Author's Note: I was rather displeased with the way "Setting a President" ended and, thus, out came this little ditty. Sorry it's so long, but that's the way my muse worked. And a certain little fae who shall remain nameless kept trying to push a dirty scenario at the end.

Foster's is not mine.

Presidential Pardon

Cold, callous, and cruel. These words could hardly be used to describe Frankie Foster, but, at the moment, she believed they suited her. She'd returned his job after discovering the reduction in pay, even after discovering his misery at the supermarket and two week absence. Despite his smear campaign, despite his insane rules, she should have pitied him. After all, her new position had ousted his pride and led him to a horrendous fortnight.

Yet hadn't she enjoyed the power? Relished the way it fit her snugly and basked in others' happiness? She'd been preoccupied with fixing things she ignored obvious problems. She'd accosted his job, the reason (the one he stated) Madame Foster created him. Yes, for a few days, she loved not hearing those stupid rules repeated pedantically and waking whenever she chose instead of a mandated schedule. She relished not hearing that tell-tale hop preceding his apprising her of a broken rule. More than that, she enjoyed forming decisions that impacted everyone.

She'd pitied him at the supermarket, but not enough to give him back his old job. Besides, why should she? She'd won fair and square, hadn't she? (Had she? Had someone stuffed the ballots?) Therefore, she claimed the job and he'd lost it. So what if it was his life? He could just get a new one…

Blinking, she rubbed her eyes furiously and stared into the darkness. Sitting up, she swiveled to contemplate the clock- four in the morning. She'd lain awake for six hours, thoughts circling madly about the one creature she normally despised. Or did she? Could she hate him, growing up under the same roof and spending so much time with him? Argh, it was so confusing, especially in the wee hours of the morning. Why was it the most persistent ideas plagued one when they needed sleep the most?

Gathering her nightgown, she cast aside the notion of sleep (at least, temporarily), and rose, pushing the sheets against the wall. Cocking her head, she heard fleeting hops, indicating he rushed by her door. Whenever he anticipated her, he hastily exited. He'd stopped chastising her to start avoiding her. Amusing momentarily, she recognized it as unusual behavior and ceased finding it so funny.

Cramming her feet into fluffy pink rabbit slippers (her grandmother's Christmas present); she stumbled to the door, yanked it open, and wandered aimlessly. Closed doors, sleeping creatures- why must she be doomed to this wretched insomnia? Obviously, they slept uninhibited- why couldn't she? Why was she doomed to this fate? Past Eduardo, Bloo, Coco, and Wilt's room; beyond Mr. Herriman's chambers, and through a hidden corridor she wended her way. Her legs and feet innately comprehended her destination, even if she walked ignorant. A couple turns and she arrived, confusedly blinking, at her grandmother's door.

"Good evening, dearie. Or should I say 'good morning'," Madame Foster called, smiling gently and inviting her in immediately. Scrutinizing the older woman, it dawned on her later that not only was she alert, she'd been expecting her.

Perhaps it corresponded with raising her since early childhood, but she doubted it. Somehow, Madame Foster was omnipotent about Foster's denizens. She anticipated creatures' habits, problems and dilemmas, and outlined the correct solution. Otherwise, she led them to locate it themselves. If anyone should have been President of Foster's, it was her. Unlike her creation, she never demanded insane things, abused her position, or fostered resentment.

"Is something troubling you?" she inquired gently. Frankie recalled spending many moments in here, both gloomy and boisterous. Whenever she faced a moral, social, or identity crisis, a warm tea mug awaited her arrival. Unbelievably, two chairs and two steaming tea cups sat neatly on the table, already prepared.

"Grandma, I…" Uncertain how to proceed, she trailed off. Madame Foster nodded, directing her to her old place. Resting gingerly, she remembered furiously snapping how much she loathed Mr. Herriman. To her astonishment then, she'd laughed merrily and patted her on the hand. Sipping her chamomile tea, she told her there were times everyone hated him, but she'd eventually grow to, if not love, appreciate and care for him. Like the sulky teenager she'd been, she staunchly denied that'd ever happen.

Questions bounced through her mind, clamoring to be answered, but she'd no idea which to ask first or how to phrase it politely. Madame Foster sedately sat opposite her, sipped her fragrant beverage, and bided her time. Moments ticked by, but she stilled her tongue, silently encouraging her to speak her piece and sort herself out. Finally, after ten minutes, she opened her mouth.

