Author's Note: Welcome to our first cowritten fanfic, a compilation by Dude13 and azuretears. Hopefully, if you're familiar with our writing styles, you'll be able to distinguish whose style belongs to whom (but telling you would ruin it, wouldn't it?)

Hubris

Chapter One: Fallacy

Dogs, howling into the night, their jaws snapping as they growled feral at their prey. Rabbits cowering in caves; their ears twitched like their miniscule bodies, so very small and weak compared to the ravenous power of a half wolf, half dog on the rampage. Overhead, a puny half moon illuminated a dim, muddy patch of earth where three dying stalks slumped. In the background, a lone wolf howled dispiritedly, but, to his ears it sounded like a monster readying for the kill.

Mr. Herriman recoiled so far into the couch; he pressed the cushion into the sofa's back. Like that night a few years ago, the clock displayed 12:30 prominently, a time he definitely ought to be sleeping. Unfortunately, he feared sleeping since it would doubtlessly bring back the inevitable nightmares, an annual event 'commemorating' what had occurred four years ago. Frowning, he scratched at an old scar, concealed by his stiffly starched collar. He never removed the collar unless he absolutely needed to and even when he did, he found a way to hide it.

Still, sitting here and scaring himself hardly helped the matter. The television's dim glow illuminated the empty den and its soft colors bathed him in a rosy glow. He scoffed, snatching the remote in his right paw, and switched it off just as the dog/wolf hybrid's teeth tore the fluffy grayish white rabbit to pieces. His stomach churned unpleasantly.

Abrupt hops, accompanied by pausing to ensure he wended his way through the house alone, somehow heightened his anxiety. Though he only heard himself breathing and moving, the possibility of limitless phantoms pursuing and hunting him down soon occupied him so much so that when he nearly tripped over Bloo, he didn't apologize. Instead, he scrambled away, leaving Bloo to mutter angrily under his breath and wonder why these things always happened on his way to the bathroom. However, thanks to Mr. Herriman's distracted state, he neither saw the imaginary blue friend stomp off nor heard his utterances, because if he had, the bathroom might not be the first place he'd send him.

His weaving brought him in front of Frankie's door, open ajar just in case Eduardo had a nightmare or any other number of friends needed her in the middle of the night. He smiled softly, finding himself growing rather fond of her despite an obvious lack of scruples at times and disrespect for his authority. For a split second, he pondered her reaction to his woeful tale, one he hadn't shared with Madame Foster, but then discarded the notion. Though he knew his place with his creator, his relationship with Frankie was unsteady and uncertain, somewhere between enemy, friend…and something else entirely.

Frowning lightly, his paw eased around the knob and he leaned forward, musing how she might take the head of business confiding in her like another imaginary friend, less mature and strict. Truthfully, confiding in anyone was like pulling a large tooth out of his mouth- it pained him terribly. Madame Foster often had to pry his feelings out through their mental bond…or not at all if he was that unwilling. Recalling the issue over his scar, he rubbed the spot on his neck gingerly. She'd tried repeatedly, but never managed to extract the truth.

Frankie rolled over in her sleep and Mr. Herriman jumped back like the metal in his paw electrocuted him. His stumble backwards echoed loudly in his ears and he worried momentarily he'd woken her. When her peaceful, slumbering breathing reached him, he relaxed and forced himself to hop away. What was he thinking, rousing her over nothing? Particularly when he'd irritated her senselessly over housework this afternoon- she'd be in no mood to deal with him. Maybe the reason he was so anal about things with her was because he was afraid to confess anything else...or share anything other than a business relationship.

Shaking his head ruefully, he attempted to wrench such notions from his highly organized mind. Their relationship was properly official, nothing more. Besides, what on earth did that have to do with anything? Was he merely distracting himself because recalling what else the night entailed rubbing salt into still open wounds? He loathed revealing weakness and one like this was more than a weakness, more like an Achilles' heel. If anyone found out, it'd be worse than the "Funny Bunny" fiasco on the internet.

Turning his own doorknob, he hopped towards his four poster, settled under the covers, placed his monocle on the nightstand, and clenched his eyes shut. Slept stole over him, but the dreams forthcoming made him wish he'd kept watching that movie.

