A/N: I, missingthepoint, a.k.a (Bleep) (Bleep) (Bleep) does not and will never own Disney's Meet the Robinsons. I am simply having fun with their characters, proposing different situations to put them through. Its fun; in other words don't sue.

…I'm a little wary on this. I hope everyone enjoys, and please, please, with sprinkles on top leave a review, feedback! It tells me in this crazy world that we live in I am actually doing something right or wrong or in the middle. Constructive criticism is always appreciated and loved. Tough love is the best love, most of the time, for me.

On with the show!!!

P.S. Thank you ShadowMistress. You're a great source of inspiration and a great MTR ally. *Let's pump it up!*

It is one thing to know that you are pretty. It is another to have someone say that you are pretty.

No one knows this better than Francesca Framagucci.

"Try this one on."

"Mama, please, let me choose this one instead."

The dress her mother had chosen for her was not hideous. It wasn't overly exaggerated and overwhelmingly poofy. It did not have a strange color, such as a strong pink, and it did not make her look bad. Feeling the texture in her hand, on her body, when stared into the body mirror, Francesca did not like it. The way it felt, the way she looked, something was off and she didn't know what. So, she placed it on the rack inside the small dressing room, and as politely as she could muster she requested a different dress.

"Francesca, why not this one? This one is beautiful."

It's not me Mama. It's not what I want. Another dress, another rejection. This dress, a strapless navy blue, very slimming, was like the other one before. It was designed for her body, revealing each and every curve she had to offer, but it was not her.

Francesca is a perfectionist.

So is her mother, Mama Framagucci.

"Honestly Francesca, we have gone through three dresses already. Why can't you choose one?"

Mama and Francesca are very much alike. Mother and daughter, in all their stubborn glory, refuse to accept the fact. Mama believes Francesca is too loose, "Loose conduct gets a girl in trouble I tell you!" Francesca believes Mama is too strict, "Mama, do you ever think I deserve more than this?!" Although their generations are vastly separated and their beliefs are alterations to one another, Mother and Daughter are very much alike. She is stubborn, she is a perfectionist, and she will not kneel to one's desires.

"You are not going to wear that."

"It is the one I want." She looks at her stout mother with an innocent face. Her lips are untouched, not pulled in a frown or a pout; her eyes are not narrowing, instead they are wide and unsuspecting. Her posture is pronounced. She does not hunch nor do her fists clench; she has perfected the lesson of deception, she appears expressionless.

Inside, pass the skin, pass the internal organs, Francesca is seething.

"It may be the one you want." Her mother's Italian accent, after so many years in America, is thick and heavy, "But it is not the one right for you." She appears stoic; her eyelids rose up, her lips in a thin line (not conveying happiness or unhappiness), and her arms are folded around her heavy chest. She is the reflection of her daughter, her heir, in a few decades or so. Once again, neither of them accepts this fact, they push it back to the depths of their sleeping mind.

Francesca knows what her mother means by this. The undertone of her sentence is so clear, so vivid; it makes her want to break the glass of a mask she has created. She doesn't. She doesn't, she remains innocent, wearing the navy blue dress, watching her mother in the middle of the doorway-her presence unmatched. It would take a relative, or an extremely close family friend, to understand the statement.

She hears her mother snort when she turns her head away from her mother's unnerving gaze. The reflection in the mirror reveals a stunning young lady, at the prime of her adolescence, yet holds a sober atmosphere to her loveliness. She looks at the reflection again but harder. Behind her, stout and formidable, easing her way in the corner she sees her mother, her arms cross and her face stoic.

Mama Framagucci has once again made her way into Francesca's shadow.

The navy blue dress was purchased at the cost of $486.87 plus tax.

"I want that dress."

"Do you really have to do this? More importantly, do I have to do this with you?" When walking in the mall, Francesca prefers to wear tennis shoes. Heels, sandals, and slippers are all wrong with walking in long distances. The feel of her tennis shoes, the walking kind, with the heel makes walking so much better.

"Fran, Franny are you listening to me?" The voice sighs, more resigned than annoyed, "Don't you think you're being rash?"

She stops. They are at the entrance of Macy's. Her eyes narrow, emotion breaking through her mask, and she clenches the plastic covered dress in her arms. "I want that dress." She cannot stress it more. She wants that dress; it delves deeper than a want, it is a need, a yearning, an unwelcoming desire.

Her companion stares at her. She is taken aback; startled by the outburst and concerned at how it was performed. Fran, realizing she has unleashed too much, closes her eyes and breathes deeply. "I really want that dress Charlie," she smiles-too much, "don't you get it?"

