I ended up rewriting the chapter…or, rather, using this version instead of the one that's there. It might be a lot longer, but it's more complete.

Chapter Six: Under Pressure

In her life she'd tolerated a great many things and on general principle she considered herself open minded. Patience was a must living in Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends. She'd seen odd pairings and unusual relationships but never blinked. She'd chuckled at persnickety friends and their peculiar obsessions. She'd had a peculiar husband herself to understand the world she immersed herself in habitually. If she comprehended and accepted so much, why was the thought of her imaginary friend and her granddaughter involved romantically unnerving? Why couldn't she laugh it off like seeing Wilt and Eduardo sitting too close or other friends getting together?

Mr. Herriman's hopping steps sounded behind her but she ignored him. Though he fumbled to explain himself adequately, she disregarded it. Hurt, dismay, and confusion trickled towards her through her link and she swallowed hard. How could she explain to him why seeing Frankie on his lap and their lips together disturbed her when she was at a loss? How could she explain to him that the only person/creature he'd ever fallen in love with she disapproved of?

Frankie was a sweet, charming girl and she supported any person she selected, but therein lay the problem. Mr. Herriman was an imaginary friend to start and, second but far more important, he was her imaginary friend. Perhaps she'd gotten so used to the notion he never relaxed that the concept of love never entered her mind. Or maybe because in her heart of hearts, she was a little jealous.

No, she thought, shaking her head, it's not that. I want to protect them and they're both too close to me. I would never want my precious Funny Bunny hurt, especially not by my granddaughter. I'd have no idea what to do.

"Madame Foster?" Mr. Herriman called softly, jarring her from any further mental dissertation. His black eyes were somber and reflective; the concern she'd felt earlier, leading her to direct Frankie in his office despite what she already knew, panged again. If she did prevent his pursuit of Frankie, he'd be miserable, more so than he already was. She didn't know which was worse- seeing his misery without her or taking the chance he might be more miserable with her.

"I should have known better than to send her in there," she snapped and his ears drooped. That gnawing tore at her and made her furious for no reason. Was it merely anxiety for the two? Was it envy? Was it something else entirely? Why should she deprive him of the thing he desired badly when he'd obliged her time and time again?

"This is my fault," he murmured and his sorrow assailed her like a vicious uppercut. "I should not have touched her. I am too smitten with her to properly act. If I were you, Madame, I would send me away until this passes."

Irritation flashed and she bit back an impatient growl. "Love isn't something you go to the doctor and get antibiotics for!"

Sneakers squeaked behind them and the third player entered the arena. Frankie hung back, listening intently. She frowned and watched a peculiar light strike his face. It was like seeing a child at Christmas receive their promised present. No such expression lit Frankie's face, but Herriman hovered, hopeful. When she glanced back at him, her heart sank. He was going to have his heart broken.

"I-I was merely suggesting you send me away until I can perform my duties satisfactorily…or perhaps some other punishment would be in order. Whatever you see fit, I will of course second whole heartedly."

Over her shoulder, she felt Frankie stare open mouthed at him. What he suggested was self exile and ludicrous. Unfortunately, part of her agreed with him. Part of her wanted him to abandon his crush…but it wasn't a crush anymore. It wasn't transitory and that frightened them both. His feelings weren't going to vanish overnight.

"You really think something's wrong with you, don't you?" she replied, incredulous. "Didn't it ever occur to you there's more to life than paperwork and filing?"

Herriman dropped his gaze and eyed the tiles. His voice was dull and lifeless when he replied and Frankie stepped a few paces closer. Even if she didn't return his affections, she definitely cared deeply for him. That brought a brief smile to her face.

"That is my function here…this thing is a distraction…" he murmured. Frankie shook her head at him and stepped closer still. She now stood directly behind him and his hands ached to touch her. Madame Foster caught the desire in his eyes and unconsciously retreated.

"Love isn't a distraction, Mr. H," Frankie interrupted. "And she's not going to replace you- you're not a machine."

"But…" he whispered, barely audible, "I am disturbing Madame Foster and unsettling you. I cannot concentrate on required papers because you keep drifting across my mind. Surely there are better candidates for the jobs…I have become obsolete."

