Author's Note: I finished one fanfic ("Prince Frog") so I decided it was time to write that sequel to Best Kept Secrets. However, since I pretty much established that was a one-shot, this is a different series. And, uh, please don't kill me for my interpretation of Terrence. This is the first time I've ever actually written him.

Disclaimer: Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends is not mine and never will be.

Dreaming of You

Chapter One: Prelude

Blooregard Q. Kazoo stared blankly up at the ceiling as if could answer every burning question in his mind. However, it stared stoically back, its whiteness only irritating him. For the past three hours, instead of watching TV, playing paddleball, or any number of the usual activities he partook in, he'd flopped onto the bed and peered up. He was too confused, resentful, and miserable to do anything else. Mac had left him.

A howl of misery ripped through his lips and he pressed his face into the pillow. Three hours ago, Frankie had received a letter from his creator stating that he was going after his father and not to worry about him. Though the reasons were not strong enough to convince anyone, Frankie had turned chalk white and left the room rather quickly.

Bloo had slumped against the couch and lost all color. Wordlessly, whimpering occasionally, he disappeared upstairs. Wilt, Eduardo, and Coco started after him, but he locked them out. The first hour had been spent denying Mac would ever do something utterly out of character. Then again, he hadn't been privy to the scenes between Terrence and Mac that led to his creator's decision. He knew nothing but loathed his creator immensely.

Then the hatred vanished, replacing by aching loneliness. Currently he shut his eyes and hoped this would all be a dream. He had no idea how true that statement would prove in the days to come.

…

Terrence's words reverberated in his mind and Mac clenched his fists. All he remembered was his older brother blaming him for sending their father away. Then there was a deafening scream and his swearing that he'd find out the real culprit, followed by him storming out without thinking for a second, a rushed letter, and a thumb sticking out. Yes, eight year old Mac was hitchhiking. He had no idea where he was going or how he was going, but he had a vague notion where his father lived. That was his destination.

A wave of torment swept him and he clutched the signpost. Night brought its cold wind and rustled his clothes. He shivered, sensing Bloo in the back of his mind but paying little attention. He had no idea how to block him, but it didn't matter. In a few seconds, that blip fell silent and he was alone again.

Cars breezed past him, some traveling fast enough to knock him off his feet. Finally, a trucker stopped, his eyes glittering in the darkness. Mac didn't like the looks of him and wouldn't have gotten on, but he was already far from home and had no way to get either here or there without a ride. He had no choice.

Little did he know he wasn't the only one eyeing the driver dubiously…

…

Frankie exhaled sharply and gazed once at the wall and then at Mister Herriman. The anthropomorphic rabbit inclined his head as if to indicate she might wish to unload onto him. She shook her head and slumped in her chair. They'd sat like this for the past three hours, neither able to hold the conversation too long. Madame Foster perched on her bed and watched her imaginary friend curiously, her expression indiscernible.

"I wonder if he's strong enough…" she murmured and the two spun around to glance at her. They stared but she offered no further explanation. Instead, she eyed the ceiling appreciatively and both knew she desired them to inquire further. Frankie rolled her eyes and Herriman sighed softly. At least he comprehended her games better than she.

"I do not think an eight year old child should risk his health and well-being to pursue-" Herriman started, but his creator interrupted.

"I don't think it's his creator we need to be completely concerned about," Madame Foster said cryptically, giving Herriman a meaningful look. Frankie, who had never bonded to her imaginary friend like her grandmother had to hers, shrugged, completely lost. Whatever hidden messages transpired between the two she was not privy to he apparently comprehended clearly. The imaginary rabbit nodded.

Folding her arms across her chest, she frowned and eyed Bloo, passing the slightly ajar door. He dragged himself by and stared at the tiles. His head was so low, it was close to his blobby arms. Though he routinely irritated her, she couldn't help but pity him. Mac's disappearance, whatever the reason, had clearly devastated him. She only wondered how long that would last before he tried to rein him back in himself.

