A/N: Funny story. I now hate this fic. Okay, maybe it's not that funny. But when I was reading it over earlier, I realized how trite it is. Yet when I opened this file, the fic went, "Write me! You know you want to!" And so I did.

I haven't written a chapter for this fanfic in six years. Trufax. And now that I'm getting back into Foster's, I'm wondering if I still ship the same things I did. Then again, I haven't watched the really big Mac/Bloo episodes yet.

Chapter Ten: Shake It Out

It started slow, with Mac reminding Bloo constantly how to behave. It took two weeks for Frankie to trust Bloo not to attack the people who brought him food and another couple of weeks for her to be certain he didn't pose a threat to her. He was meeker than before, constantly looking over his shoulder to see whether Mac approved or disapproved. Mac the ghost was seldom visible unless Bloo lent him enough energy, which generally left Bloo drained and lethargic.

After about a month, Frankie dared to take Bloo out of the North Tower. Time ran short and Mac warned Bloo if he didn't figure a way out of the house in another two weeks, it might be too late. Bloo stepped up his efforts, going out of his way to act less like himself and more like someone whose company might be desired. He actually bothered to use manners and be polite, though, for the most part, he faded into the background like Mac. It was impossible to maintain Mac's presence without donating energy.

Bloo sat on the couch, three days before Mac's deadline, and stared at the TV. Wilt approached him cautiously.

"Hey, Bloo," he said. "Mind if I sit down?"

Bloo shrugged. "It's a free country."

He wore a blue-black t-shirt and black jeans; he drew his legs to his chest and hugged them. His hair, because he hadn't been able to cut it, was tangled and ran down his back. Frankie, complaining about sanitary conditions, had bought him shoes. He didn't really like them, but rather than raise a stink, he wore them. The threat of losing Mac forever managed to wipe a lot of his attitude away.

"Is Mac here?" Wilt asked. Bloo stared at him.

"He's always here," Bloo said dully. "You just can't see him 'cuz he doesn't have enough strength anymore."

"Oh…I'm sorry," Wilt said. He bowed his head to Bloo's right shoulder, where the air waved oddly. "Hi, Mac."

Quietly, barely audible over the TV, Mac answered, "Hi, Wilt."

"How have things been?" Wilt said and then winced. "Maybe I shouldn't ask that."

"Frustrating," Mac said and sighed. "Bloo, I need to rest for a while. I'll see you later."

"Rest?" Bloo shrieked, although he was surprised he had the energy to be indignant. "What do you have to rest for? You're dead."

The words turned around and hit him in the face. He hugged his knees closer and whimpered. Over his shoulder, Mac continued to waver, like a sentient wind. Bloo's chest ached and he did his best to ignore it.

"And unless you find a way to fix things, I'm going to stay that way," Mac reminded him. "I'm drawing off your energy."

"I know, I know," Bloo said and waved away his creator's concern. "This stuff is hard."

"You only have three days."

"Three days until what?" Wilt asked and Bloo started, having forgotten Wilt was in the room.

"Until Mac disappears for good," Bloo mumbled.

"That's terrible!" Wilt said.

"Don't rub it in," he grumbled.

"There's a medium in town that might be able to help. But in order to do it, I need to stop leeching off you."

Bloo folded his arms over his knees. He didn't like the sound of that. He also didn't like Wilt's intent gaze over Bloo's shoulder. Mac was becoming less than an imaginary friend, less than real. The reminder of the deadline pressed a hard lump in his throat and his eyes burned again.

"They're not going to let me leave the house," Bloo sneered.

"Talk to Mr. Herriman," Mac said and then paused. "Actually, no. Don't talk to him. He wouldn't believe you. Talk to Madame Foster."

"And tell her what? My creator's a ghost and I need to see a medium so I can have him permanently attached to me?" he scoffed.

Even without being able to see him well, he sensed his stern, disapproving glare. Bloo pushed himself off the couch and wished he were a blob again so he could shuffle off.

