Author's Note/Disclaimer As much as I'd love to claim ownership of this particular one-shot, alas, I cannot. This one revolves around Bloo's feelings and thoughts during Dude13's "Falling Apart" series, which starts in chapter nine of his "More Than a Friend". I didn't feel like he did a thorough enough job of defining his emotions and actions concerning that period (and you guys know how much I love Bloo).

I'd put the link to his story here, but a certain site would remove the hyperlink anyway.

Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends and the original idea I based this off belong to their respective owners.

Forgotten

Failure, ripe as a jack-o-lantern two weeks out of season, thundered upon Bloo and threatened to crush him. First and foremost, he was furious with Mr. Herriman for letting social services steal his Mac (state run agencies always were involved in one scandal or another, often leading to children's deaths). Second, he was furious with himself and Frankie for losing against the police. He wasn't a stranger to arrests, but this particular struggle, over his beloved creator, grated him like nothing else. He'd created him to protect him and he'd failed. He'd let them take him away.

Then there was the whole matter of possibly never seeing him again. That particular aspect, however, he'd scrutinize later. Right now, he preferred blind fury aimed at anyone and everyone he came in contact with. Since the true aspect of his fury was out of range, he slumped over in one of Foster's many catacomb halls and glared at the wall. How dare it be so plain and wallpapered! How dare it just sit there like it hadn't done anything wrong!

Bloo sat up. This was stupid. He might be able to berate the wall for a good half hour, but it really hadn't committed any great atrocities. It was just a wall…like he was just an imaginary friend. No one powerful, no one strong enough to bring Mac back.

Rolling over onto his stomach, Blooregard Q. Kazoo contemplated the top bunk not for the first time in recent history and certainly not the last. Stomach protesting weakly, it alerted him to the fact he'd skipped a few meals. So? It wasn't like it'd kill him. No one had bothered to plague him endlessly about his recent inactivity, listlessness, and self starvation and no one would. After all, with Foster's resident caretaker ambling around like a zombie, who would notice another one in the midst, particularly when he discovered all the empty corridors, unused rooms, and vacant stairways. Foster's might be heavily inhabited at times, but there were still places most friends wouldn't go. Bloo now called these home.

Eduardo's gentle snoring filled the room and met with Wilt's soft apologies and Coco's gentle trilling. Try as he might, Bloo couldn't sleep. Visions of Mac's forceful extraction, his own valiant resistance, and the end result swept through his mind like a tornado. He groaned, burying his face in the pillow and suppressing a sob. Thankfully, all three friends were heavy sleepers, lest they stumble upon his nightly struggles. At the moment, he thought he had a handle on it. Maybe he wouldn't cry himself to sleep tonight. Maybe he just wouldn't drift off.

This was the longest and most painful separation the two had ever endured. When Bloo started living at Foster's, waiting until three when his creator rejoined him had been agonizing. He remembered the first few days; he'd poise by the clock and watch it tick slowly to three. If Mac was just a second later than he ought to be, he'd panic. It wasn't that he distrusted his best friend as much as it was the terrible, horrible fear he'd abandon him.

And he had. Not deliberately, of course, but he'd left him just the same. He could be on the other side of the planet and Bloo would have no idea how to be with him again, much less hear his voice. He swallowed a rather large lump in his throat, banged his head against the pillow, and fought the well of sorrow threatening to claim him. Every night, he wondered where he'd gone off to and imagined himself with him.

Okay, perhaps not every night. For the first week, he'd glared morosely at the top bunk in disbelief. Mac hadn't left him. This was a huge hoax concocted by the masterminds (though when Terrence had stopped being a jerk and started becoming a genius was anyone's guess) and they'd jump up to tell him "April Fool's" sooner or later and bring him back to Mac. When that didn't happen, the truth hit him hard. He'd avoided contact ever since.

