Author's Note/Disclaimer: A quickie before I head off to dinner- thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. I really do appreciate it. I love you all, I really do.

At any rate, I don't own Foster's and I never shall.

Chapter Six: Deterioration

Delicate tendrils of night ensnared his senses and he inhaled its sweet aroma. Evening meant sleep which meant eventually meeting up with his creator. All day long he'd been on pins and needles, literally jumping up and down agitatedly and then falling promptly asleep. Imaginary friends passed by and stared, nonplussed. Only one creature had anything to say and, for the most part, everyone ignored him.

Everyone except Madame Foster, that was. She'd caught his little jealousy bug through their bond and chastised him thoroughly, though she wasn't sure that had penetrated. Usually reminding him of rules and regulations worked, but glancing at his feelings told her that he'd the same opinions as before they chatted. Whatever bothered him obviously went deeper than the fact Mac and Bloo were like them.

Terrence had miraculously survived another day, but the guilt gnawed at him when he least expected it. He'd be sitting there, thinking about anything but class when he'd wonder where Mac was. A little voice would whisper "is he okay" and then he'd slam his head against the nearest book and silently berate himself for caring. He'd wanted him gone. He'd basically told him to f off. Why should he care where he was or whether he needed help?

Their mother was slowly starting to realize Terrence was holding back, but her weariness prevented her from probing him further. Whatever troubled him, perhaps he could seek guidance from someone else. She was drained enough putting food on the table and, on the side, glancing in the newspapers and talking to people to see if anyone had seen or heard from Mac. No one had.

Meanwhile, still utterly oblivious to this entire mess, Mac's father continued to clean up after the Powerpuff Girls and spend long nights reconstructing their "victories". He was about as exhausted as his ex wife and too much so to let his sons be more than a passing thought. He needed a break and he wasn't the only one.

Dreams, dreams, meaningless dreams. He hadn't dream of Mac all night and, punching his pillow furiously, he glared at the wall. They'd made a connection; he'd felt it, damn it. Why wasn't Mac responding? Was he consciously blocking him, panicked because he'd let him in too far? Was he too far gone to let Bloo in? Would he know if he got hurt while Bloo was awake and therefore less susceptible to capturing his emotions?

In a panic, he shut his eyes and commanded himself to sleep. Nothing. Not only couldn't he sleep, he couldn't feel him at all. It was like reaching into a bottomless hole. There was nothing to grasp, no hand to latch onto. Every passing second drove him further to the brink and he hugged himself, unable to stop shaking. There had to be an explanation for this, but he wasn't interested in it at the moment. The only thing he was interested in was seeing Mac again and that was it.

But no dreams of Mac came that night…or the next…

He'd taken to traveling during the day and sleeping at night. That way, whenever Bloo pushed at his consciousness, he had a valid reason to escape him. Otherwise, blocking him became rather cumbersome. Bloo pushed, shoved, and flung himself at the cracking mental wall between the two. He didn't want to just experience Mac's life; he wanted to have a part in it.

And the thought sent his creator into a panic. Without thinking, the instant they'd made that connection, he'd subconsciously vowed to never let him get that close again. And, to his credit, he'd done that fairly well. Any time Bloo probed, he shoved him away as rudely as he shoved his way in. Part of him lamented it, but he had to do this on his own, couldn't he see that? Sure, he hadn't done so well the first few times, but he was getting better. After all, he could block him, couldn't he?

Yet if he actually pondered it, blocking your five year old imaginary friend wasn't quite the same thing as acquiring food or shelter, both of which proved exceedingly difficult for him. Right now, he curled up inside a broken down house on the creaking wooden floor. Dust covered the little remaining furniture and the wind howled through cracks in the walls; Mac shuddered, too young to be alone in such a scary place. Desperately, he shoved away the notion he wanted Bloo, his mother, or even Terrence. He'd be fine.

