A/N: Hello! This is the first story I'm publishing and I hope you like it. It takes place during 4x18 Shooting Star, is rated T for language, and since the fic, like the episode, centers around a school shooting, if this is a sensitive subject for you, you may want to skip this particular fic. Also, some spoilers, though minor ones.

I hope you'll review, and let me know what you think. I do not own Glee, William McKinley, or Blaine. I'm merely using them as props in my own story.

In the streets of Lima, Ohio, a large, pulsating crowd had formed outside of William McKinley High School. It was the middle of the afternoon, and towards the back of the crowd a woman shook, her entire bodily trembling where she stood. He'd told her this was pointless, but she couldn't – she couldn't simply stay at home. She couldn't simply wait, not even knowing her husband was right.

"There's nothing you can do, Cici…"

God, she knew. She knew he was right, but sitting at home, just waiting, just hearing the news loop over and over and never knowing if he was all right, if he was…. No, she wouldn't think about it. He had texted her. He hadn't want her to worry. He hadn't want her to know, but Cici had found out anyway. The phone had already begun to ring at her assistant's desk only seconds after the woman received the text:

Just thinking of you. I love you so much, mom. Always.

Cici had smiled to herself. Her son, always so thoughtful. Sure, they hadn't been close ever since – well – it wasn't as if she didn't want to be. But every now and again, he'd do things like this, just because, and Cecilia Anderson felt, for just a moment at least, that Blaine was not the alien creature he'd turned into ever since….

But it had suddenly made sense – the unexpected text – when someone had walked up to her desk, phone receiver in hand. "Cecilia – it's Michael. He said he tried to call you and…." The woman hadn't given her colleague the chance to finish. Panic had started flooding her the moment she'd taken in the frightened look in the woman's eye – like there was something, something going on, something very wrong and she'd snatched the phone to her ear. "Michael?" she'd asked, consciously keeping her tone as controlled as possible. "What's wrong?" He'd hesitated, and Cici had looked up at the woman who'd brought the phone to her, nodding her head in mix of silent thanks and impatient instruction for her to go before she turned her head away from the entrance to her office. That's when the words had come, the words she'd never wanted to hear again. "It's Blaine."

"No," she'd insisted, "No, Michael, Blaine is perfectly fine. He just sent me a text not even a minute ago for pity's sake." Silence.

"There's been an incident…"

What happened after that had been a blur, the woman barely managing to get her coat and her keys before rushing to the parking lot without an explanation. She would tell them later. It didn't matter. What mattered now was getting home to Michael. Getting home to…but Blaine isn't home, she reminded herself, and suddenly her chest seized and she started crying in earnest, her fists tightly clenching the steering wheel. She knew she shouldn't have driven like that. She knew she wasn't in any state to drive, but Blaine was in trouble. Blaine was alone and scared and hadn't anyone else but her. She needed to get to him. She needed to get to Blaine, but even when Michael heard her plan, he'd told her not to go. She wouldn't have been able to do anything. She wouldn't have been able to help, to stop them, to keep them from hurting Blaine. The police were taking care of it and she should just come home, but Cecelia sobbed. She needed – she didn't know what she needed, but sitting around at home was something she simply couldn't do.

The crowd had already formed when she'd arrived, their entrance to the school blocked by several barricades and a row of police cars and ambulances. Ambulances – God, oh my god, please – don't let him be hurt again. Please let him be ok – stay ok. I can't go through this again. I can't!

She was shaking, standing still, her dark, haunted eyes fixed so longingly on the school that held her boy – her precious baby – who said he loved her. Who didn't say a word to her to keep her from getting worried. Who found a way to say goodbye without saying it. She tried texting him back. Three times, she sent him increasingly panicked texts, but Blaine wasn't answering her. It was getting harder and harder not to think about the worst. She tried – almost tried – to dial his phone to call him but she stopped herself, realizing if he was in there – if someone was listening – if his phone rang and caught the attention of whatever maniac was shooting guns in this school…

She choked on a sob. No, it couldn't end like this. She needed to – she needed – and then, before the woman could figure out what the nervous energy coursing through her body was telling her, a strong hand slipped it's way into hers. "He'll be all right," said the man, though even he could hear the fear and uncertainty in his voice. "He'll be all right," he tried again, mustering just a tiny bit more conviction.

Celia looked at him. She mouthed his name, her voice only managing a barely audible squeak as it forced its way past his vocal chords. But he knew that she was saying more than just his name. Mikey. She was asking him so much more with her eyes that she could ever ask in words. She needed him. Blaine needed him. And even knowing this, he felt the twisting discomfort in his gut, and then the guilt that even now, even when Blaine might never make it out alive, that he could feel so instinctively repulsed. He couldn't stop it, but he tried. So hard he tried to wrap his head around it all, but somehow he simply couldn't understand – he didn't want to understand – but that had never stopped the flood of guilt accompanying those feelings.