No. It would have hurt her feelings. She does not get many things about her friend. From her obsession with training frogs in the ways of music to her impulsive decision to return a seemingly beautiful and perfect fitting dress, she does not understand. She is her friend, and like her decision to train her frogs, she will accept this as well. A hopeful look in her eyes, it is hard to deny her this-as it was hard to deny her freedom to teach frogs music. She pinches the bridge of her nose, a nasty feeling in her stomach coming up, "Fine. Let's go."

The Spring Formal is in a month and she sees so little of her classmates in the store.

"You want to make a return?" The worker's voice is nasal, extremely nasal. The girls wince when she speaks, and they fight back the urge to gag on her strong perfume.

"Yes, I have the receipt right here. Ten days until we can't right?"

The worker eyes the girls suspiciously. One looks frustrated, fidgety, almost guilty; the other, this comes natural to her, her smile is small-shy, and she is sure of herself. They are doing something they are not supposed to do, but whether or not that is the case, she's still getting paid. That is all that matters.

She pulls out her employee of the month winner smile, "Of course, let me check the receipt."

"I can't believe we got away with it!" Her laugh his full of air, heavy and incredibly bouncy. She skips towards the junior section, the section where she belongs, and begins to search for her long awaited dress.

"You have not gotten away with anything." Charlene follows her slowly; she keeps in sight of the girl, making sure she did not get lost in the store. "Your mom is going to kill you."

She does not hear this. Charlene knows this. Fran has entered a world of wonder and utter happiness. Her search for her dress is brief; it is in the same place it was, five days ago. A mermaid dress, slimming and trimming, it is a gorgeous sight. The feel of the fabric is smooth, but the look of the fabric is neutral, it does not shine. Rhinestones cover the chest area; this does not make the dress look tacky, it is the opposite. The bottom, swirls of cloth is bound together, much like the upper area; it is smooth and cool at the touch. The most important feature of the dress, one of the main reasons why she chose this dress-the first dress she chose with her mother, was because of its shade.

The color had been restricted for many years now.

It is the reason why her mother prohibits the color in her household, and why it is so limited to Fran today.

It is the reason, the reason, why she feels this uncontrollable emotion. What is it? Freedom?

Fran doesn't know and she doesn't care. She can cry right now; happiness is overpowering her. The money with the return she has enough to purchase the dress. She does not look at her companion, who has gone silent since then, but she knows she can see. "Charlene, this is the dress."

Fran knows she is pretty. She also knows that she is beyond the word of pretty. It is never said, but she is aware that it doesn't need to be said. She is beautiful. In her green dress, the fact has never been made more evident. The color of green brings out her eyes, her fair complexion (despite of acne attacks), and her near complete figure development. Green is her color, and she knows this. She carefully moves in the dress, stumbling from the dressing room, and looks deeply into her three way reflection. This dress was designed for her, and no Mama Framagucci was going to keep her way from it.

"You look good."

"Thanks. I just knew this was the one!" She wanted to hop up and down but she couldn't.

"I'm going to check for mine. Are you going to be okay?"

"Sure, yes," she is distant, "I'll catch up to you, 'kay?"

"Yeah."

He will one day be dubbed "The Father of the Future" and still he will be unable to direct himself in a mall. Macy's, as he knew it, has always been the underdog in his city. It was a part of the mall, but not many of his former peers went there. He should not be there as well; he had never done well with shopping, and fashion was not his forte. In the midst of the excitement of entering the opening of the newly founded Science for Dummies, which the founder opted he appear, he had lost his mother. Escaping a rabid bunch of colleagues, admirers at most, he wandered off-to Macy's.

"Not many people," he aimlessly wandered, "sad when you think about it."

The brown bag he was holding was full with goodies that Mr. Maxwell, Science for Dummies founder, gave him. Souvenirs to entertain him and to remind him of the greatness that Science for Dummies have to offer; yes, he would have to remember the experience. The moment standing in front of a large group of people, congratulating the founder and his crew, encouraging others to continue their dreams, it was so nerve racking. But he always got a jolt from it, which ultimately caused him to sprint away when the audience became…rowdy.

He was wandering with no destination. He sprinted away without thinking, and now he was paying the price.

He should have seen this through.

He could tell that he was in the female's section-the dresses, but it must have been because of the style that he could see he was in the juniors' section.

"Mama doesn't understand…"

A voice…barely audible. Surprisingly, he could hear.