A chill wind swept the room and he curled up in a ball, hugging his knees to his chest. The last time he'd eaten was because someone took pity on him and gave him half of their sandwich and he hadn't been properly warm since that car ride. Goosebumps arose on his arms and he rubbed them, stomach grumbling all the while. He was cold, hungry, and alone, not to mention exhausted. Tears brimmed to the surface.

"Bloo…" he whispered, eyelids drooping. Before he could protest or prevent it, he fell asleep and his imaginary friend crept past his security. The last thought he had was, if only I'd asked Bloo…

Mac opened his eyes and frowned, rubbing his arms again. He could have sworn he'd fallen asleep, but this was the very room he'd passed out in. Boarded windows creaked in the steady gust outside, stray winds swept the dusty room, and a cloud of dust choked his throat and lined his lungs. Coughing, he stumbled forward and collapsed into a dingy, faded black stuffed armchair. The problem was, there was already someone in it.

Wide eyed, worse for the wear since he'd left, sat his imaginary friend. Without thinking, he shoved him away and onto the floor. Still coughing, throat highly irritated, he looked up, bewildered. Bloo stared back, equally befuddled.

"Okay, so where did you hole yourself up this time, buddy? You know, none of this would have happened if you'd just asked me to come along in the first place or actually told someone you were leaving," Bloo snapped, unaware that not only could Mac see him, he had heard him as well.

"You wouldn't understand," Mac replied, turning his back on him. Folding his arms across his chest, he surveyed his current sleeping quarters. The worst rooms in Foster's were a million times better than this. At the thought, his heart ached for home, but he knew he couldn't return there until his questions were answered and he knew where he stood.

Unfortunately, he thought him to be an apparition, his subconscious's guilt striking. Therefore, he believed if he shoved him hard, he'd vanish. Clenching his eyes shut, he willed his imaginary friend away. Pivoting, he opened them only to find Bloo staring back. He huffed, folded his arms across his chest, and glowered.

"And I bet all you see is a stupid empty chair," he muttered, not registering the fact he'd replied to him. "I've been coming along with you for how long and you still can't hear me?"

"What are you talking about?" he replied, frowning. "I can hear you…and what do you mean, 'coming along with me'? I'm just dreaming you, aren't I? You aren't real."

Bloo reared back; at first so stunned he couldn't do any more than gawk. Fortunately, that lasted about ten seconds and then he was on his feet. Eyes narrowed to slits, he stepped forward, snatched his creator, and shook him by the shoulders. Mac stared blankly, unable to respond fully when he snarled and punched him hard in the gut.

"I'll have you know I'm quite real and how dare you ignore me all that time! Do you know what I've been going through? You ran off on me without an explanation! I've got news for you, buster, I've been seeing everything you've gone through and I think you ought to start talking. Because I'm not leaving here until I find out what the heck is going on," he hissed, yanking him by his collar and shaking him like a rag doll. Slowly coming to his senses, Mac attempted to extricate his arm, but the hold was too strong.

Dully, he stared back, his words slowly sinking in. He'd been seeing everything? Was that possible? Wait, did that mean this wasn't a dream? The punch in the stomach had felt real enough. Not to mention the heat filled gaze he gave him now.

"What…have you seen?" he murmured, stunned. Bloo finally released him to pace the room; little clouds of dust followed in his wake and he coughed, trying to suppress his reaction but failing miserably.

"Enough to know that for a nerd, you're pretty thick," he retorted, folding his arms across his chest. "You're really hopeless without me."

The words hadn't fully penetrated yet. "You saw…the truck driver? The kid? You…you were there?"

Though he knew already he'd been there, he wanted proof. He wanted to know (a), he wasn't going insane, and (b), he wasn't imagining his imaginary friend. Then again, if he was, then how could his stomach ache like this? How could his subconscious treat him so badly?

"Yes, darn it! What were you thinking? I knew that guy was no good, I knew that kid was going to hurt you, I knew-" he ranted, throwing up his arms and shaking them wildly. Outside, footsteps, boots knocking against wood, kicked the window's boards. Somehow, Mac doubted this was only in his head and swallowed hard.