He wanted to blame Mr. Herriman for Mac's disappearance, wanted to hate him deeply, but he couldn't bring himself to muster the energy. All other emotions quaked tremulously behind his overwhelming depression. Mac wasn't coming back. This wasn't like he'd gone off to school- there was the very real possibility someone would adopt him and cart him off to another state or country. Thinking about it brought tears closer to the surface and he whimpered, trying his hardest not to bawl. His little body trembled with suppressed sobs.

What if the people who adopted him didn't let him use a phone? What if he forgot the number? What if he forgot about him and he was left to the mercy of another kid? What if he was abused and Bloo couldn't help him? What if he was killed? He'd have no idea, none at all.

Unable to contain it, he wrapped both sides of the pillow around his head and wept silently. The tears served as a lullaby, drifting him off to a dreamless sleep.

Friends watched in the halls as Bloo trailed Frankie endlessly. The blue blob imaginary friend, normally never one to lend a hand, emotionlessly and wordlessly aided her in her tasks. No trace of a smile ever crossed his face, the palest blue, and if a bucket turned over, he hardly reacted. If the bucket were full of blood, he might have simply watched it trickle across the hardwood floor mutely. It held all the interest of paint drying to him.

Today, for example, he scrubbed the toilet dully, a task he'd sooner relegate to escaped circus monkeys in any state resembling his old self. The stench was horrendous, but he didn't as much as cringe in disgust. Once the task was complete, he shoved himself away, glanced at Frankie, and started scrubbing a stall door with the same dirty sponge. It didn't dawn on him for ten minutes that the sponge ought to be clean and by then, she'd already started out towards mopping the halls.

The library, normally a place for studious or at least, curious imaginary friends, was completely empty at midnight. Bloo, carrying a blanket, staggered onto a chair and lay his head down on the desk. He'd stopped sleeping in his normal room a few days ago once he'd discovered Coco eying him in the middle of a sob fest. She'd started asking questions in her peculiar mannerisms, and, since he'd taken an unwritten vow of silence, gotten so irritated, he nearly snapped back just to shut her up. Yet as quickly as the anger rose, it faded. He couldn't be angry with her like he couldn't hate Mr. Herriman- it wasn't in him.

The occasional imaginary carts wheeled by to deposit or retrieve books were the only noise maker. However, since the carts thankfully possessed no mouths, no annoying queries issued forth. Here he was left alone to contemplate his best friend and creator's existence without him. How could he get in trouble without him? How could he live without playing games with him? How could he get by without talking to him? Was he suffering the same agony? Did he cry himself to sleep too? Had he forgotten about Foster's and everyone in it?

Mr. Herriman's hops jerked him out of his pensive and he looked up into those rabbit eyes. The two gazed at each other momentarily, but if the other imaginary friend spoke, Bloo ignored him. Instead, he gazed at him and wondered how he could do this to them. How could he let Mac walk out of their lives like this without even trying to help? How could he deal with the mess he'd created, the lives he'd ruined? How could he so calmly ask him why he was there when he damn well knew why?

Fatigued, he merely shook his head or nodded dumbly. Disgruntled, the Head of Business Affairs contemplated him for a moment and then hopped away. Bloo longed to hurl a book at his retreating back, but the energy required for that was simply too monumental. He could scarcely lift his arm, much less heft a book. Besides, that required passion, another key element he never possessed in great quantities any more. Instead, like a lifeless husk of stagnant idea, he slumped over onto the table and stared at the ceiling until the darkness consumed him like a cocoon.

He'd taken to haunting the old places Mac used to inhabit as if he might glimpse his beloved creator. His sheer desperation often led him to imagine him, picture him so clearly in his mind, he swore he'd jump out and hug him tightly. When the mental image failed, he curled up in a ball, banged his head against a wall, and stared blankly ahead of him. No one ever stopped him because no one found him. He derived solace from this.

Today, he leaned against the protective railing and stared at the corner of Mac's former apartment house. Whenever loneliness and longing for his creator rooted itself before, he'd venture up here and gaze fixedly at that corner. It was stupid, really, but it calmed him down. However, knowing it was empty only depressed him further. Some new family was going to move in, sleep in Mac's old room, and occupy all the space his creator did. It was like he never existed or, worse, expendable, like a spare part.