"They are getting better, especially Frankie. I know they can."

Towards the voice he stepped, his shoes flapping soundlessly on the tile floor. This voice, the pristine tone yet girlish tone, he knew he had heard it before. It had been some time since he had heard it, but he knew it.

"If she could only try to understand then-then it wouldn't be so hard."

She is pretty.

She is beautiful.

In her reflection; in the mist of her beauty, of her loveliness, why could she see not see it? Why did she feel so unworthy?

Cornelius saw her smile. The reflective shine of her pearl teeth in the mirror, but something seemed off. The curves of her lips were twitching, albeit softly and hardly noticeable, he could see it. Hidden in the middle of dresses, he saw her twirl and turn, her mermaid dressing shifting to each side gently. As she turned, as her hips moved, unconsciously, Cornelius took in the shape of her body. The curves, the small hourglass figure in the forming, and her-assets.

His eyes widened.

His ears were turning red.

Crap…Franny has become Francesca!

Gotta get out. Don't let her see me. Crap, crap, crap. He tried to make his way from the cluttered space of dresses behind the three way mirror and Fran, but with this bag still in his grip, it was hard to do it. Fumbling and struggling, he released a frantic groan and mumble, swearing inwardly for his stalker ways, and then bad went from worse.

"What the-," the sounds were alerting her, "oh, Lewis-I mean Cornelius! What are you doing!?"

His face was red now, he could feel it. "I was-I was atthisthingyouknow and (breathe) IgotlostandI heard you and I-sorry."

Surprised was one of her feelings at the moment. She had to say anger was the furthest. He appeared pitiful, trapped in the racks of the dresses, one hand dangling where the other was missing in the cloth. "Hold on, I'm coming." Wobbling to his aid, she grabbed the free hand and tugged forcibly.

"Almost there Cornelius," she huffed, "just one more."

One. Two. Three.

"Oof!"

She had gotten him out alright.

"Ouch, thanks, but I'm sure I would have gotten out eventually. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine Cornelius. You're kinda heavy."

He lost his bag in the process. That wasn't too bad, and he was happy that he had gotten out.

The only problem…

"Ohmygosh!! I'm sorry!" He hopped off the girl, who in the process of freeing him lost her balance and tumbled (along with him) into a nearby chair.

"No, no it's okay. I should have changed first." She chuckled, "It would have been easier if I wasn't so constricted." Then she laughed again.

"Is something coming up?" He pulled his bag safely from the clutter, "Prom?"

"Spring Fling actually, I've been searching for a dress for months now. Looks like I found one."

"If only you could walk in it without falling."

She smiled, "Yes, wait until I find my shoes." She sighed melodramatically, "How will I ever walk again!?"

"I'm sure you'll manage." He could not fight off a feeling, "How is everyone?"

"Oh," it is hard to think of anyone when anyone is so predictable, "school does not change, Charlene is still doing her classes, and I'm, not much."

She sat uncomfortably in the chair, her fingers twirling and her neck length hair loose, she hoped he could not see her emotions. She was able to keep in, hold them in tight, but she was loosening up-she was unraveling.

Realizing that the uncomfortable silence was becoming too much, "Fran, how is everything with you?"

Do not cry. Do not cry. He had always been so sensitive, Cornelius Robinson. The first one to believe, the first one to see, he had always been the first. They were nothing more than mere acquaintances, ever since his rise to fame, but in her deepest of hearts she always wished (hoped) that they would somehow cross paths again. Now that it was happening, he was seeing through her façade, and it needed to stop. "Nothing's wrong Cornelius," she laughed uneasily, "I'm drained from all the shopping. My mother and I have been searching for days."

Fran did not notice that once she started to speak, Cornelius' undivided attention was solely focused on her words. When she finally ceased, she was surprised to see his glasses staring straight at her, penetrating her glass mask with soundless pressure. As she peered into his eyes she could see that beyond the glasses and inside the blue soul, swam a wonderful and tender heart that she found herself at its will. She felt her cheeks heating up, stay back stay back, and she reluctantly removed her gaze from his.

"She's not here with you?" Why did he say it like a question when he truly meant to state it?

She shook her head. "No, she's not. Um…I decided to find a dress of my own."

Franny.

He had met her four years ago at the science fair. She had appeared to be so confident; in fact, confidence exuded from her, which would later be carried on to their future brood, he was seeing something different.

Her confidence had not slipped away. It was still there, hidden beneath a blanket of self-doubt. All he had to do was find it.

