." The boy looked doubtful and Bob sighed. "If I were indeed angry, it would only be with myself. Not you."
"Why?"
Bob hesitated before he replied. His ego loathed the thought of exposing his constant failure to anyone. But then, this child was not just anyone.
"I was attempting to move the page," he confessed.
"Move it where?"
"Anywhere. Just move it. Period." Bob lifted his hands slightly, as if about to demonstrate that there was nothing up his impeccably tailored sleeve. "I cannot touch physical things in the way that you can. I cannot hold nor lift so much as the tiniest hair without a physical form by which to do so."
"Because you're a ghost?"
"Correct."
Malcolm thought about that for a moment. "Polerguys can and Daddy says they're ghosts."
"Poltergeists," Bob absently corrected. "It is a different manner of spirit that possesses a means of channeling energy from the Nevenever. I cannot."
"So … they're different ghosts but they're the same."
"Yes."
"Like boys and girls are different and the same."
Bob nodded slowly, considering the analogy from a child's perspective. "In a manner of speaking."
"Can I help you move things?"
"I would be glad of your encouragement but I am afraid the rest I must attempt on my own."
"I can't help?"
"Not in this, I'm afraid."
Malcolm frowned. "I can't tie my shoes."
Bob blinked at the child without comprehension. "I beg your pardon?"
"I can't tie my shoes," he repeated with a very serious expression. "I try and I try and Mommy shows me and Daddy shows me and even Susan tried to show me once when no one was looking and I can't tie my shoes. Mommy has to help me." His young face set with determination. "But I'm gonna do it. Someday I'm gonna tie my own shoes."
"Of course you shall," said Bob with gentle encouragement. "I have no doubt of it."
"Daddy says I've gotta keep trying. If I try hard enough and long enough and I really, really practice, I can do anything."
"Well, your father certainly would know from personal experience," said Bob with a hint of pride in his tone. "He has overcome many such obstacles. He needed only learn to believe in himself and in his abilities."
Malcolm took a step closer and, lifting a small hand, brushed it through one of Bob's own. He expected the cold tingling chill of the ghost against his own warm fingers and was proud that he shivered only a tiny bit.
"I believe in you," he said with a child's absolute conviction.
Bob's expression softened. With such simple faith and innocent reassurance, how could he not one day move mountains?
"Thank you. That means much to me." Bob stooped down in order that his pale blue gaze might meet Malcolm's brown on an equal level. "And never doubt that I shall always believe in you."