Author's Note: This is another one-shot.
TLC
Mr. Herriman limped along, mindful to hide his abnormality to the house. Two days previously, he'd the bad fortune to chase a rude, inconsiderate imaginary into the woods and trample over an exceedingly sharp thorn which embedded itself in his paw. Normally, such pain should have subsided after a duration, but he'd also been hapless and stepped on broken glass on his way out. Now, any creature would normally curse at such a predicament, but he kept his mouth shut. In fact, he hadn't even told his creator, with whom he shared a mental bond akin to telepathy, about his injury. He smiled painfully and pretended nothing was wrong.
Landing heavily on his injured right paw, he ignored the liquid agony soaring through his body and narrowly avoided biting his lip. Hopping antagonized tender tissue and he inevitably stumbled onto the swollen parts. Still, he'd grin and bear it. Why should anyone know what he endured? It hardly concerned them and, besides, it was just a minor thing. Nothing to really worry about.
"Mr. H, are you okay?" a voice called and, pivoting rapidly (collapsing but catching himself ere he and the wall met again), he spun to face her. Immediately, the color rushed to his face; beneath his silvery grey fur, he blushed crimson. Frankie, his Achilles' heel. She never failed to rush his heart or steal away his precious composure.
Her eyes flew to his inflamed paw and she gingerly stepped forward to inspect it. Instantaneously, he leapt backward like she brandished a rifle and cringed, slamming down onto his right. It felt like someone struck a hammer on his paw's sole and it traveled up instead of down. His eyes watered, but he said nothing. There was no pain. He simply imagined everything. Yes, that was it. The imaginary friend had a vast imagination and constructed this in his mind. If he didn't recall the agony, it didn't exist.
"P-perfectly fine, Miss Frances," he lied, edging into the parlor, but her quick reflexes and healthy body impeded his progress. She cast him a stern look, similar to what he gave her habitually. The blood danced in his face, but before he could construct another loose tale, she attempted to hoist and examine him for herself. Unfortunately, she failed to take into consideration his weight and the two plummeted, his face pressed into her chest.
If it weren't for his foot's agony, he could really get used to this position. The blood rushed to Frankie's face too, and, muttering under her breath about stupid 'hormones' and 'feelings she couldn't understand for the life of her', she awkwardly stood, aiding him too. Her cheeks resembled her fiery hair and, when her hand clutched his gloved paw, it held on for a bit too long. Abruptly wondering mentally what on earth was wrong with her; she yanked it away hastily and surveyed the area, praying no one viewed this atrocity. Fortunately, imaginary friends had better things to do than spy on two creatures in denial.
A few moments passed before either quite remembered what had led to them being in such a predicament. Staring blankly, Mr. Herriman sought fruitlessly to ignore his constantly throbbing paw and Frankie imagined kissing him only to halt herself with a shake of her head. What was wrong with her? Jeez. She'd worked in this house too long. She needed a vacation.
"I suppose you will be attending to the other denizens of Foster's now," he murmured, eyes never leaving her jade ones. "I shall leave you to your tasks and…"
"Oh, now I remember!" she cried, pointing her finger at him accusingly. "You are going to go to the…"
Vet? Doctor? Well, technically speaking, he was a rabbit, but she'd never been with him on any medical excursion. Did his ability to speak mean he was closer to human than animal? Or didn't it figure in at all? Well, there was only one way to find out.
"You're coming with me," she said finally, deciding she'd discover wherever the heck he went when she got there. If the vet said no, she'd go to the doctor. If not him, then maybe whoever specialized in imaginary friends. Imaginary friends close enough to an animal or human guise visited whatever suited them best, if she remembered correctly.
"I…I do not believe that is necessary, Miss Frances," he muttered, hopping away and fumbling, hitting his paw and tumbling to the floor. He bit back a howl and, sighing like she dealt with a stubborn child, she knelt down to stroke his fur. The motion entranced her, and, for a minute, she ran her fingers through his ears' fur and nuzzled him. Then, suddenly returning to her senses again, she jumped back, maladroitly maneuvered him towards the front doors, into the Foster's bus, and buckled him in. Honestly, she thought sometimes she was losing her mind.
As it turned out, the correct answer yielded- "vet". Casting a surreptitious look at both owners and animals alike, Mr. Herriman squirmed like a small child forced to sit still for prolonged periods of time. Rolling her eyes, Frankie squeezed his right paw innately to comfort him, but she'd forgotten their unspoken attraction and feelings. Heat rushed to their faces and, shifting her eyes to the floor, she guiltily jerked her hand away lest anything untoward occur. She bade her butterflies begone, before he noticed, but he seemed to suffer the same and didn't notice. However, unbeknownst to her, he unconsciously wished she hadn't released him. Abashed, she glanced at the receptionist.
