Disclaimer/Author's Note: I don't own Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends nor will I ever. I want to thank everyone who reviewed and hope you continue to do so. Those reviews make me very happy, you know, even if I don't have time to reply to them. (I have class in fifteen minutes, actually, ugh).

Chapter Eight: Acceptance

Bloo awoke warm and content against his creator's chest. It had a rhythmic quality, smoothly moving up and down. A strand of brown hair fell in his closed eyes and Bloo stared, captivated by the wonder of life. Pearly pink lips glistened in the morning sunlight, filtered through the shades. They were so temptingly moist and full…maybe Mac wouldn't notice one stolen kiss...

Leaning on his stubby arms, he hovered over his face. Grinning devilishly, he leaned to press his lips against Mac's when his creator awoke with a start. Creamy walnut eyes widened as his brain worked to process what had gone on in his slumber. Needless to say, the first reaction was not pleasure.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Mac cried, shoving him off his chest. Bloo pouted cutely, hoping Mac wasn't entirely cognizant at eight thirty in the morning. Wait, eight thirty? Didn't Mac have school in twenty minutes? Oh, well. What'd school ever do for him?

"Oh, you know, I figured you might be cold and lonely at home, so I popped over for a visit," he replied nonchalantly, listening intently. Terrence groggily pounded on the bathroom door and then stomped inside once it was clear. Mac's face tightened and he stared ahead wordlessly. If either of them came in here, he was in for it. Oh, what had he been thinking?

Mac's mother knocked on the door to alert him he'd be very late if he didn't get up now and the color drained from his face. What was he going to do? How was he supposed to hide him? Hmm, maybe he'd fit in the closet. But what if his mother had to clean in there? Well, she was working late tonight…

"You can't be here!" he hissed, cradling him in his arms. His heart rate doubled then quickened agitatedly. Bloo, meanwhile, rested comfortably. Anything involving Mac this close was fine with him. He could stay forever in his arms.

Balancing him precariously, he opened the door in one hand and hoisted Bloo in the other. Unfortunately, while one might be a great admirer of Blooregard Q. Kazoo, one has to admit he is rather thick at times. Therefore, when Mac tossed him amidst a pile of clothing, old posters, and several hole ridden backpacks, he was taken completely off guard. Still, after awaking a mere five minutes before and being somewhat logy, he probably couldn't have figured it out anyway. The door slammed and then locked, leaving Bloo stuck in his closet. He'd make this up to him when he was done hiding him.

"What the hell!" Bloo snapped, pounding on the door. Mac's mother, fortunately, knocked at the same time and covered it. Mac cast a guilty look at the closet and then reluctantly opened his door to admit his mother. He would make this up to his creation.

"I'm sorry, Bloo," Mac whispered to the closet door and his mother frowned, staring at him. Mac retreated guiltily and his back met wood.

"Excuse me? Are you whispering to the door? What are you hiding from me?"

"Nothing!" Mac replied, entirely too quickly. His mother's eyes narrowed, but Terrence's calls tore her attention from her younger son. Waggling a finger warningly, she left the room and both imaginary friend and creator breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully, there wouldn't be a next time to worry about…

Meanwhile, not too far away but perhaps a little later, another imaginary friend faced a conundrum unlike theirs.

…

Around him, plates clattered and imaginary friends, brandishing plastic forks and jabbing the air threateningly, screamed. He opened his mouth to scold one about their elbows on the table but thought better of it. Frankie hadn't seen it because he'd been sitting down, but there was a large gash in his stomach after the last time. Imaginary friends here hardly took to etiquette lessons; they took to implementing bizarre weapons. Swallowing hard, he glanced down at his cold pizza slice and his hunger evaporated. He thought he might be nauseous.

Massaging his temples, he imagined a Foster's dinner and Frankie on his right. In the soft yellow light bathing the room, her delicate features would be tenderly illuminated. He exhaled sharply, missing her terribly. Her visit today had only served to remind him of his unrequited love and overwhelming desire. Maybe he had better stay here, where he wouldn't be tempted.

Still in his imaginary dinner, Madame Foster sat on his left and he swallowed hard, aware he'd abandoned her. For years he'd shown her unwavering loyalty and support in her toughest times. Whenever she needed him, he abandoned everything to attend to her. He'd held when she cried and rocked her back and forth; smiled when she laughed, and simply supported her whenever she needed a pillar of strength. And he'd selfishly abandoned her.

He hardly felt the tomato sauce or cold, wet pizza slice when it struck his face nor heard the customary fight brewing. In fact, when he idly cleaned himself up, he missed a small, elderly woman slip inside the ruckus and trail him back to the office. Deep in thought, he nearly walked into the door before remembering the code to open the door. It really was like a prison here. A prison he'd signed up for by falling in love with Frankie. Maybe he deserved this.

Head hung despairingly low, he stared at his desk. How could emotions that he thought he'd never deal with himself suddenly spring up? How could this happen? He'd been fine until Frankie found the journal. He could have lived denying his happiness. He could deal with misery and unrequited love as long as he kept the secret to himself.

