Author's Note: Two one-shots this time. The first one's more of a drabble than a one-shot, but anyway...

Sorry for the absence. I hadn't realized it'd been that long since I updated this story. Oh, and in the second one-shot, there's some Mac/Bloo. You know it's my second fave.

And Foster's does not belong to me. No.

Life Cycle of Fire

Fire. Its warmth beckons, yet simultaneously ostracizes and condemns. Yellow flames leap, abounding in both protection and destruction. It provides illumination, yet also alerts others to another's position. It sears into food, yet cooks human flesh just as efficiently. It spills out onto the heavens, yet grounds into embers without enough fuel or, its natural enemy, water. The very duplicity of fire aligned with love and its nature as the double edged sword. That which pleases us can also destroy us.

Fire has always reminded Mr. Herriman of Frankie. Her temper surges like flames lent strength, yet can be gone as quickly as it rose. His elements, air and water, can either send her sky high or return to her humble roots. One furious look renews the cycle and one calm glance can quell it. Whatever stokes the fire can either help or hinder it. Whenever he studies her, hair tumbling out of the ponytail in a haphazard mess, he can hear the fire in his heart crackling. Whenever she goes out on a date with another normal human male, the fire roars, threatening to destroy everything in its path like a whirlwind of chaos and death. Whenever she returns empty handed and dejected, it longs to cast aside all shadows and warm her. And whenever she smiles at him in that special way, he soars and the fire makes his extremities tingle. She's the precious wood that powers him, and, even when they argue, it revels in her presence.

Yet what happens when the embers die down and all that's left is the memory, sparking in winter's night? He's seen evidence of love's castaways and victims. Their hearts shatter, sometimes irreparably. Yet he remains confident that he will not let this happen to him. Because no matter how badly love, like fire, can damage someone, it can also heal them.

And that's why he cups fire between his paws. Because regardless of whether it burns him, he needs it just the same.

V-Day

White day, Valentine's day, call it what you will, but Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends was bedecked in pink, white, and red. Decorated hearts sprung from the banisters, ceilings, and walls. Imaginary friends designed as Cupid and little cherubs frolicked while Madame Foster reveled. Valentine's Day was among her favorites, particularly because she could always rib Mr. Herriman about his staunch and irrefutable dislike of it. This year, however, she had another concern. It might be Valentine's Day and couples that hadn't been outward before might be more inclined to show their colors, but there was one hitch- Frankie.

They weren't entirely sure how it happened, but living in a house full of imaginary friends who spend their time doing who knows what can lead to it. Somehow, unbeknownst to her, someone had suffered from the flu and been so kind as to pass it on. Bedridden, the normally vibrant Foster now sniffled, coughed, and stared stoically at the ceiling while her temperature arched. For the past week, the friends of Foster's were ordered to do their part, since Frankie couldn't clean their messes (she'd tried, but after catching her washing the dishes with a mop, Mr. Herriman gently whisked her away). Of course, this led to Bloo taking advantage and the large, grey and white furred imaginary rabbit behaving surprisingly astringent. If Madame Foster didn't know better (and she might not, all things considered), she'd say he was worried. Yet he made such a show of scoffing about her activities outside the house and pinpointing her juvenile misbehavior, one wondered if he wasn't poorly covering for something.

Today happened to also be his turn to care for her. Blushing profusely, he carried a silver tray laden with soup and herbal tea (her grandmother's idea, not his). Ironically, he resembled the butler Bloo had once accused him of being. For this reason, he avoided the tiny blob imaginary friend; he loathed him and he knew the creature shared the emotion. Any excuse to embarrass him he'd readily take.

"Miss Frances?" he called, nudging the door open and wincing when a cherub imaginary zoomed over his head and careened into the nearest wall. It righted itself, squawked indignantly, and spat a card at his floppy rabbit ears. Muttering darkly about incorrigible creatures and this infernal 'holiday', he eased his way inside and, placing the tray down, he gently closed the door. The usual cacophony of friends silenced, unable to penetrate the door.

Eyes shut, sound asleep, she rolled under the plethora of covers. Tousled, sweaty red hair splayed across her forehead and his breath caught in his throat. Even sickly, she was simply divine. Her chest rose and fell simply, the beauty of life contained within. He might not admit it, but he was glad she slept soundly. Otherwise, she'd start up on him standing there, staring at her and smiling softly. Naturally, she had no idea what effect she possessed on his system and, frankly, she was better off not knowing.

"Frankie…" he exhaled, hopping to her side and stroking her sodden locks. She moaned, eyelids fluttering. Jumping back as if stung, the color rushed to his cheeks. What if she arose while he gawked? What if she discovered his secret?

Guiltily placing the tray onto an adjacent table, he withdrew, paw on the doorknob when she spoke. Feverish but lucid enough to understand, it perplexed him. No one appeared to be approaching and, besides, any opportunity to spend alone time with her he greatly appreciated. Ears lolling, he hopped closer and cocked his head intently.