"About Mr. Herriman, I…" She wanted to apologize, but for what? He'd started the whole campaign, he'd enlisted Bloo's help, and he'd driven everyone insane with his mad rules. Any way she looked at it, it was his fault.

It might have been his fault, but was it really? Could he help who he was? Serving as President at Foster's was his only duty, one which gave him purpose and a goal. Others considered him bossy and controlling, but that was because he needed to be. He needed to feel useful, productive. By removing that, she'd robbed him of his identity. Working, whatever it entailed, was an integral part of himself. It was probably the closest to a 'soul mate' he claimed.

Frowning, she realized she'd been so preoccupied helping the friends of Foster's and giving them "a better life", she'd overlooked his. A proud creature, he'd fallen far to grovel. The day he packed up his stuff, he'd informed her there was no point in living at Foster's if he didn't aid the house. Otherwise, he'd be leeching off good will and not paying his way. Yet that begged the question where had he lived? How had he subsisted? The treatment he received in the supermarket, was that atypical? Did he face discrimination as the only imaginary friend there? Could you actually survive off a bagger's salary in the first place?

Why hadn't she considered his point of view? She, who prided herself on befriending imaginary friends and caring for them, utterly ignored her grandmother's and put herself ahead. True, she'd dreamt of that moment since her childhood, but did that make it right? Perplexed, she glimpsed her grandmother as if suddenly noticing her. Madame Foster smiled, inwardly hoping she'd assert and diagnose the problem herself. While she refused to spell it out, she knew Frankie was smart. She might require help, but she'd arrive at the conclusion herself.

"Grandma, I…" she stammered, faltering when she sensed a familiar figure's eyes on her. Their eyes met briefly before he hopped out of view, practically tripping to escape. Guilt descended on the younger Foster and, chagrined, she glanced at her grandmother.

"I should go talk to him, shouldn't I?" she murmured and Madame Foster said nothing. In a few moments, however, she decided. Wishing her a good night, she trailed him back to his room.

Madame Foster, meanwhile, folded her hands in her lap. The silent treatment, worked every time.

Knocking on the door tentatively, she expected no answer. Never before had Mr. Herriman's quarters seemed so formidable, like entering a stone castle by siege. Twisting her hands nervously, she turned when his paw halted her. Bashful eyes staring at the carpet and not her, connected with a soft voice, commanded her to get inside. She obliged, glancing at him, but he dropped his eyes, abashed.

"Miss Frances, it is quite late and if you have no urgent business, I must implore you wait until a later hour, after the sun has risen," he murmured, hopping to his four poster. Acutely aware of her effect, she lingered by the door. Unspoken tension spread thickly. Even when he ordered her like a slave driver, it'd never existed so palpable. After all, discounting the scarce moments where he gave her chores, this was the first time they'd been alone together. (Then, he'd expedited her departure).

"Grandma said I ought to speak to you," Frankie replied, noticing how childish it sounded. It also wasn't entirely the truth. She'd divined through silence what must be done, but that was usually how Madame Foster influenced others. Silence was worth a thousand words.

"The same way she said you ought to hire me back?" he muttered. The words slapped her in the face and she recoiled. Maybe she had arrived at a bad time. Perhaps she ought to let this stew until tempers and patience renewed. Lamentably, the likelihood his hurt pride healed in that short a time was laughable. The world revolved around his pride and self image.

"I'm…sorry," she murmured, bereft of a proper response. Staring at her fluffy slippers, she wished they were beneath her bed and her under the covers. Apologizing to him had been a necessary evil growing up, because he washer grandmother's imaginary friend. Now, it became hollow, a perfunctory gesture. Saying sorry because she had nothing else.

"Are you? For what? You got what you wanted, didn't you? You got rid of an unsuitable candidate, ruled Foster's in his stead, and when you discovered how little the job paid you relegated the job back," he retorted and she blinked. How did he know the reasons behind his rehiring? She'd told no one, including Madame Foster. Madame Foster…

"Excuse me?" she replied, impatient. "No one knows why you're back."

"That is incorrect, Miss Frances. Madame Foster…" he trailed off, ashamed. He'd accidentally indicted his creator. Hanging his furry head, he hopped to the window and leaned on the sill. He steeled himself- any minute now, he'd face a miniature volcanic eruption when she realized she'd been duped. While he relished a battle of wits, this didn't qualify.