Close, so close he smelled noxious waste in his saliva, heard every decibel change in his low pitched snarl, felt his rancid breath, hot and heavy on his face, and saw his nails rip out dirt, compact it, and then paw the ground like a bull on the charge. Disheveled brown and grey fur lined his lean, scrawny body and a white stripe ran down the middle of his body and stopped at his tail's tip. Bloodshot, ruthless eyes skimmed the perimeter, its owner infuriated its large meal option evaded him. He snapped his jaws, sharp and devilish teeth glinting horribly. And, unlike in real life, when the demon spawn half wolf, half dog chomped down, it was on his jugular vein.

Blood, imaginary but real nonetheless, poured out onto the lifeless earth and, regardless of the impossibility, whenever the monster returned for another grind, he felt it. The monster was eating him alive…

Bolting upright in bed, Mr. Herriman screamed. Uncontrollable tremors captured him and he hugged himself desperately, glancing around to see if the dog had escaped his nightmares into the real world. No cries punctuated the air, no unbearable snarls, but he had no desire to remain and find out. After all, like the child terrified of a boogie man in the closet, his fear had consumed him. It rendered the officious, parsimonious, persnickety rabbit into a quivering mass of terror, jumping at whispers in the night.

Casting aside the unadorned woolen sheets, he sat up, rubbing his eyes but his fright lingered. An imaginary dog yipped outside his door and he, whimpering incoherently, latched onto a post. Not until its footsteps receded down the hall did he reluctantly lower himself to the wooden floor. His paws clutched the post obstinately and, only by convincing himself to seek out Frankie did they loosen their hold. Minus an object to cradle, they quaked like the rest of him.

Swallowing hard and hopping to the door, he told himself his fear was groundless. That dog was probably long dead and if it wasn't, there was no way they'd encounter each other again. Rabid, starved real creatures rarely gained entrance into Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends and those that did were immediately sorted with the Extreme-o-Saurs. What if the dog was really an imaginary friend and it came back? Oh, no…what if it was just biding his time until it attacked again and finished him off?

Moaning softly, he cautiously hopped towards the door (his legs were like jelly every time he launched himself forward and his foot paws like cement). His initial doubts about telling her vanished, perhaps because returning to his bed and forcing himself into dreams was not only impossible, but a recipe for disaster. He knew informing his creator would mean a guilt trip, since he'd successfully countered her questions annually and managed to nullify her concern. That and exposing his secret to Frankie made more sense to him than his creator, though their connection was much different. He couldn't explain it and, right now, any thought process inevitably led to flashes of his nightmare disabling him. If he wasn't chary, he'd plummet to the floor due to a freeze mid-hop.

Fortunately, her room lay only a hallway away and his legs cooperated that far. Coaxing the door open, he silently cursed its creaking, but decided chastising her about its oil requirement was not only pompous, but likely to irk her further instead of helping his case. Her melodious breathing permeated the air like a sweet scent, but the hammering of his heart, threatening to burst from his ribcage, convinced him to move forward. The open window, curtains billowing in the breeze, displayed the half moon and lit up her face, framed by luxurious crimson hair. His breath caught in his throat.

She rolled over and struggled to consciousness, in the grip of a nightmare herself. Waking forcefully, she opened her eyes to find him staring at her. Considering the nature of her recent dream, involving him ordering toilets to be cleaned that forever grimed themselves up, she yelped, scrambling away. However, when no reprimand sprang forth and he issued no list of chores, she decided it was safe to speak. Maybe this was an extension of her nightmare and when she pinched herself, she'd wake completely.

"What do you want?" she snapped, peeved he'd inexplicably discovered a chore that couldn't wait until morning. "And can't it wait until I'm conscious?"

Shaking his head, ears flopping to and fro, he gazed in the darkness for a place to sit. When none presented itself, she grudgingly bequeathed space on her bed. Her eyes narrowed accusingly, disbelieving he could discuss anything but work and the house. Turning her head away, she hid a smirk. It sounded ludicrous, but when he panicked, partied, or acted happy, she found herself drawn to him. It proved there was more to him than filing papers, keeping stock of their funds, and pretentiousness. He was more than a beaucrat, he was a fellow, sympathetic creature…and why was she blushing?

"No, it can't…" he murmured, hanging his head like a chastised school child. "I apologize if I woke you, but this is urgent, Frankie."