"Mr. H…" she murmured, tossing her head. "Mr. H…"

Was she conjecturing or was she cognizant of his presence? Creeping towards her bed, he lightly rested on the edge and brushed her heated hand. Again, a soft cry, plaintive, like a cat's mewling. Scarcely breathing, hanging on her every whisper, he waited impatiently and, scanning the perimeter, he tentatively pressed her hand into his.

"I'm sorry…"

Hmm? For what? Well, certainly those arguments- she ought to have seen things his way sooner, but he'd stopped holding that against her the day he realized he loved her. For getting sick? Given all the tasks Foster's demanded and his anal nature (he confessed to this mentally, but never publicly), it was only a matter of time before she succumbed to something. While the old him might have speculated on incorrigible activities committed outside his jurisdiction, the new one entertained far better hopes and doubted she'd indulge in wanton acts of self destruction. Then again, this present self also jealously wanted her for himself.

"I didn't mean to…please forgive me…"

Perplexed, he longed to interrupt and inquire what, but if he did, he might throw her off and alert her to him, thus ending it. Torn, he waited, that interminable wait. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead and one trickled down her cheek. He leaned forward to wipe them off with his handkerchief, and then halted, petrified any action would impede her. What to do? What to do? Oh, the suspense was killing him.

"I'm sorry…"

Yes, yes, she'd gotten to that already! He fought the urge to snap "for what?" rudely and, swallowing hard, he forced himself to calm down. Contrary to popular opinion, he was not endowed with a great deal of patience (though in other areas, he was quite well off). Yet, for Frankie, he'd do anything. If it meant stapling his mouth shut, he'd gladly do it, regardless of the pain. He was hopelessly devoted to her.

"I never meant…don't hate me…"

Rising and releasing her hand, he gulped back a scream and hopped to the window to press his forehead against the cool glass. Outside, the day proved warm enough to hold a miniature picnic and Bloo dragged his creator every which way, carrying him like a prize trophy. Mac protested weakly, blushing heartily nonetheless. Six years had passed, but Bloo was just as attached to his creator as ever. Actually, more so, in ways Mr. Herriman preferred not to think about. Any topic containing Bloo was bound to be annoying, or, at least, troublesome. So long as he left him alone, he didn't care who he paired off with.

"Mr. H…" she whispered. "I'm sorry…sorry I fell in love with you…"

The bottom dropped out of his stomach and he prodded his inner ear; he had to have misheard her. Naturally, he didn't dare believe it. He had to ask; she'd tempted the fates too much. Mouth dry, he sped to her and wiped her forehead off with his pocket handkerchief, the Foster's symbol embroidered. Tilting her head, she kissed his paw tenderly and he realized- not only did she mean it, she knew he was here. Probably had the whole time.

"And I…Miss Frances, Frankie, I am sorry as well. I have not been entirely honest in the past few months. I love you dearly and I apologize for any undue misery you suffered at my paws. I…I am in love with you too."

The words hung in the air like a gentle kiss blown to a slumbering child. Frankie nodded, though whether she understood or not he couldn't tell. A few hushed moments passed; the steady rise and fall of her chest alerted him she'd fallen asleep again. Bending, he kissed her on the cheek and, after tucking her in, hopped out.

Unfortunately, having a fever can be akin to a drunken haze and Frankie remembered nothing a week later, when she fully recovered. Heart broken, he attempted to behave like the incident never occurred, but considering what might have been ate him up inside. How could she forget something so crucial? What if it'd been an illusion brought on by his wishful thinking? What if he'd dreamt it all? He daren't bring it up, lest she looked at him strangely and he exposed himself needlessly.

White days like this only come once a year…

Two weeks passed since Valentine's Day and, dejected, Mr. Herriman stared determinedly at the floor instead of his meal. Madame Foster prodded him encouragingly, but he only masticated half heartedly. He'd taken to avoiding Frankie, speaking with her only when absolutely necessary, and hiding in his office. While his creator understood putting his innermost feelings on the line only to be rebuffed by her incomplete memories pained him, she also advocated discovering whether it was the illness speaking or if she truly meant it. Mr. Herriman, already doubting the legitimacy of her confession, denied any possibility. While she didn't want to interfere in matters of the heart, she knew he was driving her mad.

And so, she did the only sane thing a woman in her position could do. She hoodwinked him.

Belated Valentine's arrived nearly daily, delivered by a mysterious creature and unsigned. Flustered and agitated, he chucked them straight into the trash, and, when they resurfaced, tossed them into the fireplace. Hardly surprised by this turn of events but irritated nonetheless, she sought a new method. However, the next idea leapt into her lap frighteningly quickly.

Frankie sighed, staring at herself in the mirror. Mentally, she berated herself, reminding herself that the incomplete recollection was bound to be a dream, nothing more. Did she want it to be more? She'd noticed Mr. Herriman evading her, but her own relief prevented her from questioning his motives. Steering clear of him prevented her from the oh-so familiar train of thought- was it a dream? If it was, did that disappoint her? Please her because it took the pressure off? What if he really did feel that way and hurt him by not acknowledging it?

