Disclaimer: Back and better than ever! Now with fifty percent more FOP obsessiveness. Foster's is not mine.

Chapter Ten; Copycats and Conundrums

Mac drummed his fingers on the desk and his attention slipped another two notches. Before him lay his homework, an open text, and a doodle of Bloo grinning mischievously at him. Though it was only a drawing, he yearned for the real thing. Sometimes, school lasted entirely too long. Who need math when you could make out with your imaginary friend? Okay…so that didn't sound entirely right. Nonetheless, his boredom struck and caused his hand to sketch them lazily, Bloo in his arms and his lips grazing his chin.

So intent on his drawing was he that when Richie leaned over and watched, smirking, he ignored him completely. The blond haired boy's eyes widened, following Mac's pencil as it completed his hand around Bloo's midsection. Short little bursts of breath escaped him, but otherwise, the other boy was completely silent. He smirked, wondering why anyone would waste that much time shading a blue blob.

"He's nothing compared to Blakesuperior, you know," Richie said offhandedly, smirking when Mac jumped. A flush spread across his face and he hastily hid the offending sheet as though doing so would erase his memory of its existence. There were more explicit ones inside his notebook, ones Bloo would love to get his little appendages on. He never suspected his creator had a dirty mind too, but kept that to himself. (Whereas everyone in and around Foster's now knew the completely incorrect terms for sex and various styles. Frankie had to detain him with no paddleball, no TV, and no video games for a week before he stopped).

Mac rolled his eyes, but guiltily paid more attention. Maybe later he'd enact a few pictures. That thought was enough to spur him to tune out Richie and focus on his class work.

…

Madame Foster offered Mr. Herriman a weak smile he neither returned nor acknowledged. Three months of laboring and toiling lead to this moment, quite possibly the most clichéd plan in the history of clichéd plans. A random car they borrowed from a local rental company sat, unmovable, in front of the gates of Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends. Herriman eyed it warily, not one to forget Bloo's wild ride five years ago. At least he now had a license and wasn't going to let that little terror give him a heart attack.

He swallowed hard, aware his thoughts were spiraling out of control. His heart raced in his chest and his mouth was devoid of any liquid whatsoever. Bile rose in his throat and he wondered if he'd vomit. Just to be certain, he'd abstained from eating or drinking anything, probably why his stomach clenched in protest. If this didn't go according to Madame Foster's plan, he'd lock himself up in his office and take meals there. That was, if he ever felt like eating again.

Frankie toiled in the garden and he exhaled sharply, aware there was no turning back. His palms sweat profusely and he glanced once more at his creator. She squeezed his hand once and then shoved him towards the car. She loved her creation dearly, but it was time for him to sever their link temporarily to improve his happiness. They both understood, but he clung terribly to the hope his feelings would go away. Once he discovered they intensified painfully, he finally agreed. Now, his feelings had to either let him sink or swim.

Madame Foster vanished and he sat disconcertedly inside the broken car. Bloo, always glad to destroy anything, made short work of the internal engine. It turned over, sputtered, and then promptly died. Well, he had to hand it to Bloo- when it came to annihilating anything, be it dreams or cars; he certainly knew what he was doing. He shuddered at the thought of him investigating their electrical work.

Frankie glanced up, laying aside her trowel and wiping her forehead. Mud clung to her oversized pink gloves and caked her face, but he thought she still looked heavenly. Her hair was completely drawn back in a pigtail, no free strands remained, and she donned an old Foster's propaganda t-shirt, ironically with Herriman's rabbit visage on the front. The jeans she wore were loose, but not nearly enough to conceal her hourglass figure. His heart skipped a few beats and then several more.

Several excruciating minutes passed, filled only with his constant beating of a dead horse and her approaching footsteps. His heart landed promptly in his throat and stayed there, swallowing his words when she arrived. Or maybe it was that even in the most mundane clothing, she was a goddess. He didn't deserve this chance…

"Having some problems?" she said cordially and he swiftly exited, praying she couldn't hear his heart race or see his palms sweat. Fortunately, she noticed neither, only eying the vehicle. Well, that was one deposit Budget Car wouldn't be getting back. Not unless Bloo was as good at putting things together as dissembling them, which he doubted.

"It is the infernal engine. It won't start," Herriman said, indicating the hood vaguely. Truthfully, he had no idea what the difference between the engine, the carburetor, or anything else under that thing was, but Madame Foster assured him she'd taught Frankie. He certainly hoped so, because if she hadn't, this would be a bust. Frankie'd call AAA and he wouldn't be able to strike up a conversation in his human form or ask her out.

"Let me take a look at that."

She crossed Foster's driveway and out to the main gates. When their eyes met, all the air escaped his lungs at once and, for a split second, he thought there was a spark. However, the moment he sensed it, it faded into nothing. Maybe his overwhelming desire imprinted sensations never present to begin with. His spirit sunk- maybe this wouldn't work and he'd never hold Frankie in his arms again or kiss her. He'd have wasted three months and his creator's imagination for naught.

Her eyes traversed his face and an uncertain look entered her green orbs. What if she recognized him? However, the look, like the spark, dissipated and she opened the hood. He smirked, wondering if Bloo had left anything salvageable at all. Of course, there were some things he couldn't touch, unless he wanted to land in an early grave.

