Author's Note/Disclaimer: Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends belongs to Craig McCracken and Cartoon Network. Er, yay for them?

And thank you to everyone who reviewed, all (ahem!) three of you. If you're reading and not reviewing, don't be so lazy. I really like to know what you have to say.

Thank you, Rakal, lucyrocks73, and ahhelga (who I coerced into reading this).

Chapter Four: Innocuous

Bloo was close to sobbing. In fact, tears balled in his eyes but he refused to succumb to them. Instead, his whole body trembled and he clenched his eyes shut in the futile hope it might somehow regain composure. Every time he did, however, the image of Mac dying on the roadway; his body was lying in pieces as cars rushed by. Blood gushed everywhere and one of his legs was splayed in the wrong direction. His hair was matted with blood and his clothes were soaked.

Jolting up in the bed, he stifled a scream and pressed the pillow to his mouth. Today, at regular intervals, he'd tried to 'see' Mac again, but to no avail. Madame Foster's dire words put horrid, terrible images in his head. Every time he stopped engaging his body or mind, he envisioned another gruesome death. Shuddering deeply, he shut his eyes again and clenched them tightly. This was the first time in his life he cried himself to sleep.

Mac shivered and blinked, sensing Bloo again. Stars sparkled overhead and he followed them along the road again. Already he loathed where he was and how far he had gone. He wanted to go home, but the argument sprang up again and he knew he'd rather die than give up.

Bloo hovered overheard, once again unable to do anything. He scrutinized his creator and marked any cuts, bruises, or lacerations. Other than the bush's thorns, he was fine. Nonetheless, he continued to examine him in case he missed anything. For all he knew, he might spontaneously combust. He shuddered deeply at the thought.

"Bloo," Mac muttered and the imaginary friend stood at attention or whatever passed for it in the dream.

"Leave me alone."

The words hit him like a sack of bricks. He stared blankly, unable to think of anything. Like an axe tearing into his heart, he felt it tear asunder. Could he even begin to comprehend the damage he'd done by uttering those three words? Was he aware that Bloo was just looking out for him? Did he care?

"I don't need you here."

Then, like a pair of pliers, he attempted to extract him from his mind. However, not only did Bloo refuse to leave, Mac couldn't remove him. The harder he tried, the harder Bloo stuck. They were bonded together, for better or for worse.

A number of counterarguments and vicious retorts sprung to Bloo's mind, but, as usual, he was mute. Instead he settled for glowering and folding his arms across his chest…if he had any to speak of. When Mac came home, he was going to receive a lesson in how not to treat your best friend. Number one; don't run off without telling him. Number two; don't tell him you don't need him when you clearly do. As soon as he awoke, he'd write it all out and read it, no matter how much Mac protested.

Muttering under his breath, Mac trudged along the road until the glare of headlights halted him. He raised an arm to shield his eyes and the screech of brakes alerted him to the fact the driver had stopped before him. Whether it was to stop from hitting him or because they were truly worried about the young boy, Bloo couldn't tell. Yet from his recent experience, every cell in his body warned his best friend against talking to them. Strangers weren't as trustworthy as they appeared and he'd be damned if he let Mac get hurt again on his watch. (Not that there was anything he could really do about it, but he liked to think there was).

A young woman hushed whoever lay in the back seat and hastily pushed the door open and waltzed over. She was young, late twenties if Bloo could judge age at all, and harried. A large band of hair trickled out of her crammed ponytail and she bore the look of driving hours on end. Her hands were, in fact, trembling. Still, all in all, Bloo doubted she was going to hurt Mac. However, he might be wrong. He never knew with humans, did he? They weren't like imaginary friends…and even imaginary friends could go bad.

"Oh, you poor dear! What are you doing all alone out here? You're gong to get hurt!" she cried, sweeping her wavy cinnamon hair out of her face. In the dim light cast by headlights and the mostly clouded moon, two heart shaped golden earrings glinted.

Mac shivered and hugged himself. Averting his gaze, he spoke to the ground. Bloo prodded him in the back of the head but nothing happened. Muttering uncouthly, his words literally fell on deaf ears. No matter how he reacted, Mac would never notice. He screamed soundlessly.