A sultry wind rustled the weeds and the top of his gelatinous head. Whether warm or cold, it impacted him the same- none. So what if the rain clouds threatened to burst over Foster's? So what if he was drenched? So what if lightning struck? So what? Who gave a hoot?

"Bloo?" Wilt called, cracking open the trapdoor. "It's going to rain. You should come in."

Bloo mumbled something that sounded like "I don't wanna", but because he hadn't opened his mouth to pronounce, it was rather hard to understand. Sighing heavily, Wilt stepped out, hoisted the half protesting creature into the crook of his good arm, and carried him back into the house. It didn't occur to him that "I don't wanna" were the first three words he'd heard him say in days.

Today, he hung around outside. Not for any desire to breathe fresh air, though that would have been a bonus, but because the house had become too stifling. He glanced towards the house to see a familiar redhead tear off towards the unicorn stables. Nonetheless, despite sharing her pain, he didn't approach her. Sobs emanated from the stalls and, since he was no in mood to start crying himself, he hung back.

He cocked his head curiously, wondering if this was really over Mac or someone else. Wilt's name whispered, along with the phrase "he's my imaginary friend". Pity arose and he wondered if he ought to help her or not. Normally, he'd feel sorry, but not enough to help her. Now, however, she was the only one who fully understood his grief. They shared a kinship.

He began to turn away when the sounds of someone vomiting reached him. Shuddering, he peeked in to see her lying in its pool and dashed off to fetch some water. He wondered if he was really that concerned or if it'd become rout for him, since he had nothing left. There was a cup by the fish tank and, when he turned around, a faucet. Filling it, he rushed back as quickly as his form permitted him.

Slipping inside quietly, he gently lifted her head to the cup.

"Here, drink this," he murmured, voice slightly scratchy from disuse.

Still cradling her head in his blobbish arm, he propped her head up to better imbibe the liquid. Patient, he waited until she finished, gulping it down fiercely like one might swallow air after being strangled. Bloo wasn't surprised. Then again, nothing surprised him anymore. Days blurred into weeks and other than minute changes in procedure, nothing was any different. Her violent reaction was just a variation, another event in the endless procession.

She opened her eyes slowly and he peered at her curiously. He didn't know why he hadn't let her head drop back yet, but it was the same intuition that told him to bring her the water in the first place. Charity beyond what he would have done, were Mac…never mind.

"Bloo?" she whispered incredulously and he fought a minute twisting of his lips. He'd stopped helping her a few days ago and dropped completely off the radar.

"I…I was, um…hangin' around in one of the empty stalls…and I heard you outside. I only saw you for a moment before you collapsed so thought maybe that…you kinda needed some…y'know…" he muttered sheepishly. How on earth could he explain thought processes that were alien to him? Maybe it really was because they were in the same boat. That had to be it. Otherwise, why should he care what happened to anyone else?

Meanwhile, above his arm, Frankie trembled uncontrollably. He glanced down concernedly, wishing he had something other than water to give her. This was his first go at taking care of someone who wasn't Mac (and that particular attempt hadn't gone too well- it'd resulted in the sick five year old throwing him out because he'd accidentally tried to give him ice cream to bring down a fever). Maybe he ought to go tell someone what had happened. It seemed like the proper thing to do, all things considered. But while she was lying like this, vulnerable, he couldn't bring himself to leave. Helpless, he rocked her head back and forth like one might coddle a baby.

"B-Bloo," she stammered softly, weakly extending her horribly quaking arm to touch what might have been a shoulder in a better defined creature. He stared back, uncertain he should place it there anyway or just do what he was doing. Why hadn't anyone told him tending to the sick was so confusing?

"I-I-I…they're g-gonna…w-we…" she murmured, the message clearly important but its implication lost on him. Dumbly, he continued to rock her head back and forth and cradle it to his chest.