"What are you doing around here, anyway? You look too old to adopt an imaginary friend…no offense," she inquired lightly, prodding a few instruments. He winced, clueless to what she was doing. Deciding it'd look better if he peered interestedly; he strode behind her and watched. So closet, and yet so far…to die and enter heaven was to touch her…

"My studio isn't that far from here…I'm a photographer," he replied and that at least was partially true. When they were searching for possible jobs for the human Herriman, Madame Foster discovered a pile of photos and declared them professionally rendered. He'd denied it, but a second life was born. She'd even gone so far as to buy him a studio in case Frankie ever asked…that and she found her imaginary friend's hidden hobby amusing. He'd stared, stricken, as she pulled out an entire folder of Frankie pictures.

"What do you photograph?" she replied, testing the oil. A minor explosion drove them away from the car before the entire contraption burnt to the ground. He flung himself at her and knocked her to the ground, careful to prop up her head lest it hit the concrete; the car burned merrily behind them. Bloo had only been seconds away from inciting an explosion before…

Frankie glanced from the smoldering ashes of the hood to her savior, whose face was lit up like a Christmas light. He smiled weakly, dazed. Fortunately, he'd the good fortune to wrap his arms around her waist instead of any other part of her body. Still, they were pressed together tightly and he could feel her against him. If he wasn't careful, he'd lost control of his tongue and his sense, positively volatile.

"You saved me…" she murmured faintly, blushing heavily. The heat from their faces nearly rivaled that from the car.

"How can I ever repay you?"

His lips twisted in a smirk and as he helped her to her feet, his hands lingered on her waist.

"A date would be nice."

…

Bloo pounded the remote and whacked it against the sofa cushion. Wilt, nonplussed, leaned over to extract the small device before it fell apart, but Bloo obdurately kept it from his grasp. The channel fell upon the local news and Bloo, temporarily distracted, never noticed Wilt's hand snake out and carefully extract the remote. He was too busy glaring at the screen.

"And the day is saved once again, thanks to Blakesuperior!" the reporter announced cheerfully, standing in front of Townsville Bank. Three large eyed girls who looked to be about eleven glared at the liger and one, a green eyed girl with black hair, pounded her balled up arm peg into her other. If looks could kill, that imaginary friend would be long buried by the time they were done.

"Show off," Bloo and Buttercup muttered simultaneously. A door swung open and, relieved but griping about show-off friends and their stupid super powers, Bloo darted to his creator. Meanwhile, on TV, Buttercup was receiving a lecture from her creator about the importance of not attacking imaginary friends. The lecture didn't seem to be subduing her temper much.

"That Blakesuperior thinks he's the 'best imaginary friend ever imagined'," Bloo snapped and Buttercup muttered. Both creators shook their heads, one to take their creation's mind off him and the other to say that some things were better left unspoken. It was time for Blakesuperior to glare hostilely at the three girls.

"Can you turn that off, Wilt?" Mac said and he nodded.

Grabbing his imaginary friend's arm, he steered him into the corner of the room. Bloo glared up, forever displeased with the height difference. Though he'd grown substantially since he was eight, he only came up to his creator's stomach. Mac knelt down to him since that was the only way he'd listen.

"That Blakesuperior thinks he's so great- he's nothing compared to me!" Bloo snapped and Mac rolled his eyes. He stroked the side of his face and he smiled, holding his hand. Wilt swiftly left, uncomfortable when they got like that but too polite to mention anything.

A devilish gleam lit Bloo's eyes and he leapt forward abruptly, snatching Mac's face between his appendages. Before Mac could think, much less do anything about it, he'd pressed his lips against his passionately. The sheer force stole Mac's breath away and he dropped his jaw. Bloo took advantage of that and explored his mouth with his tongue. His teeth tingled, his heart raced, and he felt dizzy.

Bloo ran his tongue along Mac's lips and then propelled himself at him, knocking him onto his back. Fortunately, since the trip wasn't that long, nothing ached terribly, but the poor boy was a little stunned. He mussed up his creator's hair and kissed him explosively once more. Mac's head was reeling.

"I bet he doesn't kiss like that," he beamed. "Right? I am the best."

"I…" he stammered, waiting for his brain to return. It didn't seem to want to work. Dazed, stunned, flabbergasted, and nonplussed (yes, though those words all mean the same thing, he was all of them at once), he stared up at him like he'd never seen him before. Bloo continued to grin.

"C'mon, say it. Say I'm the best," he prodded, snatching another kiss. His kiss was so passionate, he forgot to breathe. A few moments later, Mac choked and sputtered. A few more kisses like that and he'd be unconscious on the floor. Where had he learned to do that?

"(You're almost as good as Blakesuperior and Richie,)" a familiar voice intoned, clicking her beak approvingly. "(But Richie doesn't stare up at the ceiling afterwards)."

"What?" Bloo thundered, hopping off his creator immediately. He glared at Coco and she smiled cryptically.

"(Ask Mac)," she replied and left the room. Her insane cackles echoed in the hallways.

"What?" Bloo cried, turning to him.

Mac shrugged helplessly and sat up. "It might be because he's trying to show us up…but Richie and Blake are a couple too."

…

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! That's Goddess of Unfinished Projects, Ami, A.G., MisterBlue (BLUE!), Airie Chan, Chocolate14, and S-A. I stopped replying to reviews because I feel like I'm being redundant.

Please be sure to keep reading and reviewing. Until we meet again…