Frankie sighed and hugged him. Mr. Herriman clung to her and inhaled her scent, lilacs and peanut butter from lunch. Already his defenses weakened and the familiar desires arose. Why couldn't he get a hold of himself? What was it about her that reduced him to this?

"You're not obsolete; you're not unsettling me…"

But she halted; certain he would catch her in the midst of a lie. Initially, she had been rather unnerved by his affections, but lately her concern outweighed anything else. She swallowed hard and glanced at her grandmother for guidance. She'd created him; surely she knew what to say. However, she seemed just as bewildered and perplexed as she.

Softly, succinctly, Madame Foster eyed the two and said, "You are not going to be replaced, Mr. Herriman, but I do not approve."

Mr. Herriman, crushed, sagged against her. All the fight evaporated, replaced by weary resignation. Gently, he disentangled himself from her and hopped away wordlessly. Madame Foster and Frankie watched him go, a peculiar mix of pity and empathy on their faces.

…

Herriman tossed attire, quills, and ink haphazardly into a suitcase. Of course, haphazardly for him meant a centimeter away from the sides. He sighed, aware the contents of his life fit well inside a single small case. What a dismal existence.

Fingers closed upon a picture and he halted, examining it at length. Three days before Frankie discovered his horrible secret, already a lifetime ago; they'd posed in front of Foster's. This particular shot he'd insisted upon and, after much strife, she'd relented. The sunlight had lit up her flaming red hair and cast a radiant halo around her oval face. She'd laughed when Mac had commented she looked heavenly, but he agreed. She was an angel- and he should not ruin her happiness by staying here.

A knock on the door tapered his thoughts and he jerked, guiltily tucking the photo beside a bowtie. Three knocks later and he'd safely stored the case until later. He wanted no one to stop him; any discoveries now would prove disastrous. No matter who it was, especially Frankie. He might be inclined to blurt it out if only to tell her goodbye.

"Took you long enough to reach the door, Funny Bunny," Madame Foster said lightly and breezed past him into his office. He shut the door unceremoniously and glanced inauspiciously at the closed closet door. If Madame Foster noticed this, she said nothing. Instead, she hopped into a seat in front of his desk and waited for him to sit in his customary chair. That he did, wondering why she would be so, well, normal, after discovering his secret and her recent behavior. It made no sense to him.

"Madame Foster-" he began, glancing again at the closet. This time her eyes followed his and he swore she was scanning his mind for any unusual plans. He squirmed, but was unable to stop fixating on the closet and its contents. He hated anxiety and uncertainty, especially around his creator and Frankie. Why must everything change?

"I wish to clarify something I said before. I love you, Funny Bunny, but I don't want you to see you hurt...or Frankie. That is why I must ask you to avoid spending time alone with her unless absolutely necessary."

Nodding weakly, he tuned out her next few words. It was uncharacteristic of him to daydream, but his mind kept wandering to where on earth he could vanish to without being noticed. Who would put him up, an imaginary rabbit? What if someone tried to adopt him? Would they bring him back to Foster's for the paperwork? What if someone stopped him from running away in the first place or he was stopped before he got to his destination? What was his destination, anyway?

"Please don't run away," she finished and he blinked, dragged out of his pensive mood. She winked knowingly and his stomach squirmed, but he remained resolute. Despite the guilt, he knew this was a better solution than staying here with Frankie and his desire. He was too weak to resist her charms.

Bowing her out, he shut the door before she realized he'd never given her his word.

…

The corridors were quiet save the hops of a large imaginary rabbit traversing the halls as quietly as a mouse. He halted at Madame Foster's door, slipped inside, left a note on her pillow telling her not to worry but nothing specific, and then hopped out again. Unfortunately, the note increased the metaphysical burden on his heart. He told her not to worry, but she'd do the opposite. She'd go insane because he'd found a way to block her from feeling him by conjuring a mental wall- he had to ensure he wouldn't be dragged back here. At least she'd know he was alive.

Heart heavy, he hopped down the hall to Frankie's door and crept inside. The moonlight cast a pale silver glow on her face and stole his breath. She lay splayed out on the bed; her silken red hair framed her head like a halo. He stood in the doorway and stared, unable to move or draw a breath. She was a goddess and what was he but a pauper? He had nothing to offer her.