"Bloo, I have to go," he whispered, massaging his tender midsection. The boots grew louder and he heard someone prying the boards. In a few seconds, he'd be found and he'd rather be awake than asleep and vulnerable.

"No! You're not going anywhere, mister!" he screamed, flinging himself on him. Yet the world began to shimmer and he found himself vanishing in thin air.

Terrence swallowed hard, willing himself to pass his brother's room without thinking about his absence. Tonight his mother had started asking questions, ones he had to either avoid or simply not answer. His mouth had a tendency to betray him and right now, with his conscience nibbling away, he might let something slip. Even so, Mac's room felt emptier tonight than it had since he'd first left. He might not like him, he might resent him and wish he'd never been born, but he was starting to get a little worried.

Okay, you can stop the joke. It's not funny anymore, he thought, the moonlight illuminating a picture of him and Bloo on his bed stand. It's really not.

"Mac hasn't been to school in four days, Terrence. He hasn't been seen since Monday. No one knows where he is," she'd cried, urgency creeping into her voice. "Tell me you know."

Guilt gnawing a hole in his stomach, he'd replied, "No idea, Mom."

Whenever she came home, she tied up the phone lines; she'd call anyone and everyone who might know anything, but the answer was always the same. They'd filed a police report (while Terrence stood by, looking anywhere but there), set them looking for him, but he'd heard what people muttered. He knew that people said that if someone wasn't found in forty eight hours, they were probably dead. Fortunately, his mother hadn't heard that one, because she was already broaching panic. A comment like that would send her over the edge.

Swallowing hard, he passed his room and halted, his mother's door open a crack. He cocked his head and listened attentively. Sobs permeated the hall and the lump in his throat grew larger. Forcing a smile, he opened the door and poked his head in.

"I'm sure the Astros will win next year, Mom," he said offhandedly, but she didn't even crack a smile. Red, swollen eyes scanned him anxiously.

"Mac might be…might be…" she whispered, unable to vocalize it. It was as if saying he could be would make it so.

"I'm sure he's fine," he lied, forcing a smile. "You know that little rascal…"

"Please tell me you know where he is. Or at least why he left. Please, Terrence. You're his older brother, he looks up to you. You're supposed to take care of him," she murmured, clutching her pillow for dear life. Her body convulsed in suppressed sobs.

"I…" he stammered, unable to speak.

"Okay, I know you like to bully him…but if you know anything at all…anything…"

Shaking his head, not trusting himself to speak because it might betray him, he walked out of the room. It was getting harder and harder to keep his mouth shut and he had the feeling the breaking point would be soon. He just wished he had it in himself to hate Mac like he thought he had...

Mr. Herriman observed Bloo coolly and frowned, folding his arms across his chest. Madame Foster had assigned each of them the task of checking up on Foster's resident troublemaker and ensuring any 'dreams' with Mac were dealt with swiftly. Of course, he'd insisted he could do this himself, but she'd insisted, rather, demanded, she share the duty. So now while he stared at him, she poked him with her cane. Blinking, he glanced down at her.

"There's no point in being jealous, Funny Bunny. Lots of imaginary/creator pairs can do that, some less bonded than those two. It doesn't make us less unique. It's the magnitude of the connection that matters, not whether it exists or not," she said and he stared, opening his mouth to protest. Extending her cane, she shut it for him.

"And you mark my words- it will be that bond that determines if Mac makes it out of his trials in one piece. Same as it's our bond that causes me to catch you freaking out over dogs and fretting over my safety," she said, smiling benignly.

"Mac and Bloo are close, yes, but we're closer. And this isn't a competition. There are no rules against them being bonded, especially considering how much they need each other.

"Now that we're all cleared up on that, the next time I see you threatening to throw Bloo out, my cane and your tail are going to have a nice meeting," she said, smirking. "Got that, Funny Bunny?"

Nodding primly, about to deny any such thoughts had passed through his mind, he found himself being hugged. In shock, he glanced down to see her arms firmly wrapped around him. He blushed, glancing around to make sure no one was watching and then patted her affectionately on the head.

As a matter of fact, he did feel much better.