"Jeez, where is this guy?" Frankie muttered, meaning the veterinarian who assured her he'd see them right away. Then again, given the amount of people and creatures crammed into such a small waiting area, she sincerely doubted the validity of his statement. No less than four cats mewled plaintively, wrinkling their noses distastefully at their cat carriers. Bored, their owners leafed through dog-eared magazines and tossed them aside. Their appointment had been for eleven o'clock and, according to her wrist watch (a present from him, ironically), it was now eleven forty. So much for punctuality.
Disregarding the cats, there was relative, minutely punctuated silence. At least, there was until a great, resonating bark jolted the owners out of their reverie and Mr. Herriman out of a peaceful, albeit resentful rest. Jerking his head about, he sought the location and prayed it wouldn't enter here. However, the hopes were fruitless- this was, after all, a vet's office. In all likelihood, a bountiful puppy was bound to enter sooner or later.
The fur on his arms stood on end as it jumped inside, flinging open the door its owner tentatively opened. Slobbering, despite its mammoth size, it behaved like a pup. Mr. Herriman, naturally, couldn't care less. Swallowing hard, he assured himself that the dog probably didn't think it was happy hunting seasons for rabbits (if it thought at all, he reminded himself steely), and, if it did, its owner would put a stop to it. Nonetheless, his imagination began to run away with him; he pictured it leaping 'playfully' on his chest only to rip out his heart and, trotting cheerily, produce it to a glowing owner. Bile rose in his throat; he forced it and the following image, of it tearing out his throat and painting the walls in his blood, down. He glanced at Frankie desperately.
The dog growled teasingly, a large, shaggy St. Bernard. Mr. Herriman whimpered, once again driving his terrified thoughts back. Wagging its tail, it leapt forward to sniff curiously at his wounded paw. It opened its mouth, perhaps to lick him, but, in his mind, to tear off his foot, and he'd enough. He flung himself into Frankie's arms, pressed his face into her neck, and wrapped his arms around her neck.
"Wow," its owner remarked, finally stepping inside and sweeping a green hat off her head. Long blonde hair spilled onto her broad shoulders which were covered in a green Jets jacket. She appeared to be middle aged, but her blue eyes shone youthfully. In her calloused hands she clasped the dog's leash, rather long and loose.
"It's a huge rabbit…must be imaginary."
Fighting an urge to snap "gee, thanks for noticing!", Frankie patted her boss on the head affectionately and stroked his furry, velvety ears. He murmured incoherently, hardly placated, and clung to her for dear life. Again, her heart pounded, palms sweated, and she simultaneously wished he'd calm and, at the same time, relished this role reversal. Plus, there was a clandestine, whispering side that said, "you know you like it when he's clutching you like this". He lay dangerously close to her and, in fact, if he lifted his head a fraction and she inclined hers…no, bad thoughts. First things first, she must coax him into relinquishing his hold on her and inform the dog's owner of his paralyzing fear of canines. From there, she'd hopefully see reason and yank it away before anything drastic happened.
"It's an enormous…disgusting…drooling…real dog," Mr. H gasped, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. Even in a world where imaginary friends resembled real animals strongly enough to mistake the two, most adults cast aside their friends, regardless of their forms. There were, after all, exceptions (the most notable being him), but, as a general rule, humans kept pets, not imaginaries.
"I wouldn't call him 'disgusting'," the woman chortled, petting it affectionately on the head. It slobbered her hand and, tail still waggling, grinned at Herriman. Of course, a grinning dog is not quite the same thing as a grinning human. In fact, for someone who had a great apprehension and mistrust of dogs, he was prepared to go out on a limb here and say this was a bad thing. And, of course, he'd be right. Dogs don't smile and when they do, they're grinning at dinner.
Mr. Herriman's paws dug into Frankie's throat and, releasing a mournful cry, he grabbed her hard enough to hurt. Desperately she swiveled her neck to displace him, but he held fast. Normally, dogs robbed him of composure, and, now, any semblance remaining fled the immediate vicinity. Being a rabbit, despite his imaginary status, he naturally feared dogs, but confronted with one after a certain traumatic event in his life expedited the normally elusive instinctive trait. The only problem was, the more frightened he became, the less air Frankie received.