"What about Grandma?" she replied dangerously, striding to him. Like a cornered animal, he retreated and literally backed himself into a corner. He stared at his footpaws and shuffled them.

"Madame Foster…" Unable to proceed, he moved past, sat on the bed briefly, rose, and then stood by the door. Twisting his hand paws agitatedly, he blurted what had troubled him. Like everything else, he balled it up, but due to the late hour and her presence, it flew before he impeded it. Ironically, his creator unearthed his situation similarly. She capitalized on an unintentional emotion release through their bond (akin to telepathy). Energy wasted blocking her out coupled with late working hours (and little pay) exhausted him.

"Frankie, do you care what happened to me while you served in my post?" he murmured. "Because if you do not, then I see no reason to continue this conversation. Madame Foster was concerned over my state of affairs outside of Foster's, paid you less in the hopes it influenced you, and waited expectantly. And that is what happened.

"Are you satisfied? Do you wish to go? I have explained myself and my creator. No more questions remain."

He spoke brusquely, startling her. Since she'd known him, he'd never conversed openly about his feelings and whenever she (occasionally) broached the subject, he brushed her off. Yet he'd never snapped like that, never cast her away like it mattered not. She'd really hurt him, hadn't she? Not just his pride, either, but his feelings too. No wonder he'd been avoiding her.

"Mr. H, are you mad at me?" she whispered, sitting on his bed. He stared and he wondered how bad it would be if he ordered her out. Resigning himself to an incredibly uncomfortable conversation, he situated himself accordingly. Let her take his bed. He wasn't ready to be that close.

"No, no, I'm not. I am weary and perhaps…" Shaking his head morosely, he trailed off.

"I'm sorry," she murmured and truly meant it. Yet she sensed he disbelieved her or wouldn't accept her apology. Deciding further words would be useless, she rose and hugged him. He froze, inclined to hug her back, but his arms stiffened. He pushed her away.

"Mr. Herriman…" she breathed, taken aback and hurt by his rejection. A sharp triumphant look flashed in his eyes. He was paying her back.

"I do care. I mean, I know you moved out and didn't call…"

"Miss Frances, there is a clear line between aiding the house and usurping it. I left because…because I was no longer useful. I did not wish to become like Master Bloo and exist off another's charity. I was created to serve a function in society and my job is my life. Without it, I am useless.

"Madame Foster, lamentably, disagreed. She tried to coax me otherwise, but I would not have it. She disapproved of my leaving the house, but she understood. She believed you, of all creatures, might be able to convince me. But…you were busy."

Ashamed, she moved to the bed; then, a more neutral place, his chair. Nodding, afraid to break the mood and stop him. She knew 'busy' equaled doing his job and throwing it in his face. Yet at that point, if her grandmother had asked her to encourage him to stay, she'd have done the opposite. She probably would have driven him into Townsville.

"I…I did not begrudge you your enjoyment, however. I know I have been far too strict regarding certain rules and garnered resentment. And…I had no business teaming up with Master Bloo to run a 'smear campaign'. I apologize…

"My job is my life. I knew you would oust me, but I also knew explaining why I had to remain President would not work. You could not sympathize. You do not pour yourself into your tasks and associate your soul with stacks of papers. You are free…and I am bound by rules because without them, I cannot exist.

"Once I left Foster's, I had to find another job and another place to live…"

Midnight descended upon the derelict apartment distract, five blocks from Mac's complex. Trash strewn haphazardly swished under his paws and, wincing, he hugged himself. In his pocket was the accumulation of unspent paychecks and, pounding beneath his breast, his heart. He'd never lived on his own before- Madame Foster preferred keeping him close. Yet despite his obligation to her, his feeling of uselessness superceded it.

"I heard you had an apartment available to rent," he addressed a scrawny, doubtlessly drug addicted individual, turning up his nose. The human, skin hanging off his bones, waved a hand in front of his face.

"Okay, I've hallucinated pink elephants before, but never a large, talking rabbit," he muttered. Mr. Herriman bristled- he was no hallucination. He was imaginary, thank you very much.

"My name is Mr. Herriman and I wish to live here…" Okay, maybe he didn't 'wish' to live here per se, but he had no choice. Much like the rats dwelling beneath the foundation and crawling into the rooms at night. Oh, God, he didn't want a room here at all. The thought petrified him, yet what must be done must be done. He ought to swallow his already throbbing pride.