"Whatever," he muttered.

"See you later, Bloo. Mac," Wilt said, though he was less certain on the last. Bloo rubbed his arms and felt Mac's presence diminish. Anxiety ran through him and he bolted up the stairs. He didn't want to be alone again. He couldn't take being alone again. Every time Mac disappeared, Bloo was terrified it was the last time.

He was so anxious he ran past Madame Foster's room several times. The door was open and Madame Foster stared at him.

"It's good to see you wandering around, dearie," she said. "And it's good to see Mac too."

Bloo's stomach clenched and he looked over his shoulder. Mac was almost invisible. Steeling himself, he walked into the room and tried for his old nonchalance.

"I was thinking," he said, examining his cuticles, "how's about we make a break for it? Just you, me, and a medium in town."

Madame Foster stared at him for a long time. The nervousness grew.

"Fine," he huffed. "We can take the Foster's bus."

"Bloo," she said very quietly, "the last time you left Foster's was before Mac's death."

"I know that," he scoffed.

"And what's this about a medium?" she asked. The mischievous light was out of her eyes and she was as serious as he'd ever seen her. It didn't do much to help his situation. He hadn't thought she could be serious- he thought that was solely Mr. Herriman.

"Madame Foster," Mac said and leeched energy out of Bloo so fast he got dizzy, "there's a way to bind us together permanently, but it'd require a medium. So you have to lift the ban."

Bloo had to sit down. His vision was blurring and his legs were unsteady. Mac had stolen enough energy to make himself solid, except Bloo hadn't eaten enough today to supply the two of them. He placed his head in his hands (he remembered again he had hands and not stubs) and waited for the inevitable headache to start. Without looking, he knew Mac was a few steps away from transparent.

"Are you all right?" she asked, prodding him with her cane.

"That's the other problem. The longer I stay here, the more energy I have to take of his to stay. And in three days, I won't be able to take any more from him."

The cane pounded on the floor and Bloo twitched. His creator's presence was a cold comfort at his back.

"So what you're saying is if I don't let Bloo go, I'll lose both of you?"

Bloo was too weary to be shocked. He buried his head in his hands and groaned. God, he felt like shit. As much as he loved Mac and wanted him around, he fucking hated when this happened.

"Essentially."

Madame Foster paced and Bloo staggered from the chair to crawl onto her bed. From there, he balled himself. In his lethargic state, he heard conversation but it went over his head. That was fine. He didn't really care. If he wasn't going to get his way, he'd rather not hear. And if he was, it'd be Mac who did the negotiating, not him. Mac was always better at it than him.

"Bloo." Mac's voice. Bloo groaned and rubbed his eyes. He rolled over onto his back and Mac sat beside him on the bed.

"Madame Foster has a good idea. If we first transferred your consciousness to me and then transferred it into an imaginary friend Goo created, we wouldn't have to worry about sharing a body. But it's never done before."

"S'fine," Bloo muttered. His head was starting to pound and he hadn't done anything fun like stolen into the liquor cabinet.

Mac sighed. Clearly, this was not the reply he'd wanted.

"You want me around, don't you?"

"Let me deal with him," Madame Foster commanded and poured what tasted like liquid fire down his throat. Gasping, eyes watering, Bloo bolted upright and stared accusingly at her. She beamed back, the perfect picture of a doting grandmother.

"What the hell was that?" he rasped.

"Brandy," she said. "I've slipped some into Funny Bunny's drinks from time to time. Makes him a lot more interesting."

"How is that supposed to help?" Mac said.

"It'll make him feel a little more alive for a few minutes," she said and then slapped his cheeks. "Come back to us, Bloo!"

After another minute of coughing and sputtering, he realized she was right. He did feel better. The fire coursed through him and filled him with adrenaline. He eyed Mac and Madame Foster.

"When are we going?" he asked and she hooted.

