Disclaimer: Not mine!

Chapter Nine: Battle Plan

In Faust's, there'd been a group of imaginary friends who loathed him from the get go. They'd been the ones to inflict his bruises and lacerations; one tried to stab him in the chest with a fork. Whether it was because their humans had his manners or because they disliked the time he'd spent in his creator's company, they found every excuse to attack him. Disused to constant beleaguering, he'd tried to reason with them and then, failing miserably, hid. The sad thing was he felt more at home there right now than he did here, where he'd spent a majority of his life.

Hopping into the dining hall, every eye seared into his fur and scrutinized the scars riddling his arms and belly. Despite this, he forced his head upright and glanced away. At least at Faust's if he needed to escape, no one knew his name. No one would notice his absence. Here, everyone had and were breaking out into frantic whispers about his whereabouts. As terrible as it sounded, he thought he might miss Faust's already.

Frankie walked beside him and ran commentary about what had transpired in his absence, but he scarcely heard her. Everyone expected an explanation and he wasn't ready to give it. What on earth was he to say, anyway? He'd run off because the burden of an unrequited love was too much? That even now, he was having misgivings about returning home because he might actually prefer being stabbed in the heart to seeing Frankie this close?

Madame Foster hobbled on his right and supplemented when needed, but behind her smile, she fretted. Since she'd learned how to tear down his mental blocks, he could hide nothing from her and she caught his uncertainty and lament. Since she couldn't pinpoint where the emotions sprang from, it was hard to tell what he lamented, but she knew him well enough to guess. Glancing up, she bit her lip and squeezed his paw. Maybe he wasn't here to stay after all.

Funny Bunny, do you really think I'm going to let you go again? You can't keep running away from us, Madame Foster thought and squeezed his paw tighter.

Never before had the journey felt so long. In Faust's, he'd snatched a tray and vanished into a corner of the room. His stalker imaginary friends occasionally bothered him, but in his corner, he was unnoticed. Here, everyone had their eyes on him. His stomach wrenched and he thought he might be sick. Too many imaginary friends who cared too much about his welfare.

Mac and Bloo sat together, Bloo actually on his creator's lap, and observed him. Bloo opened his mouth to comment, probably unfavorably, when Mac covered his lips with his hand. He stroked his blobby head and cradled him to his chest. The imaginary blob turned around, wrapped his arms around his chest possessively, and leaned against him. Well, that was unexpected.

"Mine," Bloo purred, grinning devilishly. Mac rolled his eyes and smiled weakly, used to this.

Nonplussed, Mr. Herriman hopped past the bizarre display of affection and finally descended to his seat at the head of the table. Silence hung like a cloak over the denizens of Foster's and he swallowed hard, aware a speech was in order. Frankie vanished inside the kitchen to retrieve dinner and Madame Foster followed. So many familiar faces sought his and the color drained from his face. The usual authoritarian sensation fled, replaced by panic. What was he supposed to say?

Pressure mounted and his heart thundered in his chest. The tension was thick enough to cut with a butcher knife, forget a butter knife. The longer he stayed here, the more his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his paws perspired inside his gloves. A lump choked his throat and he swallowed to no avail. This was more than he could bear.

Wordlessly, he rose from his seat, pushed it back in, and fled into the kitchen. There Frankie added the last few ingredients to her macaroni and cheese and conversed quietly with her grandmother. Herriman hung back, aware he was interrupting something. Maybe he shouldn't have come home at all…he felt as welcome here as he did at Faust's if not less. Maybe he should leave after dinner…

And return to what? An imaginary friend stabbing you in the chest in the night? That group attacking you whenever your back is turned? Another slashed portrait of your creator? You cannot stay there and you know it, the little voice in his head berated him.

Inclining his head, he frowned, recognizing the topic of discourse. It was him.

"He wants to leave, I can tell," Madame Foster said, snatching flagons of juice and soda to place on the table. "We have to talk to him. He's got so many negative emotions swirling around, it's a miracle he didn't drive himself mad during the three month separation."

"You're really worried about him, aren't you?" Frankie asked, finishing up and moving the mixture into a large bowl. "And I can't understand why he'd want to go back to Faust's…that place gives me the creeps."