Meanwhile, behind her, creator and creation were speaking aloud again. One bushy eyebrow high, he questioned her theory. Sighing heavily, Frankie swiveled around to listen. Though she'd felt more like an extraneous object than an important person here, she had always found his arguments with his creator amusing. It proved her point that he grated everyone's nerves.

"I sincerely doubt their bond is as strong as ours," he interjected. "As soon as Mac exits a certain perimeter, any sensations will cease-"

"Codswallop! I know you felt everything during my honeymoon- you were complaining it for weeks afterwards." A devilish grin swept her face and she chuckled much to her imaginary friend's tremendous blush. Frankie, disgruntled and about as comfortable as Mister Squirmy over there, studied an insect on the floor. She hoped Herriman didn't catch it- nervously; she murdered it and whistled innocently. No one paid her any mind.

"You wouldn't let me teach you sex ed! What did you expect? I tried to show you on the filmstrips-" Madame Foster began and he clamped his paws over his ears. Unfortunately, owing to their gigantic size, he had a greater chance of tuning out Bloo than his creator.

Frankie blushed to the roots of her hair and eyed Herriman capriciously. The poor imaginary rabbit gagged, nauseous no doubt to the recollection. He glanced guiltily at her and the blush deepened to the point where his fur could be aflame by the heat from in his face. She didn't want to know. She really didn't. Already she'd heard enough to last her a while. She loved her grandmother dearly…but she was a little, er, free spirited.

"Um, Grandma? I'm still here."

"Would you like to hear about my honeymoon? Oh, it was so romantic…" she trailed off, grinning from ear to grin. Herriman sunk so low in his chair, the tip of his monocle was visible. Meanwhile his creator was lost in reminiscing. Frankie had to prod her to get her to stop for both their benefits. (Though the Herriman torture amused her mildly).

"Why did you call me here?" she gently reminded her and smirked. Herriman wasn't looking at either of them now.

"Oh, yes!" Madame Foster said, bubbling, and hopped up in her chair. "I want you to keep an eye on Bloo while he's sleeping. Just poke your head in and see if he's having any nightmares. I think his dreams will be a lot more interesting from here on in."

…

Terrence sighed and glared at the clock in their apartment kitchen. While the minutes ticked by, his guilt rose by the hour. He honestly didn't remember half of what he'd screamed at his younger brother, but it'd resulted in Mac running away and a sick satisfaction. That was before panic set in.

His mother was going to kill him when she discovered the truth. Then she'd try to pry out where he'd gone…but Terrence had no idea where the kid was. Their father had vanished from the mall yesterday and left no traces. He'd checked. Whatever inkling Mac was using, no one else had it. That unnerved him- it was bad enough Mac was acting out of character, worse he hadn't told anyone.

Then again, as bits and pieces of their argument reverberated, he sighed hard. Maybe telling him he was "the reason Dad left", if he'd "never been born, everyone would be happier", and if he "loved Dad so much, maybe you ought to go live with him and stop wasting Mom's money" was a little harsh. Then again, people rarely said things they meant in the middle of an argument. Yet at the moment…he wasn't sure if they were true or not. He had so much resentment towards his younger brother, it poisoned his actions and words.

But running after their father was kamikaze. If he turned away from both of them, what chance would he stand hitchhiking to his heart? An eight year old had no business on the street, especially not one as naïve and trusting as him. He'd get himself hurt or worse. And he hadn't come to his senses yet…this sounded horrible, even to someone like him. What had he done?

He mulled this over and jerked, wincing when the keys scratched the inside of the lock. Of course, while he sat here and wondered what the hell had happened, his mother drove home. His stomach clenched and unclenched. What was he going to tell her when she asked where Mac was? Could he betray Mac's secret life at Foster's to save his skin?

Yet when she asked where his younger brother was, a lie slipped from his lips like quicksilver. Too fatigued to argue, she nodded and then nodded off to sleep. When she awoke in the morning, the facts would settle in. Right now, he escaped and tried to push Mac out of his mind. Unfortunately, that concept proved harder in execution than theory.

…

Swallowing hard, Mac's father cast one last glance at Mac's hometown and drove away for what he thought was the last time. He had no idea the storm brewing and would not for some time. Perhaps he was lucky.

…