Love Sick Fred (Drop Dead Fred Fanfiction)

Chapter Three

Author's Note: I make a joke about tribbles in this chapter, so if you don't know what a tribble is, it's a creature from Star Trek which is actually nothing but a tiny living ball of fur. 

**Disclaimer: I still don't own Fred and I also don't own Star Trek or tribbles. I wouldn't even know how to take care of a tribble. Do they even have mouths? 

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The dust-ridden pile of books Fred had managed to fall asleep upon teetered and crunched beneath him as he rolled to his back like a sprawled out ragdoll. His long legs dangled awkwardly over the edge of the nearly four foot long row of forgotten encyclopedias, making him look like some sort of unfortunate librarian giant who'd fallen asleep before caring about his duties.

Fred, however, continued to snore, until a sudden dream-inspired twitch made him disturb the sheet-like layer of dust atop his bed. This was when his enemies decided to strike.

A cloud of dust bunnies, most likely relatives of the ones he'd earlier trampled into the carpeting of the Bunce's living room, launched and were sucked like the tide into Fred's gaping mouth as he inhaled for another snore. Their aim was impeccable and their vengeance swift!

Fred choked and snorted, waking with a swell of panic. His hand clutched at his throat as he hacked and convulsed so forcibly it propelled him upright. Balance failing him, Fred slipped and rolled off the books where he landed face up on the floor. The impact ironically dislodged the dust within his throat and expelled it from his mouth as a dirty cloud poofing to freedom.

Fred blinked, dumbfounded and wide-eyed at the strange and fascinating display, yet the moment for him passed quickly, and he soon shifted to his old self again.

"Yech!" he exclaimed, disgustingly wiping his mouth off with his sleeve. The taste was foul! He whipped his head to the right and spat several times on the floor. "Like inhaling tribbles," he cried, sitting up and swishing his tongue around inside his mouth to try and dissolve the taste. He even stuck out his tongue and scraped it off with his dirty fingernails until he felt satisfied he'd been cleansed.

Standing, he shook himself like a wet dog drying off and shuddered.

"Well, that was a new one, eh Nat Brat?" Fred asked, expecting his new friend to answer, but the sights of the attic reminded him where he was and what he'd been doing before... before everything had gone black and dusty.

Fred's face creased in confusion. What the hell was going on?

He remembered popping up here, feeling awful and drained and then... nothing. He'd never felt that way before, but guessed it was like when humans got tired, but he was Drop Dead Fred, he didn't get tired! In fact, when he did "sleep," he was ever only pretending because that gave him the element of surprise.

Uneasiness suddenly enveloped Fred and he wrapped his arms around his stomach in an effort to calm himself, but the act only triggered another set of concerns as Fred recalled his earlier stomachache.

Imaginary friends couldn't feel real pain, except when their special friends decided to take nasty little green pills of death, and Natalie wasn't doing that. Or was she?

Fred realized he couldn't remember the last thirty minutes or so and his confidence plummeted. (Though truthfully, he really didn't know how much time had passed, but to add more to his guess would only upset him and Fred never had time for numbers.)

But, had Mickey Fartpants gotten Nat Brat the death pills? Fred was sure he'd have known if that gaseous buffoon had, and he was certain Snotface, Miss "Give Fred My Love," in all her sentimental girlish glory would have driven a fire truck over his fat head 'til it popped like a zit if he'd dared try and obliterate old Drop Dead Fred!

Fred smiled a moment at the images that thought produced, and of the memory of Lizzie, but it quickly faded against his returning concerns.

So if it wasn't the death pills, then what was it? Was he sick? He was often disgusted, but never sick. Still, he supposed it could be a possibility. After his experience with those pills he wasn't so sure he was completely invincible anymore, and these sudden changes which kept him remembering Snotface just made him all the more wary.

Really, why was he allowed to remember her, but not the past half hour? Had someone sneezed and shit himself on the job and forgotten all about Drop Dead Fred? Did they think it was funny? He'd had plenty of memories taken from him before, but this was the first time it was beginning to piss him off! All he recalled were hazy images he'd had while lying down...

The slam of a downstairs door broke through Fred's thoughts, and Natalie's screamed reply echoed after.

"Daddy, what's wrong with her?!"

Stumbling footsteps followed, then silence, yet the surge of emotions Fred received from Natalie told him he had to go to her. However, he wasn't ready to panic.

He figured it was something silly like the babysitter having a stupid fit over all the fun he and Nat Brat had tried to have today. He'd get this all straightened out and then there'd be mud pies all around, except for that girl, Mickey Fartpants. He'd get something else entirely.

Fred smiled, forgetting his own problems and shutting his eyes in preparation to pop down to the living room to see what had Fartpants' skirt in a twist, but that was when he felt something wasn't right.

Missing, even.

Opening his eyes, Fred discovered he hadn't left the attic. Hundreds of years and that'd never failed once.

"Well this can't be!" he exclaimed. "Drop Dead Fred doesn't misfire!"

He tried a second time. A third. A fourth... He didn't stop until he was well over his tenth attempt.

"What is this? Has Fartpants found the fucking Bermuda Triangle of attics?!" he shouted, arms flinging upwards in exasperation.

He was teetering on the edge of panic, the only thing holding him together being his unruly stubbornness. He didn't even want to think it, but it felt like his powers were actually missing.