Like a burglar, he tiptoed across her room and stood by her bed. Removing his glove, he stroked her face and she shifted, smiling dreamily. What did she dream? He wondered what made her smile and if he could ever be the one to bring a smile to her face. Shaking his head, he cleared his thoughts. No time.

The clock on the bureau to their left displayed a prominent 1:24 a.m. and he exhaled sharply. Any minute she might rouse and discover him here. Worse yet, Madame Foster might find him here. He was wasting time saying his goodbye when he hadn't done the most important thing anymore. He simply couldn't bear to part with his beloved Frankie.

But he knew this was necessary. She could not afford to have someone like him around. She deserved the best things and a human to give them to her, not an imaginary friend. Depressing though it was, he could never satisfy her like another. Any other belief was a blatant lie.

Leaning over her gorgeous frame, he brushed his whiskers across her cheek and squeezed her right hand. Frankie mumbled, but nothing distinguishable. She shifted, rolling over and away from him. Oh, how he would miss seeing her.

"I love you, Frankie Foster…and that is why I cannot stay here."

…

They welcomed him openly, but he caught the reservation in their eyes. No sooner had he settled in than another catastrophe arose and he realized the precariousness of his situation. He sighed, but refused to leave. Surely things could get better…he hoped.

…

Frankie mumbled, rolled over, and smiled serenely. When she awoke in the morning to the chaos, she would not remember the dream with the whiskery kiss and those delightful three words.

…

The ruckus outside woke the dead, including those who slept like them. Frankie rubbed her eyes and blinked, wondering how on earth she managed to sleep through it. Imaginary friends bustled and shouted raucously. Bleary eyed, she wondered where Herriman was to stop this. Surely he'd never let the decibel level rise alarmingly.

Tossing on a shirt carelessly and stuffing her feet into pink Blossom slippers, she shuffled towards the door and opened it. Imaginary friends swept past her and pressed her against the wall. Oh, dear, this was a madhouse. What on earth had happened? And why did she have a feeling Bloo and Herriman were involved? It'd better not be that blue blob…he's lucky we like his creator…

Charily, easing her way via ebbs in the idea current, she reached a notice tacked on the board at the end of the hall. Naturally, she recognized Herriman's flowing script and swallowed hard once she finished. The bottom of her stomach fell out, replaced by emptiness. Many a time she'd wished he'd simply disappear, but now that he had, guilt wracked her. He hadn't left on vacation- he'd left to get away from her.

"We will rule Foster's!" Bloo cackled, either on a power high, adrenaline kick, or a sugar rush. She shoved him to the side and sought out her grandmother. Later, when she'd calmed herself, she'd deal with the insurgency. Right now, she hadn't the patience to smother "la resistance".

Madame Foster, normally placid and cheerful, stared stoically ahead like one of her busts. Though she too occasionally received rough treatment by friends who quickly apologized, she hardly blinked. No one had apparently considered the damage Herriman's absence inflicted on Madame Foster. Perhaps they were too busy celebrating a supposed lifting of rules. Frankie didn't find this joyous at all.

"He ran away…" she whispered brokenly and led her away from the hubbub. They descended a series of stairs and then headed into her hidden bedroom. At least here, their voices faded into nothingness.

Opening her mouth, an apology sprang to mind, but the older woman shook her head. Years she denied poured down and aged her tremendously overnight. Maybe Mr. Herriman was the one thing keeping her young. She sighed, hoping that wasn't the case. How could he abandon his creator and Foster's like this? How could he turn his back on everyone? Did he really think he had no other choice?

"The note he left me indicates we hire permanent replacements," she whispered. "I tried to contact him or at least grope for his feelings in the dark, but he's blocked me."

"He ran away because he's in love with me," Frankie whispered, shutting her eyes and burying her head in her hands. What a mess. What were they supposed to do now? Did he expect his absence would mean nothing to them? Were they supposed to move on without him?

"Don't worry, dearie. He'll come to his senses and walk in here, wondering why we're just standing around instead of doing work," she assured her, but her words were empty. Silence descended upon the little room and they sat there together, stunned and awestruck by their loss.

…

Two months passed, then three. Life settled in a pattern in Foster's; Frankie's temper frayed and broke at the slightest strain, Madame Foster spent most of her time in her room trying to break his block, and the intelligent imaginary friends shied from the twenty two year old. Already she'd given vicious tongue lashings to her dearest friends here through no fault of theirs and they were in no mood to receive the same. She wished she could feel less exhausted and more apologetic.