Rolling her eyes, she willed herself to stop this insane, irrational blushing, and eyed him. He winced, the submissive one momentarily. This change in countenance, coupled with his using her nickname, removed her normal reaction. He was so vulnerable now, she couldn't imagine turning him away, regardless of their positions normally. She slid closer, debating whether or not he needed physical comfort, and decided to bide her time.

"What is it?" she inquired, politer and quieter than before. "Don't tell me the toilets need cleaning. I am not touching a bowl, handle, or sewage pipe tonight. The next time Bloo thinks it's a good idea to drop a cherry bomb into the third floor bathrooms, tell him he's cleaning it up himself."

Shaking his head feebly, he fumbled, wishing she'd give him an opening. Badly he longed to unload onto her, but his pride, even at its weakest currently, didn't permit him this. Unfortunately, he'd either have to bite the bullet or let his nightmares conquer him once and for all. Not telling her now spelled another annual tradition- the sleepless night spent curled up in a ball until sunrise assured him there were no dogs hiding in dark corners, under his bed, in his armoire, or anywhere else his imagination situated them. This night, every year, fear pulled his strings like a puppet master.

"You're shaking," she commented, frowning. Biting her lip, she tried to associate his current tremors with the past and at once, it came to her. Dogs. The only thing in the world that reduced him to, well, this. He hated the wilderness, yes, but his fear of that was nothing compared to his rampant petrified state around canines. But there were no dogs in Foster's, other than the imaginary ones, and he'd hopefully made peace with their existence months ago. Then what…?

"Frankie…" he whimpered, body quivering. "Frankie, I need to talk to you…and it's not about the house, your squeaky door (which you need to oil), or the condemned third floor bathroom.

"Promise me you won't tell anyone, especially Madame Foster."

She blinked, taken aback. Why would he tell her something he withheld from his creator? Shouldn't that be the other way around? Why was she suddenly more important than her grandmother to him? And why was she strangely honored?

"What's so important you can't tell her but you can tell me?" she replied, curious. His paw brushed her hand on the bed and both jumped. In the darkness, it was difficult to determine who blushed harder, but both swiftly glanced away to hide their reactions. This time, when he rested his paw again and she her hand, his landed on hers. Neither moved.

Smiling serenely, he replied, "Haven't you wondered why I'm afraid of dogs?"

Honestly, yes, but she'd assumed it was instinct brought into imaginary form. He was, after all, a rabbit. Yet while she reconsidered this, his other paw, the one not covering her hand, flew to his collar. She remembered trying to remove it once before and he'd practically bitten her head off. He'd contradicted himself, sounded like a lunatic, but fought her tooth and nail. At the time, she'd been too enraged to care why, but now that he brought it up and his paw unconsciously scratched at the fur beneath, she reexamined it.

"Miss Frances-" he began and she scowled. Why couldn't he call her "Frankie" like a normal creature? No one called her "Miss Frances" other than him- her parents hadn't either when they were alive. Her grandmother, upon taking her in at an early age, decreed that she'd only call her that if she was angry with her, since it was too big a name for such a small child (not that it'd stopped him).

"Frankie. Would you please call me that? It's really not that hard," she said, rolling her eyes. Besides, he said her name differently than anyone else. It was almost like whenever he said it, she sat up straighter and a ball of happiness warmed her chest. Oh, jeez, she sounded like the heroine in a harlequin romance story. Er, wait, that wasn't possible because she wasn't in love….right?

"Fine," he conceded, though he was privately pleased. He'd always wanted to call her that, but his nature prevented him from using nicknames unless they gave their implicit permission. Of course, Madame Foster had ordered him to call her "Ellie", but he'd never listened since she was his creator and therefore, above him. Frankie wasn't above or below him…he wasn't sure where she lay.

"Frankie…" Damn, now he'd lost his train of thought. Another howl; he shivered uncontrollably, terror hugged her, and pressed his furry face into her shoulder. The howling stopped and, embarrassed, he discovered it was none other than Eduardo's pet, Perrito, prowling the halls. He really had to stop jumping like this.

"You were about to launch into why hearing an imaginary puppy yip at this ungodly hour causes you to grab me like I'm a life preserver," she said, but didn't complain. He was nice and warm in the cold night.

"You must promise me you will not tell Madame Foster a word of this," he interjected, releasing her. She sighed unhappily, missing his warmth immediately.

"I promise."

Clearing his throat, dropping his paw onto her hand again, he launched into his tale.