"What?" he asked, bewildered but worried nonetheless.

"It's all over," she whimpered and her eyes rolled back into the head as she fainted in a dead heap. Now completely at a loss, he gazed at her for about a minute until, at long last, a voice screamed in his head, "go tell someone!". Since he was no stranger to doing whatever his conscience, or, what he liked to call the "Mac voice" dictated, he ran to Madame Foster.

After Eduardo (since he was the only one with capable arms in the vicinity when Bloo informed Madame Foster) tenderly hoisted her out and carried her to her bedroom, Bloo hovered by the others. Did he want company? Did he want thanks? They'd given the latter to him, but he hadn't accepted it. He had no idea what he was doing, anyway. This was just one long nightmare.

When Wilt asked permission to see her, he trailed along. He had nothing else to do, after all. All other pursuits were hollow, pointless. Instead, he sat on her bed and watched her. Wilt started asking questions, ones he still won't answer. Despite not being physically ill, the blue imaginary friend looked no better than her. Depression had taken its own toll on him, robbing him of his natural bright blue color and his vitality. He was so pale, he could hardly be considered blue at all.

They stayed there for hours, Bloo utterly mute the entire time. Try as he might, Wilt was unable to pry any answers out.

Around him, others munched, some happily, others less than enthusiastically. The laborious lift of his spoon from the milk filled cereal bowl to his mouth seemed to drain him. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Frankie refuse food only to start cleaning off the table. A lot of friends, despite Mr. Herriman's rules, persisted in leaving their plates on the table for her to pick up. He glanced at his own almost full bowl, realized he wasn't going to eat a drop, and shoved it away. Might as well help her out.

After she scattered oranges, apples, and bananas everywhere and dashed into the kitchen, he bent down, retrieved all of them, and returned them to their proper place. He then placed the bowl back on the table and began collecting other plates, pieces of silverware, and piling them so high, he couldn't see. Weaving awkwardly through the kitchen doors, he peeked through the sides of a bowl to see Frankie washing dishes. He placed a few aside to better look.

Swallowing hard, he called, "F-Frankie?"

A few seconds passed, she continued attacking the poor dish, and he gently prodded the back of her leg. With a terrific clatter, the dish she'd assaulted broke into shards onto the counter. Bloo cringed, staring at the shards as if hoping they'd magically reassemble. They didn't and she whirled around, eyes widened. Unconsciously, he retreated a pace.

"What?" she screeched and he swallowed hard, whimpering pitifully. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. After all, she'd clenched her fists and shut her eyes. Maybe she didn't want him here.

Arms trembling because of the load, he offered the stacked plates and assembled breakfast things and hoped she'd take them without screaming again. Maybe he should have just gone off to his familiar corner instead of helping her out. Tears prickled the edges of his eyes, but he dared not cry.

"I-I-I thought maybe…t-that you wanted some-" he whispered, tempted to drop them off on the counter somewhere and flee.

However, the badly stammering imaginary friend couldn't choke out the rest of his sentence- Frankie dropped to her knees and enveloped him in a tight hug. Bewildered, he watched as all the plates, cups, and silverware he painstakingly stacked and collected fell to the floor with a tremendous shatter. Warm tears flooded down her face, her whole body trembling as she clutched him to her. The tears that had been prickling his eyes threatened to spill and he attempted to stave them off. Yet within seconds of her sobbing, he burst into tears himself, unable to maintain any self control. Unconsciously, he hugged her back, but he was crying too hard to see his arms move.

Frankie's words came back to him. It's all over…

Maybe it was.

He lingered by the porch to watch that couple adopt "Crackers" and to keep an eye on Frankie. There was certainly a change in her demeanor over the last few hours, a suspicious one, too. If his natural curiosity were working, which it wasn't, he might have wondered what the cause was. Yet upon seeing Frankie embrace Mr. Herriman (an odd action in and of itself), he decided that the world was probably coming to an end. Bored, he started back towards the front door when her joyous, ear splitting yell tore through his eardrums. Well, if this was important enough for her to hug Herriman and if the grin on her face was any indication- if the world was going to end, at least it'd be happy.