"Stupid Valentine's Day flu," she muttered, shutting the medicine cabinet and jumping upon spotting her grandmother. Blushing heavily, she smiled insincerely and hoped she hadn't innately picked up on her train of thought. Though she didn't share a bond with her, she somehow usually knew what her granddaughter thought or did before she did it. It was uncanny.

"Hello, dearie," she greeted cordially, piercing emerald eyes shattering her mental walls and barriers before she could rush to construct them. Abashed but uncomprehending why, she awkwardly tried to move into the hall, but she impeded her progress. An eagle like look crossed her face; inquisition time. Lovely.

"Um, hi, Grandma," she said, gnawing the inside of her lip. "I have to, you know…"

Grand, she'd forgotten whatever lay ahead of her. Cursing mentally, she ran through the list Mr. Herriman usually assigned her, but whenever she came to the next task, it transformed into a blank slate. Instead, she thought of him and what she thought might have happened. Her face resembled a tomato and, dragging her out of her reverie, Madame Foster cackled.

"See Herriman?" she replied casually and, splashing water on her face, she decided not to reply. It might be safer.

A cane prodded her in the leg and, wincing in anticipation of a whack, she slowly slid her eyes over. A complacent smirk lit her grandmother's face and, flinging the door open with her cane, she gestured towards Mr. Herriman, who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like Frankie, the blood rushed to his face, but, unlike Frankie, he had the luxury of fur concealment. The two stared blankly like deer caught in the headlights.

"Frankie, meet my imaginary friend, Mr. Herriman. Mr. Herriman, Frankie," she teased and their faces reddened further. "Oh, I'm sorry, are you two already acquainted?

"Then what in the blazes are you doing, pretending you don't care about each other? Just tell each you love them and get on with it! Honestly, this isn't a soap opera!"

Drawing back her cane, she rapped them smartly on the paw and leg respectively, and then hobbled out, muttering about creatures not knowing what's good for them. Frankie rubbed her wound gingerly (it smarted a great deal) and sat on the hamper to nurse it. Mr. Herriman limped closer, finally resting on the closed toilet seat. Their eyes met and shot off in opposite directions again. Repeatedly, until Frankie sighed exasperatedly and reluctantly gazed at him.

"Um, Mr. H, about V-Day…" she muttered sheepishly, glad the last of the pain was leaving.

"Yes?" he said, instantly attentive, ears reflecting his newfound interest. She restrained a laugh- he reminded her of a puppy dog awaiting a tennis ball.

"I…I…" C'mon, girl, what do you have to lose? You've already looked the fool many times in his eyes, intentionally or not. Worse comes to worst, you can write it off as a result of your 'inappropriate behavior' and get on with your life. Well, maybe that last part won't be as easy as it sounds…

"Yes?" he breathed, rising unsteadily and standing so dangerously close. Badly she longed to kiss him- since when could a kiss be misconstrued? Yet therein lay the problem, that there was no taking it back, either. Did she dare put herself on the line?

Struck by indecision, she toppled off the hamper and draped her arms around his neck as a safety precaution. His arms wrapped around her waist and he inclined his head. Tentatively, hoping if she was mistaken, she could blame it on a lack of balance; she brushed her lips against his. Startled, pleased but too astonished to properly react, he pushed her away, but she fell completely off and the two, hitting their heads, struck the floor.

"Ew…do we want to know what happened here?" Bloo asked, wrinkling the spot on his face where his nose ought to be. It was in this state he and Mac found them five minutes later, recovering on the third story private bathroom floor.

"Um, no, not really," his creator affirmed, frowning. "Frankie, do you want a hand?"

Frankie, massaging the developing bump, shook her head. She cast the imaginary rabbit a nasty look and he smiled apologetically, rising to his back paws with surprising dexterity. He aided her swiftly, glaring at Bloo heatedly. The imaginary blob smirked, rocking back and forth and finally catapulting himself into Mac's arms where he lingered, purring contentedly. Mac blinked, but, apparently, had grown accustomed to it.

"We're perfectly fine, thank you," Mr. Herriman snapped, embarrassed he'd been caught in such a compromising situation by the friend he loathed the most.

"Er, okay," Mac said, retreating before he received a tongue lashing. Cradling his beloved friend, he speedily exited.

"I'm sorry," Frankie said, scowling. "I shouldn't have tried to kiss you. That was obviously a mistake."

Shaking his head, he wrapped an around about her shoulders and, glancing around to ensure no one watched them, he nuzzled her affectionately. The color shot to her cheeks rapidly and she gawked, flabbergasted.

"Happy belated Valentine's Day," he whispered, before kissing her to compensate for all the doubt, disturbance, and depression the last two weeks had brought. As you can imagine, it was quite a kiss.