"Whatever, talking rabbit," the guy replied, tossing him a key. "Rent's due at the end of the month."

Shaking his head ruefully, he wandered off, leaving Mr. Herriman temporarily immobile.

"You stayed in a rat infested apartment?" Frankie repeated, dumbstruck. "But you…you're so tidy…"

"And I worked as a bagger not because I desired it, but because I had to be productive…regardless of how they regarded imaginaries…

"You don't see it because the house is filled with them, but humans do not take kindly to imaginaries they believe have outlasted their usefulness…"

"I…I didn't know," she murmured, watching him hop towards the bed and sit beside her. Would he shove her away if she hugged him again? His head hung low and his floppy ears partially covered his face. Deciding she wouldn't find out until she tried, she hugged him experimentally, her arms barely touching him. He surprised her, however, by pulling her closer.

"Okay, this time I really am sorry," she whispered. "I didn't think of you at all…and I should have. Next time I'm that selfish, feel free to give me a reality check."

He chuckled dryly, finally releasing her. "Quite all right, Miss Frances. Really. And I believe we have all received our fair share of 'checks and balances' in the past few days."

She groaned at the horrendous pun and stifled a yawn. Suddenly, after staring at the ceiling for hours, she felt drained. In fact, his mattress seemed cushiony enough to sleep on. Shutting her eyes, she curled up until his paw nudged her head. She groaned, hugging her knees to her chest. Nuh-uh, it wasn't time for school yet.

"Miss Frances, while I do enjoy your company, I must beseech you to sleep in your own bed," he muttered, lifting her head in his paw and cradling her in his arms. Thanks to her drowsy state, she didn't notice he held her a bit too long than perhaps was normal. Besides, he was so warm and furry…like a giant stuffed animal…

"C'mon, Mr. H, haven't you always wanted to sleep with me?" she yawned, blissfully unaware of the double entendre she'd inadvertently let slip. Clenching her eyes shut, she wrapped her arms around his waist and nuzzled his lap. If she'd looked up, she would have seen him radiate heat like a furnace. Improper thoughts passed through and if he didn't remove her soon, while he'd never take advantage of her like that, he'd be riddled with them.

"Go to bed. Your bed. Now. I am not your stuffed animal," he snapped, tenderly hooking his paws under her head and knees. Supporting her like one would an infant, he hoisted her off to her room and charily hopped, lest he land too harshly and awake her. Frankie slept fitfully, wrapping her arms around his neck and clinging. With difficulty, he managed to switch her grip to a nearby stuffed animal. Mission accomplished, he hopped back to his room for, hopefully, some sleep as well.

The next morning, stretching luxuriously, her jaw dropped at the time. Eleven o'clock? But that meant she was very late for her morning duties and he'd be certain to penalize her. Wincing, she glanced accusingly at the alarm clock. She could have sworn she set it to six thirty, like she did every night. Well, as soon as she dressed, she'd walk to his office and withstand a lecture.

Pulling on a green short sleeved t-shirt bearing the Foster's emblem, she added a viridian Powerpuff Girls' jacket, black jeans, and tied her hair back in its customary ponytail. Thanks to that ad, she liked to vary her outfit once in a while, especially because it was true she wore the same thing daily. Then again, so did everyone else. What was this, a cartoon?

Skidding to a halt before his office, she knocked and then walked in to see him smiling at her. Nudging a rowdy paper pile into order, he hopped to her side. The morning sunlight streamed through an open window and curtains billowed in the breeze. It was a nice, balmy day, unencumbered by the typical February weather.

"I see you enjoyed your rest," he said genially, innocently. It never occurred to her that he might have picked up a trick or two from his creator.

"Someone shut off my alarm," she accused, believing him to be on the verge of a lecture. "It's not my fault, Mr. H. I'll…I'll work later to compensate…I'll…"

"There's no need," he said, waving his paw. "I shut off your alarm and divided the chores this morning to let you rest."

"You…you did? But why?" she exclaimed, astonished. "Why would you…?"

"Consider it recompense for those advertisements and drilling you," he replied. "Everyone deserves a break once in a while…

"…And I appreciate you listening to me last night."

Frankie blushed, but didn't quite understand why. Figuring it'd be better if she just moseyed on out of there, she snatched her task list off the desk (substantially shorter than usual), and thanked him before starting on the molehill of chores that were left.

"You're welcome," he whispered to her back before returning to his "Presidential duties".