It gave any sane creature, regardless of whether they were imaginary or human, the shivers. Hell, Herriman had spent his whole first night curled up and quivering under the blankets. The screams outside hadn't helped much, either. They'd placed him inside a locked ward until they found him better living quarters and the insane howls never quite left him. He'd spent his first fortnight staring at the walls and counting tiles; he hadn't slept a wink unless he fell unconscious.

Maybe the reason he wished to return to Faust's was because of his anonymity. His past was his past and no one gave a damn there. He could have slaughtered tens of thousands and since he wasn't a patient, people shrugged. Here, people knew what he'd done and who he was. They probably knew he'd been acting odd around Frankie and were at least curious as to his whereabouts. It was that curiosity that was killing him.

They fell into silence, each thinking their own respective thoughts. Frankie walked past him without noticing him, but Madame Foster halted, staring. Her somber eyes swept him and lingered on his scars. Soundlessly, she squeezed his paw and walked out as well. They would talk later.

"Are you going to unpack or take off again to be someone's dart board?" Madame Foster called, jarring Herriman out of his reverie. A pile of papers lay completed by his right paw and he'd been spacing out, debating his position. The logical, self preserved side ordered him to forget Faust's, but the emotional, petrified side told him at least at Faust's he wouldn't have to deal with Frankie and the complications of his absence. The emotional side of him was a coward…but he found himself agreeing with it.

Maybe it would be easier to avoid Frankie than to contend with his feelings again. Then again, he had spent the last three months doing exactly that to no avail. His feelings hadn't vanished, his loneliness and guilt soared, and in his heart of hearts, he knew running away would solve nothing. It would be one thing if he'd gotten over it, but this was too deep to be fixed.

Perhaps Madame Foster understood that because in strode Frankie. Great…just great. He'd spent his time avoiding the subject and here it was in black and white. Why hadn't he learned his lesson and locked his door? Infernal thing.

"You're not leaving again," Frankie told him sternly and situated herself in the chair in front of his desk. Since his return, he'd cringed and awkwardly cleaned his office, but trace remains of the others' lingered. Frankie loathed it. She loathed the sensation he was only here until he found a permanent way to avoid her. She hated being the reason he was miserable. But what was the alternative?

Yet Madame Foster apparently thought of it beforehand. No sooner had Frankie settled herself than her grandmother ushered her out. There she stood in the hall and huffed. What on earth was she thinking? First she said she wanted her with her and then she changed her mind? Jeez.

Once they were alone, Madame Foster cast the doors a shrewd look then locked it soundly. At least the room was soundproof. She had no intention of letting inquiring minds get wind of this.

Leaning across the table, she whispered so he had to cock his ears, "How'd you like to be human?"

Swallowing hard, he flexed his new arms and fingers experimentally. Madame Foster stood behind him and nodded approvingly. She'd spent the last hour nodding, adjusting, and cropping an old suit of her late husband's. He felt uncomfortable inside, but there was nothing else to wear. Unlike his rabbit form, he could hardly stroll around half naked.

Sighing heavily, he glanced into the mirror. A stately gentleman of indeterminate age, gray hair minus a bowler hat since she felt it'd be too revealing, bushy eyebrows and mustache, an old orange suit with a black tie, and shiny black dress shoes that pinched his feet. He scarcely recognized the crinkly brown eyes staring back at him. Madame Foster assured him he could transform back and forth as he willed, but he disliked this. Nothing was familiar and he was certain he would trip when he tried to walk instead of hop.

He ran a shaky hand through the marvel humans called 'hair", an article Madame Foster had fussed over when she was much younger. It at least covered his palate, which was more than he could say for humans his age. At least he didn't look his age- that would be a recipe for disaster. Instead, he resembled a middle aged man, excepting his hair color. Certain traits of his would carry over automatically.

Taking Madame Foster's suggestions, he put one foot in front of the other…and tumbled to the floor. She slapped a hand to her forehead and helped him to his feet. They'd need another three months before he was ready, at this rate. They had their work cut out for them.

In the dark of the night, Madame Foster taught Mr. Herriman how to walk, talk, and behave like himself yet hide his true self. That was the art- wooing Frankie without having her figure out who the human really was. The art of deception…because Herriman was certain she'd never love him if she knew the truth.