"They're getting better," she said absent-mindedly, "I can hear notes. They can do it, you know, if only you have the right tools. I know they can do it."

She laughed nervously and then she went silent. She stood to her full height, only a few inches below him, and she smiled again. She opened her mouth to speak but suddenly she closed it. Unsure of what to do next, unsure of herself and her words, she cast her head downwards, ashamed of her doubt.

"Cornelius…," she fiddled the fabric of the dress, "do you still think I'm right?"

She was revealing so much and yet keeping so much away. Without thinking, Cornelius walked up to the doubtful girl, using his hands to close the gap between them. Surprised at the strength and warmth his hands held, Fran's eyes widened and she looked up at the older boy. The look, his eyes, she didn't feel so doubtful anymore.

"Of course I do," he smiled, "I know you're right."

Her tears were pushed away. Forced back to where they came from, she blinked twice, destroying any possible traces of them. The touch of his hands, the feel of his skin, she had never known them to be so soft, warm, and welcoming. Fran felt herself wanting to dwell deeper in them, reaching for the arms, her body being embraced inside them. She had always known how sensitive, no, sensitive is not the right word for him, compassionate Cornelius could be, everyone knew.

If only she knew how much compassion he held and how comforting it would be, then maybe…

NO!

"I need to change my clothes." She scolded herself for moving away from the welcoming warmth, and she (regrettably) caught the deflated look in his eyes when she moved away. "Charlene came with me, and I don't want to keep her waiting."

He hopes, prays, that she does not see his smile falter the tiniest. He hopes that she can not see behind his glasses, the sorrow he holds for himself and her. He hopes that she can not see the happiness and overwhelming joy that is jolting throughout his body-muscles, bones, and organs. She enters a dressing room, and he patiently waits for her, turning his back away from the entrance, and whistles a little tune. She reappears, in her casual garb, a pair of slacks, jeans, and a light blue t-shirt, and her hair is pinned up once again, tightly wrapped in a bun. In her arms, she carefully carries the dress, her priceless trophy.

"You said you were lost?" Her laugh echoes in the store, rigning in his ears, "Cornelius, you have a horrible sense of direction."

Awkwardly, he scratches the back of his neck. It is a habit he has caught on to, "Yeah, my mom is probably really upset."

"Don't worry about that. I can help you, just let me-"

She pauses mid sentence, leaving Cornelius hanging at the last word. Out the corner of her eye, she narrows to see better, is that signal? She thumbs her up and mouths "Call me later". She rolls her eyes and smiles, "Sorry, I'll need to pay for this first." They begin to walk in union, her small steps in tune with his loud ones.

"Hey Franny."

"Yeah Cornelius."

He is insecure of himself; afraid to open his mouth in fear of something embarrassing to slip out. Swallowing the fear, looking down at her chocolate orbs, "Green really is your color." When she ducks her head, removing her gaze from his, he is baffled at her response. It was better than a rejection. "Did I say something wrong?"

The dress crumples in her grasp because of her face turning a bright shade of pink. Averting gaze from the young inventor, something she never thought of herself doing, is harder than she thought. Her body heats, her smile broadens, and for a swift moment she finds herself faint at the words. Her giggling comes out gag like but she quickly composes herself.

"No, Cornelius," her eyes are shining, "you've said exactly what I needed to hear. Something I really needed to hear."

Mama Framagucci is going to be outraged once she finds out about this act of rebellion. She can see it now: Her plump face turning a dark shade of red, she looks like a tomato. Her chubby fists clench tightly, like a boxer preparing for a match. Her oval eyes peer deeply into her daughter's face, daring her to say something in protest.

Bring it Mama.

Francesca knows she is pretty, it is a blatant fact.

Inside her deepest chambers of hearts, it would be nice to hear someone say it. Even if it isn't the exact words.

She purchases her dress. His mother is found. They depart at the entrance of the mall. Goodbyes are said.

"Thank you Lewis."

"Forever and always Franny." It is only he who knows this to be true.

When Fran finally leaves them, watching the vehicle drive off into the distance, and she reunited with her companion, she walks down the sidewalk with a smug look on her face. Charlene glances warily at her friend, but dismisses her antics with a roll of her eyes. Francesca is relieved, and the feeling is good...all of the cause of one act of rebellion.

Rebellion at its prettiest, she never knew it could feel so good.

A/N: Went prom dress searching. Found the dress. Corsets hurt.

I said I was going to contribute the Franny/Cornelius cause and I hope I did well. If not, please tell me so I can improve.

Take care everyone and happy reading!