"Oh, my Funny Bunny…" Madame Foster sighed, settling herself in the seat in front of his desk. Herriman, engrossed in thought, ignored her. There was no way he could return to Foster's with Frankie there. He was a menace to everyone there. A lump formed in his throat and wouldn't vanish upon swallowing.

Fingers combed through his fur lovingly and he jerked, brought out of his reverie by her gentle touch. He blinked, staring at his creator as she discovered the little bruises and scars buried on his arms. One particular laceration roped from his left wrist to his elbow and she traced it. Finally, mentally cursing his luck, he wrenched his arm from her grip.

"Well, Frankie told me it was bad, but I didn't think you were letting them do this!" she hissed, normally placid green eyes shimmering outrageously. The link he'd denied for three months abruptly ripped open and he felt her fury, indignation, upset with him for leaving her, guilt for letting him do it and making it feel like she'd shoved him away, accumulated loneliness and misery since his disappearance, and anxiety he might prefer Faust's to Foster's. Stunned, he sat, unable to focus in the emotional sea.

However, on her end, she received his anxiety she'd learned too much of his life here, fretfulness he'd never be able to return to Foster's because of his attraction to Frankie, guilt for leaving her, more anxiety but about Foster's financial state, helpless and hopelessness. The last two emotions overwhelmed the formers and dropped her jaw. She snatched his right hand in hers and squeezed it tightly, gazing at him wordlessly. Miserable black eyes met her gaze and she rose swiftly to her feet to hop up and hug him. Nonplussed, he lifted her onto his lap and let her.

"I've neglected you, my Funny Bunny…" she whispered, his anguish echoing in her soul. Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she didn't know who they were for- him or her. Outside, the world might as well have melted away for all the impact it had on them. He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came.

"And now you're in agony…"

Tears fell thick and heavy on his fur coat and he swallowed hard again, willing the block back in place. Yet the instant he put it up, Madame Foster knocked it back down. She didn't want to hear whatever lies he'd constructed about this place- she wanted to know everything that troubled him. If it hurt her in the process, so be it. He was her imaginary friend and they hadn't been together all this time for her to let him go easily.

"Madame…" he whispered, voice choked by suppressed sobs. "You must leave. I will make my decision soon."

Though her eyes still streamed with tears, her glare was heated. He cringed, recognizing the typical Foster's backbone. At least the emotional sea had ebbed. Now he could discern single sensations, like her fury, directed at him currently. The hand squeezing his painfully constricted his blood flow and he bit back a cry.

"I might be an old lady, Herriman, but I'm not blind. Someone here hurt you physically…and I hurt you emotionally. I love you and I'm part of the reason you ran away. I can't abandon you when you need me. And don't you dare deny you need me, either. You can't keep living here- you'll be murdered in your bed at this rate."

She gave him a shrewd look as if daring him to contradict her, but the emotions floating between them made that next to impossible. He was too awash in their bond to lie and besides, what good would come of it if he did? He could no more lie successfully about the conditions here than he could about the lacerations, scars, and bruises lining his arms and stomach. At least Frankie hadn't seen them- she would have dragged him out of here kicking and screaming if she had. Of course, there was time for her grandmother to do the same.

"You're worried about hurting Frankie because you think you're alone. You're ashamed of your affections for her, isn't that right? You don't think we all go through something like this in our lives? We don't run away from it like you did-"

Odd, such a reversal of roles. Like Mac, his customary part was the voice of reason and here he was, listening to a lecture about his behavior from his creator. The concept made him more morose than before. He was behaving so childishly, his creator surpassed him in maturity. That stung.

"I did not run away from it! I did the only suitable action I could- I removed myself from the picture. Foster's is a better place now that I'm gone-"

Yet when he said that, he was aware of its inaccuracy. Through their bond, he sensed Foster's was being mismanaged and corrupt humans were allowed to run it, using government funds for their own selfish fancies. If his leaving hadn't helped it there, what good had it done? It hadn't stopped his love for Frankie, it hadn't broken his bond to Madame Foster, and it hadn't done much of anything other than get himself hurt and have others worry about him.

But that wasn't why he ran away, was it? After three months, his original reasons faded into nothingness. He hadn't done the right thing, he acknowledged his mistake now. But was he ready to return home? Did it matter? Madame Foster had a point- if he stayed here too much longer, he'd be dead. Which was worse, his death or the temptation of Frankie?

What was he doing here, though? He wasn't serving an important function like at Foster's. He was a secretary, scribbling down medicinal notes and practice treatments. Most of them drifted by mindlessly because their names were not familiar to an uneducated rabbit like him. If he left, they probably wouldn't miss him. It'd be one less imaginary friend to consider defending. He was worthless here.

"Well?" she inquired, puncturing his thoughts. He blinked, glancing down at the miniscule figure on his lap. She hugged him tightly and he sighed, arriving at a decision. If he stayed here, he served no greater purpose than a computer might. At least at Foster's, he could bury himself in paperwork. Here, he didn't have that luxury.

"Let me gather my things," he replied and she smiled softly, jumping onto his desk to kiss him on the cheek.

…