Oblivious, the dog nipped jovially at his injured paw and Herriman shook severely, similar to one having a mild seizure. Panicking herself, barely getting any oxygen, she inexpertly maneuvered them into two chairs across the room. The dog followed, tantalized. It yipped, snapping its jaws precariously close, and the grip on her neck tightened excruciatingly, and then slackened. The owner, slowly understanding the proceedings, yanked on the leash, but it was too late. Mr. Herriman passed out in Frankie's arms.
Moving him when he was conscious was one thing, but unconscious and he was dead weight. However, whereas in the past she might have complained, no curse words or objections came to mind when she gently placed him onto the stretcher dragged out. This was her duty, wasn't it? She had an obligation to him and she was going to see it through. Never mind it didn't feel like a job anymore, but out of the goodness of her heart.
After his fainting episode, the vet decided to examine him. He paced around, scrutinizing his footpaw from all angles. Frankie waited agitatedly, expecting him to diagnose the problem as worse than it was. Yes, the paw itself had swollen and looked nasty, but while she administered first aid to the imaginaries that hardly qualified her to specify what ailed him. Every 'tut' sent her nerves and stomach roiling and the silence gnawed at her. Was he going to be all right? It wasn't serious, was it? How could it be? But…what if it was? Would she have to take care of him? What if had to be operated on? No, that was ridiculous. Or was it?
"Is he going to live?" she blurted, blushing crimson at the foolishness of her question the instant it left her mouth. Honestly, it sounded better in her head.
"He's alive now, isn't he?" the vet replied noncommittally, prodding his paw. Mr. Herriman groaned, curling into an approximate fetal position. The corners of his lips shifting indeterminately, the vet retrieved a set of bandages and began to encase it. Frankie couldn't help but notice he jerked harshly; if this was her, she'd be tenderly wrapping him. Cheeks flushing further, she shifted her focus.
"But yes, he'll be fine, provided he avoids a great deal of walking, er, hopping, and tries no strenuous exercise," he added, completing and rapping him on the head to rouse him. Frankie's eyes narrowed- why was he treating him like an animal? Okay, so he technically was, but he acted so human, one tended to ignore that little tidbit. She personally saw him as a human trapped in a rabbit's body. (Might that explain her odd thoughts towards him as of late?)
Nodding curtly, wondering how much he'd charge them for his brusque attitude, she rushed to Herriman's side and aided him to the door. The vet's eyebrow rose quizzically, seeing something neither had acknowledged yet. Shaking his head and muttering darkly, he disappeared into his office to compile their damage, er, bill.
On the bus ride home, he glanced dispiritedly out the window and said nothing. At a light, she opened conversation and broke the rush. It wasn't like him to be silent around her. Usually, he found fault with something she did and never failed to critique her endlessly. Instead, he had trouble looking into her eyes through the rearview mirror. Odd.
"So, Peter Cottontail," she teased lightly, "how long have you been hiding that paw?"
Ashamed, lowering his head, he muttered, "Three weeks. Madame Foster nearly caught me five times in that span."
Shaking her head, astonished, she waggled a finger admonishingly. "You know, you have to let someone take care of you once in a while. That's your problem. You're too self reliant and you think that if you have a problem, you can just fix it yourself. It doesn't always work that way. If I prick you, do you not bleed?"
Wordlessly, he stared blankly out the window at the passing cars. Many went a few miles above the speed limit but rather than chastise them, he kept his comments to himself. His forehead pressed against the glass as the midday sun illuminated the nearby automobiles and shone on her hair brightly. He ought to say something, shouldn't he? He owed her that much.
"Thank…thank you, Miss Frances," he murmured sheepishly. "You did not have to attend to me and-"
"Call me Frankie, jeez," she said, shaking her head. "If you can be 'intimately' familiar with my chest and neck, you can call me by my nickname."
The color rushed to his face, obscured by his silvery grey fur, and hers when she realized exactly what had left her mouth. Shaking her head and hanging it, she recalled the last time she'd been this bad speaking with someone; it'd been because she liked them in more than a friendly fashion. The recollection burned her cheeks further, hot enough to boil an egg. Maybe he wouldn't notice…or maybe he was blushing just as fiercely as her.
"Um…shall we go in?" she squeaked, unable to look him in the face. She supposed he nodded, though it was rather difficult to tell since she wasn't sure he could look him in the eye for a week after that comment. Even now, it conjured images of the two under the covers…and uh, was it hot in that bus?
"Yes!" he blurted, hopping too speedily and falling straight into her arms. Wasn't this where they started?
Helping him to his feet, they darted as quickly as possible into the house, where they didn't meet each other's eyes for a week.