Nearly tripping over his feet, he dashed madly towards the bus.

Mac? he thought, brain sluggishly processing what Frankie had strung together. Had she said what he thought she said? Were they really?

Like the rays of the sun, happiness burst inside him and, with a tremendous leap, he began cavorting around the bus seats like a small child at the zoo. A grin split his face; he bounced up and down gleefully, ignoring Frankie's chastising and whatever else that ran out of his mouth. Delirious, he rambled on endlessly, abusing the old seats and using their springs like trampolines. Mac, Mac, Mac!

The jubilation lasted until she halted the engine and stopped, staring dead ahead. Figures dashed about like chickens with their heads cut off and a terrific sinking feeling brought the joy plummeting back down to depression. The grin disappeared, replaced by confusion and, more than that, worry. But he didn't want to be worried again. He hated living every day anxious over his creator's safety. This couldn't be Mac. This couldn't be happening again.

"Frankie? What's going on?" he cried, meanwhile thinking, Not Mac, not Mac, not Mac, not Mac. Tell me this has nothing to do with Mac. Or better yet, tell me this is a really bad dream and we're all fast asleep. Yeah, that'll work. As long as it doesn't mean anything bad has happened to Mac.

"Oh, jeez!" she said instead of replying and his heart rate tripled. In his head, it became a chant. Not Mac, not Mac, not Mac.

When she hopped off the bus, he nearly tripped over the last step. Baffled in the myriad of nuns pacing back and forth and excited exclamations, he grew more and more confused by the minute. However, by the time Frankie explained it, his heart had already descended to the ground. Something bad, possibly lethal, had happened or was going to happen to Mac. At a loss, he stared up in the hopes he would be reassured this was a nightmare. There was none.

Legs trembling, he realized he'd taken the wrong path when the very distant sounds of an extreme-o-saur reached him. He wanted to help, really, but the sheer shock of what was occurring had immobilized him. Sinking to his feet, he listened to the various roars and cries. How long he remained, he had no idea, but when the voices faded, he stumbled to his feet and sought them out. He only hoped his inability to move didn't lead to their demise…

Bloo doted on his creator, almost annoyingly so. Mac frowned, aware his imaginary friend was treating him like a porcelain statute. The two sat quietly in the hospital corridor outside Frankie's room, though every once in a while, Bloo would burst out, hug him fiercely, and blather on. Despite his anxiety over Frankie, he hugged him back and he swore, for a half a second, he nuzzled him. There was something odd about Bloo being this affectionate- he was like a cat. If he was being affectionate, chances were he wanted something.

"Do you think she's okay?" Mac asked finally, draping an arm around his friend's midsection. Bloo, at first too enraptured with having his best friend back and holding him, stared blankly. Huh? Oh, right, Frankie. Yeah. That girl with the red hair.

Wilt smiled softly, despite any nagging suspicions and tousled Mac's hair with his one good arm. Bloo glared up, as if he had sole possession of his creator and woe be anyone else who touched him. He hugged the eight year tighter, rubbing against bruises, and Mac finally had to push him away and nurse his wounded side. Huffing, Bloo folded his arms across his chest and resumed his glower, like the Extreme-o-saur hadn't hurt him at all and it was Wilt delivering these blows. He curled up on the other side of the bench and sulked.

From inside the room emanated what could only be Mr. Herriman detailing a strict reprimand for her unruly behavior. Since Mac had received one himself about his trying to escape the orphanage, he knew most of what he had to say. And, unlike Frankie, he didn't have the gift of tuning him out. She'd years of practice, after all. Still, her lecture seemed much longer. He wondered what infractions of morality he thought she'd breeched and then decided not to ask. He was better off not knowing.

The trio sat, composing the rest of her unorthodox family, but when they finally were reunited, it hardly mattered what social norms, past history, or anything else dictated.