"That's more like it!" she said to him and then, to his creator, she said, "You'd better make sure he behaves himself. It's bad enough if he attacks someone here in Foster's. If he attacks someone on the streets, he'll get locked up in Faust's and won't come out. Got it?"

"I've got it," Mac said, nodding, and she sighed.

"In the meanwhile, what do you say we have ourselves a party?" She had a wicked gleam in her eyes and she grabbed a couple more bottles. "If you think your headache is bad, you should see the hangover you'll have when we're done."

"When will you let Bloo go into town?" Mac asked.

"Tomorrow. I'll send Frankie with him," she said and then fixed Mac a penetrating gaze. In his case, it really was penetrating, as she could see through him to the next wall.

"Okay," Mac said. "I'll see you tomorrow, Bloo."

"Wait!" he cried, but it was too late. His creator faded in midair. The hollow feeling returned, at least until Madame Foster thrust the brandy into his arms.

"It'll make you feel better," she promised and then the light went out of her eyes. "For a little while, at least."

She pranced over to the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To start the party!" she announced and ran off with a whoop. Bloo, clutching the brandy and drinking it indiscriminately, followed in her wake. Mac would have argued against drinking when he was already dizzy, but Mac had gone. Besides, Bloo knew what was best for himself. He always did.

Frankie was, at the moment, engaged in a battle against a particularly difficult stain in the arcade room. It looked like a combination of something she was positive imaginary friends couldn't produce, cola, and a couple substances unknown to man and imaginary friend. She'd been at it for hours and all she'd gotten for her troubles was a pain in the back and increased frustration. Also, the longer she stared at it the worse she swore her eyes got.

"Miss Frances," Mr. Herriman said and she looked up. There were a couple friends loitering around the other video game systems, hence the formality.

"I'm working as hard as I can, rabbit," she grumbled.

"One might suggest using bleach instead of cleaner next time," he said. Grabbing the sponge, she squeezed it and imagined cramming it down his throat. As fond as she was of him…when he acted like this she still wanted to wring his neck.

"Don't you have some filing to do?" she huffed.

"I did have something to attend to this evening," he said and she cursed. She'd forgotten all about it thanks to her battle with the stain.

"Language, Miss Frances!" he reprimanded.

"I'll get this done or I'll put a rug over it," she muttered.

"That will simply not do," he said. "And in any case, there is currently a wild party forming in the Foster's lobby. I suggest you finish here and tend to it."

"Tend to it? What do you want me to do? Mop it up?" she said, blowing the sweaty locks out of her face. Or attempting to. They stayed stubbornly sweaty and stuck. Mr. Herriman glanced at their audience, who wasn't looking at them, and tenderly moved the hair aside behind her ears. Her heart skipped a beat.

"See to it," he said and then, louder, said, "Honestly, Miss Frances, if you spend all your time tending to one little stain, you'll never get the house done. And then you'll never get any of that free time you're always asking for."

As he hopped away, she blew him a raspberry and glared at the stain. Or was that part of the tiles? She'd been at it so long she didn't remember.

"Party!"

Frankie rose, stiff and her knees refusing to cooperate, and leaned on the pinball machine in front of her. Was that Bloo?

"Party at Foster's!" her grandmother called right behind him and they both hooted.

"Oh god," Frankie said. Maybe she'd better give up on that stain. If Bloo was loose in the house with her grandmother staging another big party, she'd be better off there rather than here. And Mr. H would want to run damage control…or maybe she could convince him not to.

Yeah, right. Well, if Madame Foster said rule breaking was okay, there wasn't much he could do about it, aside from complain. He already did enough of that.

She abandoned the stain. From down the hall, she could hear her grandmother and Bloo shrieking. She hoped it meant Bloo was feeling better. Hugging herself, she stared after the imaginary friend. She really hoped it meant he was on the mend. Everyone deserved a chance at happiness, even the house's most annoying friends.