Her normal duties were compounded by the inadequacy of Herriman's replacements. Usually, she had to clean the toilets, scrub the floors, and prepare the meals, but now she had to double and triple check their numbers and paperwork. One guy had already tried to swindle Foster's out of thousands and then made a pass at Frankie. Wilt had to physically hoist her out of the room and force her to breathe through a paper bag until she was ready to confront him without tearing an appendage off.

On top of that were Bloo's continuous attempts to undermine her newfound authority. He really thought he'd be better off running Foster's and twice she'd seriously contemplated shoving the broken pieces of a broom handle down his throat. The rallied imaginary friends stared in disbelief as she hissed a threat at him and then stomped off before she acted upon it.

Then there were the sleepless nights punctuated by nightmares of Herriman bleeding, wounded, or, worse yet, in Faust's Residence of Delinquent Friends. That place was a living nightmare and no amount of government propaganda could bring her three hundred feet within its boundaries. She shuddered and wiped the cold sweat off her face, but her dreams remained morbid and unsettling. If she got four hours of sleep a night, she was lucky.

Herriman haunted her when she awoke, blinking confusedly. Strong furry arms rocked her back and forth after a particularly terrifying nightmare and his whiskers touched the top of her head. Yet when she craned her neck for a second look, he was gone, a passing phantom in the night.

Today she leaned heavily against the cheap plastic mop from Dollar Tree because she'd destroyed the last three when her temper got the better of her. Bloo had witnessed her snap one and finally gave up his aspiration; she'd brandished it perilously close to his eyes. That and the tongue lashings he'd received subsequently led him to avoid her like everyone else. Once, she might have cared about what she was becoming, but now, she just wanted him the hell out of her line of sight. He and Mac were never anywhere near her anymore.

Glancing at the clock, she noted idly that Mac was late today. Bloo lingered by a doorway and darted out to check the time. He was too petrified of her to ask where she thought he was. Instead, he gulped and dove inside where it was safe. Her green eyes tracked and rooted him to the spot.

Mac arrived a half an hour late and tugged dispiritedly on a large backpack. He pushed the doors open and halted, staring at her. His eyes swept the bags under her eyes and her drooping eyelids. Normally, she managed to scurry before direct scrutiny. Wilt had commented on her state and she lashed out so cruelly, he'd eluded her for a week. She'd apologized later, but it bothered her nonetheless. She couldn't let the creatures in who cared the most.

"Hi, Frankie," Mac greeted shyly. "How are you?"

"Fine," she spat. "Peachy keen. How do you think I am?"

The acidity in her voice drove Mac back a few paces, but he refused to be intimidated. He knew Frankie too well to let her pretend nothing was wrong. Bloo observed, his blobby arms clutching the doorframe for dear life. Until the coast was clear, he wasn't budging.

"Miserable since Mr. Herriman left," he replied calmly, but his knees knocked together. He was the voice of reason among raving lunatics, but he couldn't deny his fear. Frankie was a force to be reckoned with if Bloo's reports were anything to go by. Bloo wordlessly shook his head and mouthed at him to stop.

"Damn right…" she murmured and skidded on the cleaned floor. Mac's eyes widened and he abandoned his homework to hover nearby in case she indeed slipped. Her sneakers struggled for purchase on the tiles, but, after an agonizing moment, she leaned against the wall.

"I know where he is."

Her eyes widened and she nearly slipped again rising to her feet. Eduardo, entering the staircase through an adjacent hallway, observed worriedly. The other friends cared, but they kept their concern at a distance lest she snap at them. Mac offered him a weak smile he did not return.

"Where?" she breathed.

"I saw him in the middle of a fight outside. He was trying to keep one imaginary friend from stabbing an orderly…" his voice trailed into nothing and Frankie swallowed hard. There was only one place she knew of where such a situation might arise and not merit police attention. It was pure bad luck Mac lived closer to there than Foster's and she knew he deliberately took the long way around to avoid passing it. She didn't blame him- she hated driving by.

Now, however, it looked like her next destination was Faust's Residence for Delinquent Friends. Yay.