Author's Note/Disclaimer: If you are adverse to Frankie/Herriman, turn back now. I will not tolerate any flamers. I'm serious. To quote Lois from Family Guy, "I'm like a momma hawk. Mess with my babies and I'll rip your fucking throat out."

I might be in college, but I still have time to track you down and make you pay. That being said, enjoy!

Oh, and Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends belongs to the lovely people at Cartoon Network and Craig McCracken. Not me.

Chapter Two: Suppression

Maybe he was a glutton for punishment, maybe he merely desired to explain what she read, but a torturous half hour later had planted him firmly in front of her door. Frankie refused to unlock it and permit him entrance, thus he stated his case here. No one was around, anyway; it was bad enough the object of his affections had discovered his secret. If Madame Foster or any other imaginary friend uncovered him, he couldn't bear to think of it.

"Miss Frances, I do not feel like discussing this on your doorstep!" Mr. Herriman snapped haltingly and peered down either side of the hall. He'd narrowed escaped his creator before and he was in no hurry to do it again. Madame Foster proved extremely efficient at milking information out of him, simply because she'd created him and she knew him better than anyone else. It irked him at times.

"Then don't! I'm not letting you in!" Frankie retorted and folded her pillow over her head. Outside, the imaginary rabbit sighed heavily and rapped smartly on her door. Memories of her grandmother doing so previously caused her to clutch the pillow tighter. Crazy rabbit and equally crazy creator.

"Please, Miss Frances," he said wearily, rubbing his eyes with his gloved hand. Currently scandalized and violated, he was in no mood to debate his feelings in such a public place. No one knew who might pass by and overhear his predicament. Shuddering, his gaze swept the area again and imagined Bloo or someone else hiding behind every shrub. He almost preferred dogs to this horrible exposure.

"Just let me watch TV in peace! You've done enough damage for one day!" she hissed and curled up, Powerpuff socks uncovered, beneath the blanket. In all honesty, she hadn't the faintest clue what she was watching, but it beat dealing with Herriman. On the screen, two boys argued earnestly over a controller and a redheaded girl displayed a plate of food a raven haired boy gagged at. Another girl with purple hair levitated above the couch and read; her eyes were trained on her book and no one else. In the madness, she alone kept her sanity.

"Frankie…" Herriman said desperately, dropping the formality, "you don't know who's listening. I would rather not discover Master Blooregard hiding in a closet and revealing every word of our conversation."

Unenthusiastically placing the remote aside, she threw the cotton pink blanket aside and unlocked the door. Mr. Herriman's black eyes pierced through her and she suddenly understood his urgency. By nature he was private and anything this private never slipped out, even by accident. Not only had it escaped, but it reached the last person he wanted to see it. If she weren't bewildered, astonished, chagrined, and uneasy, she might pity him. Sighing, she opened the door wide enough for his entrance and then locked it once he hopped inside.

"We are in quite a predicament," he murmured finally and hopped to her computer chair. It swiveled unpredictably and he, panic stricken, grabbed her desk. Frankie watched amusedly as he attempted to force it to remain steady. Apparently, he was used to stagnant chairs and wasn't sure what to make of this.

"We? You're the one…" The words died on her tongue. She wasn't sure what she wanted to say or how to say it. Shaking his head, he nearly fell off but grasped the desk in the nick of time. The tension was thick enough for a knife's perforation.

"Though I feel a reprimand is in order for rifling through my private thoughts regardless of my privacy, I shall forgo that. I expect…I expect you would like an explanation." He hung his head and sighed heavily. Frankie frowned, not expecting him to be so unguarded and open around her. He looked vulnerable, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Unconsciously, she shifted closer and pulled a chair a few feet away.

An uneasy silence descended upon the two. Frankie wavered and tossed out a dozen questions that sounded better in her head than would aloud. Why hadn't she noticed this before? His eyes had lingered on her more than once in the past few months and she'd merely discounted it as his way of mentally accruing her. She hadn't noticed any blushes or awkwardness (though if she had, she might have discounted that too). Where had all this come from? And why her?

Likewise, Herriman's thoughts swirled around. How could he express his affections when he had difficulty telling his creator he loved her? How could he tell her how this had happened when he didn't even remember himself? How could he bring himself to confess everything when it normally stayed under lock and key? If she hadn't found his accursed journal, it might have stayed that way, too.

"Miss Frances, you are aware that you have dishonored not only me, but yourself? You have perused my personal belongings and to what end? I should have thought you had more manners than a common maid," he finished and frowned at her. To his surprise, she frowned back. She wasn't convinced.

"No wonder I didn't notice. You were too busy chewing me out," she muttered and his cheeks turned pink.

"If you are going to read other people's journals, then you should expect things you might not like. It is not my fault that you found something not to your liking," he replied and folded his arms across his chest. She hadn't noticed it before, but he often used formality as a way to avoid confrontation. He was doing it now- hiding behind a mask.

"And perhaps I should have hidden it better," he murmured. Gaze downcast, he stared at her carpet. Frankie hesitantly placed a hand on his shoulder. Warm fur met her hand and she blushed.

Charily, he extricated his paw from his glove and squeezed her hand. Frankie suppressed the involuntary reflex to jump. In all her years, she never recalled him so much as touching her cheek tenderly. His bare paw felt alien but somehow pleasant against hers. She didn't know why, but adrenaline rushed through her. She felt almost…giddy.

"How-how long have you…?" she whispered, awestruck. The mood suited whispers and murmurs. To speak any louder was to break the sacrosanct settling and perhaps wrench his paw from her hand. More than anything else, she wanted to keep that contact. Her heart skipped a beat.