Michael reached up a thumb, wiping the silent tears that streaked the soft, round cheeks of his beautiful second wife. "I love you," he told her then, just as a tear of his own began to fall, though he roughly wiped it away from his own face. Squeezing her hand reassuringly, then shifted so that it was his left hand holding hers as he wrapped his right arm snuggly, protectively, around the petite woman's waist.

They stood in silence, waiting for something – anything – news, maybe? An all clear? A glimpse of a curly headed boy on a gurney…

She was terrified, and though he tried to appear as solid and stoic as he could, so was Michael. He didn't want to think about the possibility that his son might never smile at him again, that as hard as it had been for him to even begin and understand his son's decisions, he might never have another chance to even try. He waited in the cold winter air – gloveless, because like an idiot he'd left his office without thinking to grab a pair – holding his wife as she trembled involuntarily in his arms. Her right hand clutched her phone as if her very life depended on it, and really – maybe it did.

So long had passed. It felt like hours, though Michael knew it had really been only minutes they'd been waiting. Then suddenly a buzz sounded, and another. A telephone rang, and suddenly Michael Jackson's 'Bad' began to play. It was like a symphony of ringing, buzzing phones, and suddenly Celia jumped, her fingers fumbling to answer the phone. Just as she placed the receiver to her ear, a cracked voice came through on the other side of the line, hitting her like a freight train, knocking all the from her lungs in one blow.

"Hey, mommy."

Cecilia tried to say his name, to say she loved him, to say a simple 'hello' for pity's sake, but every ounce of energy left her at that moment. Loud, anguished sobs that she'd been holding in so long exploded out of her as relief flooded down and overwhelmed the dam that had been keeping all of her heightened emotions in check.

"Mommy?" the voice came again, more panicked this time. Michael thought he could hear a sniffle and a sob through the line as he helped his wife lower herself to the ground as her legs gave way beneath her. There was scuffling on the line and the wailing cries were muffled as Michael took the phone from her hand and lifted it to his own ear as quickly as possible.

"Blaine," he called into the receiver, his voice cracking. "Blaine is that…?"

"Dad?"

Michael knew Blaine wasn't expecting to hear his dad's voice, but was too relieved to dwell on it. "Blaine," he breathed, audibly relieved. His wife held onto the front of his jacket, her wails muffled by the material as she cried uncontrollably into his shoulder. There was only one other time when she had cried so hard and it broke his heart to see it happen again, to think that the nightmare he thought was over was starting all over again.

His face contorting as he tried to force back the hot tears and he sniffed. Another choked hiccup through the receiver, and Blaine stuttered out, his voice far stronger than Michael thought it should have been. "Dad, it's – we're – it's over. It's over." And Michael couldn't stop himself anymore. Right there, on the cold Ohio sidewalk, Michael Anderson started to weep along with his wife. In his head, the words he needed to say, and Blaine deserved to hear, ran in a horrifying loop: I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry….

But Michael couldn't bring himself to say the words. The guilt tore at him like it always did. He was weak. Such a coward. He'd never been as strong of a man as he should have been and now his son – his son – was never going to be a man. And part of him knew that he should accept that Blaine was never going to be the man he could have if only Michael had done it different, if only Michael had been around. Or maybe – there wasn't any way to know exactly, but he was disappointed. And the fact that he couldn't stop himself from feeling it made it so much worse. He only wanted to make it right – and now – he'd almost never had the chance to see his boy again, for the second time.

And he didn't understand why but all of a sudden it was Blaine that started apologizing. "Dad, I'm sorry. I'm so freaking sorry." He was crying. Michael could hear it, and part of him couldn't bring himself to say that it was ok until an image flashed in his mind – images of news stories, other states, other kids – always outsiders, always kids that were bullied. And Michael's eyes widened and he shook the thought away. No, if Blaine was to blame he wouldn't be calling him now. If Blaine had done this – but Michael didn't want to think the rest of the way through that sentence. Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek to prevent another sob escaping him.

"It's going to be all right, son. It's going to be all right," he whispered, his words cracked and broken, though he had no real idea what Blaine was apologizing for. He simply wanted the crying and sorries to stop. He wanted his son safe at hime. And Michael Anderson hoped to God he was right, that it would be all right, because he couldn't lose his son. Not now. Not again. He had to try harder. He had to figure this – this thing out. Because a father should never question if his son was the one who brought a gun to school. He should know – one way or the other, a father should always know.

A/N: Woot! You made it to the end. :D Again, I hope you enjoyed the story. This is just a short one-shot, but it sort of hints at how I imagine Blaine's parents to be. They try, bless them, but they just can't get certain things. I have ideas for other stories that explore the relationship between Blaine and his parents, so if you like what you've read and want to read more, or have particular questions about the parents I've made up for him, drop me a review, please. :)