At least there wasn't as much reason for alarm now as there was before. This woman appeared perfectly fine as she led him to her car. In the back seat were two children, slumbering on each other's shoulders. They appeared to be about six and eight respectively and had beautiful, wavy chestnut hair like their mother. In the hand of the six year old girl was a stuffed rabbit that reminded them eerily of Mr. Herriman. Chances were it was the last of the Funny Bunny merchandise that, after working things out with the manufacturers, actually gained money for the house.

Other than a few questions Mac answered vaguely, the rest of the trip proceeded in silence. When they arrived at the police station (and she demanded he call his parents), he managed to slip out of her sight and take to the streets again. Bloo's heart sank to his stomach and, slumbering, he held his lower body. The road to hell was paved with good intentions.

If Bloo was consciously trying to sleep more, then Terrence was doing the exact opposite. Falling asleep detailed torturous dreams wrought by conscience attacks. Remaining awake meant rolling over onto his side and staring at the wall, all the while shoving his guilty thoughts to the side. Neither worked well, but at least when he was awake he could play a video game and forget thinking at all.

The past day had been spent arguing that Mac was better off on the streets. He provided numerous incorrect examples of why and how much he hated him anyway. He decided if Mac couldn't prevent his own birth, then this was the next best thing. Smirking, he told himself he only wished he could see the look on his face when his father told him the truth as Terrence knew it. Then if he dared show his face around here again, he'd be beaten down badly. The thought amused him tremendously.

Or, rather, it had. Now that he'd that stupid dream, he couldn't stop thinking about the bratty kid. Glaring at his Playstation 2 like it had somehow deceived him today instead of himself; he kicked roughly out and folded his arms across his chest. This wasn't his fault. It was Mac's. Yes, that made sense.

When his mother asked, half hysterical, about him, he'd told her another lie. However, instead of the sick satisfaction he received whenever he bore bad news to or about him, his stomach flip flopped. Somehow, lying about his younger brother felt wrong, especially when he could be in potentially life or death situations. No, bad. Mac was fine…and even if he wasn't, why should he care? He didn't give two shits about the kid.

Maybe his conscience was screwed up. Yes, that made sense. Blame everyone and everything but himself. Whatever got him through the night would do.

Clenching his eyes shut and his fists beneath his blue woolen blanket, he sneered. Worrying, feh. Worrying was for wussies.

His last thought before he fell asleep was that if he had to worry about anyone, it was him when his mother discovered what he'd said to the kid. But she wouldn't…and Mac would be fine…perfectly fine…

Mac's father cast one glance at the town's heroine's wreckage and heaved a sigh. Tomorrow, at an ungodly hour, he'd be back to repair it again. They never thought before they threw a monkey into a building, did they? Their damage was hell on contractors and insurance salesman. He wished he were the latter…then he wouldn't have to do the real tough work.

Like every day, he wondered what his sons were doing at the moment. Seeing Mac at the mall brought back strange desires, guilt, and remorse. For the first time in his life, he truly comprehended the extent of his crime. Its massive weight made him stagger. He'd ruined lives by his actions, thanks to his own cowardice. However, what could be expected? His father had done the same thing.

Burying his head in his hands, he hoped he never had to face his younger son again. With any luck, he was asleep in his bed; sweet dreams of candy and little boy thoughts running through his mind. At any rate, there was absolutely no chance of them meeting up again the way he saw it. Their lives were completely separate.

The Powerpuff Girls flew overhead and he cursed under his breath. Great, another building to repair in the morning. Not everyone appreciated those little brats. Especially not people who already bore strong guilt about their own abandoned children. He shook his head, putting the thoughts of his mind. He wasn't going to lose it, not now, not while there was so much work to be done after he awoke.

Mac's mother sat up in her bed and glanced once at her son's picture. Mac smiled brightly back, but wrapped around him and grinning like the Cheshire cat was his imaginary friend. She honestly didn't know why she still had that picture. Why would she want to be reminded of his imaginary friend and her ex husband? She'd forced Mac to abandon his imaginary friend like he'd abandoned them. Not that it mattered in the long run…neither was likely to reappear.

Rolling over onto her side, she stared up at the ceiling. Like Bloo, it gave her no answers.