"A…about six months. I did not think it would last…" he murmured and, trembling, he stroked her cheek. Scarcely breathing, her heart beat like a jackhammer and her palms sweat profusely. Regardless, his paw held her hand.

"I…" she started. Once again, words failed her. He smiled weakly at her and leaned in closer...her breath caught in her throat...her heart wouldn't stop pounding...

Loud banging commenced and Mr. Herriman jerked guiltily away. Heat flooded his face and he hopped off the chair. Wordlessly, he tried the doorknob only to discover it was, like it'd been ten minutes ago, still locked. His face glowed like the setting sun.

Fumbling, he amended the situation and then hopped out wordlessly. Frankie stared blankly after him and wondered what the hell had just happened. Her heart still pounded in her chest and her palms were slick with sweat. What would have happened if they'd been uninterrupted? Would he have kissed her? Would she have liked it? She had no idea.

Shaking her head and mentally berating whatever situation shoved her under that spell, she decided to never put herself in that situation again. She didn't want to find out what would happen.

…

"Master Blooregard!" Mr. Herriman snapped and halted Bloo, banging a pot against the wall. The blue blob stared up at him innocently and tossed him a quarter for "his troubles". Needless to say, Mr. Herriman was not amused.

"What? I'm trying to see if it sounds different if you drum it here instead of in the dining room," he replied nonchalantly and slammed it so hard, he knocked plaster off the walls. The imaginary rabbit snatched the offending apparatus from his arms before he did any more damage. Bloo had alone cost Foster's at least thirty thousand dollars, if not more. Sometimes, he wondered if keeping him here was more trouble than it was worth. Then he thought- of course it was. It was only because they liked Mac they didn't shove Bloo on the streets.

"That is not proper conduct," he chastised, brandishing the pot threateningly. Bloo's azure eyes tracked its arch and he lunged for it, but Herriman held it tantalizingly out of his grasp. No matter how many times he jumped, he never reached it. Sick satisfaction filled the rabbit- he'd ruined what might have potentially been one of the best moments of his life. If he could steal Bloo's thunder, then it pleased him greatly.

"Come on!" he groaned and lunged once more. Chuckling darkly, Mr. Herriman hopped down the halls and continued this until they reached the kitchen.

…

Mac pounded the pillow much like his creation had the pot. Sleep evaded him and he rolled over onto his back to contemplate the ceiling. Inky blackness consumed the room and disguised familiar shapes. When he was younger, years before Bloo had to live at Foster's, he'd been frightened by the dark and its secrets. Bloo had yelled at the supposed closet monster and, when nothing tore out to attack them, decided it was afraid of imaginary friends. He'd lain back on his pillow and smiled; they'd shared a bed and fell asleep wrapped around each other.

Of course, he was far too old to believe that creature might return, but he still longed for Bloo's company. Rolling over onto his side, he folded his arms across his chest. The notion was preposterous- he didn't need him like he had then. Then, he'd been younger, vulnerable, and chilled by his father's death. He'd clung to him like a safety blanket and Bloo had only been too happy to oblige.

Frankie had relaxed the rules and permitted him a lapse whenever necessity dictated it, but he seldom missed a day anyway. Seeing Bloo lent him a ray of sunlight into an otherwise dreary world, but he never considered the effect it had on him in other areas. Sure, Bloo was a friend…but that didn't usually mean anything else. Maybe because he'd preferred imaginary friends to humans, he'd lost a chance to interact with someone like him. The sad thing was he didn't think there was anyone else.

Perplexing himself, he sighed. Maybe he was trying to distract himself from the true problem. Bloo was constantly on his mind and in his dreams. He wanted to believe he was worried because he'd nearly gotten himself thrown out recently, but that wasn't it. His stomach churned and he gnawed his lip contemplatively.

Come on, you have to sleep, he thought angrily and glared at the ceiling. He spent many hours staring at it.

…

Mr. Herriman too stared up at the ceiling and sighed heavily. Though he wanted to pass Frankie's room, he didn't dare. Being alone proved far too volatile. What if Madame Foster had been the one to knock on her door? What if they weren't locked in next time and she found them in that kind of embrace? Maybe he ought to stow his feelings where they belonged.

But when he contemplated throwing them away, Frankie's brilliant jade eyes flashed and he felt her soft skin beneath his paw. What could have been haunted him. What on earth was wrong with him? He wasn't a creature with vices. He should be able to put his emotions behind him.

After all, he was a properly dignified creature. Dignified imaginary friends did not prostrate themselves in front of humans, especially their creator's granddaughter. They didn't (he swallowed hard) dream of kissing her or holding her. They were properly restrained in all manners.

Unfortunately for him, the shackles were loosening and he, like Mac, spent many hours staring up at the ceiling and wondering what on earth had happened.

…

She didn't like him. He annoyed her to no end and made her want to claw his eyes out. Besides, he was her grandmother's imaginary friend. He was out of bounds.

Yet try as she might, she couldn't erase the sensation of his paw on her hand or his soft fur. The ceiling drew her attention and she stared at it, but it provided no answers. Instead, it loomed above, a silent witness to unspoken thoughts and desires.

…

I don't feel like replying to reviews, but I'll say that it won't focus very much on Mac and Bloo, Rakal, if that helps any. But I thought I might as well have a springboard anyway…and I'm the only Mac/Bloo writer here. Ugh.

Madame Foster's a lot better when she's not on her deathbed, heh. She's fun.

As for Bloo being able to transform, I'm going to see how far I can go without using that. If I can't, then he will be a humanoid. But we'll see.

And don't die from the suspense, people. Then you can't read more.

Well, thanks for reading and reviewing, my friends. Please continue to do so…and don't flame. I will get you if you do.