DISCLAIMER: Blaine, Kurt and the entire Glee universe do not belong to me. Le sigh. If only. Jason and Nikita are 100% mine. Peter is mine, kind of? I mean, we've never seen Blaine's dad and all we know is the car incident. So, aspects of Peter are mine. His inability to have a good relationship with his son is canon so, obviously, not mine. That's far more complicated than it should be! OK, on to the story:

The body operates under a system of laws. Every process, every mechanism can be known and understood through those laws. Occasionally, the body revolts. There's an oddity in the DNA or an uncontrolled growth of abnormal cells. In instances like those, the exact process isn't yet understood. Every day, though, doctors get closer to the answer through scientific research.

Dr. Peter Anderson knew that. He had devoted his entire life to knowing that process. He could explain how the body worked, how cancer spreads, how neurons transmit information. He couldn't explain why his son seemed to hate him.

"Just try talking to him," his wife Nikita said without glancing up from the latest issue of the pediatric surgery journal.

"I've tried. Nothing works. We have nothing to talk about," Peter said, turning over to face her, propping his head on his hand.

"Keep trying."

"When did this get so hard? I should be able to have a conversation with my son."

Nikita closed the journal, setting it on the nightstand. She then turned to her husband, running her hand through his hair.

"You're a smart man," she said, smiling at him. "You'll figure it out."

The problem, Peter knew but didn't mention, was that he was smart when it came to science, to medicine, to the operating room. Dealing with people? With emotions? That had never been his strong suit.

In the OR, even in the midst of a crashing patient, Peter was at peace. As if he had a sixth sense, he knew what would happen next and what he needed to do to save the patient's life. Patients from across the country — even across the world — came to him when no one else could help. In the OR, Peter was brilliant. With his son, he was lost.

Over a year earlier, he had just removed a tumor that had wound itself down a patient's spine. The surgery was a grueling 12 hours. Instead of exhaustion, Peter only felt exhilarated. Other neurosurgeons said the surgery was impossible. The man would die or end up paralyzed. The patient was still alive and although tests were needed once he awoke, Peter was willing to bet one of his few, treasured vacation days that the man would walk within a few months. As he cleaned up, Nikita came into the scrub room.

"I did it," Peter told her, smiling as he washed his hands and arms. "The entire tumor – gone. I can't wait to see the MRI results."

"Peter," she said quietly. "We need to talk."

"What is it? Is it Green again? I know he's a pain in the ass but he says he wants to do peds. And no other surgeon will put up with him. You can send me your worst intern as payback. Actually don't. I have too many interns. I don't know what to do with them all. You think the chief would've distributed them better."

"Peter, it's Blaine." He turned off the water and reached for the paper towels. He didn't say anything, just looked at his wife and waited.

Nikita took a breath, playing with the rings on her necklace. As often as they had to scrub in, neither of them wore wedding rings. He did give Nikita an engagement ring, however, which she wore around her neck.

"Peter, he came to talk to me this morning before I came here. I think he's going to try to talk to you when you get home."

In the OR, Peter could almost always predict what came next. When it came to his son, he never knew. He waited.

"He says he's gay," she said, still playing with her ring. "I think that's why those other kids – Peter, those bullies, I think –" She began to tear up, and Peter took her into his arms. As he wrapped his arms around her, she began to cry. "Such a hard life," she managed to say as she cried into his shoulder. He simply held her and let her cry. He could see the OR over her shoulder. The nurses were sterilizing the equipment he had just used, preparing for the next surgery. Why couldn't dealing with his son be as easy as removing a tumor?

Peter rearranged his surgery schedule, passing off critical procedures to other neurosurgeons and moving non-critical to the next day. After rounds and a quick lunch, he left the hospital so he could be home by the time Blaine left school.

As soon as he got home, he started a pot of coffee and brought his laptop into the kitchen. He had about 10 minutes before Blaine usually got home. Plenty of time to prepare. He went to the PFLAG site and clicked the tab for family and friends. He glanced down the page, "you may be experiencing a range of emotions…remember your loved one is the same person as yesterday." The coffee pot dinged. Peter stood up and got a mug from the cupboard. As he poured himself a cup, he heard Blaine come in the front door.

"Anyone home?" His son called out.

"In the kitchen!" A few seconds later Blaine came into the kitchen.

"Haven't seen you in a couple of days."

"I know. I had back-to-back surgeries all day yesterday and overnight. I have the rest of the day free though."

Blaine didn't respond. Peter stood there. Then looked down at his mug before back at his son again. "Coffee?"

"Sure." Peter poured him a mug and handed it to him.

"How was school?"

"Fine."

"Classes going well?"

"Yes."

"And that choir thing? Still good?"

"Fine, dad."

"And.." Peter struggled to think of something else. What else was there to ask about? "Biology?"

"That was last semester." It was silent again.

"Dad, I need to tell you something," Blaine began, looking vaguely apprehensive. Peter tried to keep his face blank as though Nikita hadn't told him just this morning. For once, with his son, he knew what was going to come next. He could handle this. "Dad..I think-well, actually, I know but – Dad, I'm gay." He rushed through those last three words, and then inhaled deeply as though just letting the words go was a release.

Peter tried to keep his face neutral. He quickly skimmed through his mind trying to recall what he just read on the PFLAG site. Why was he distracted by the coffee? He should work on his caffeine addiction. Who was he kidding? It was impossible to be a surgeon and not be heavily dependent on coffee.

He noticed Blaine's face change as he waited for his dad to respond. From relief to anticipation to confusion as Peter remained silent. Peter tried to think. The site mentioned range of emotions and then what came next?

"I don't know what to say," Peter finally admitted.

"Don't you have any thoughts on this? Opinions? You always have an opinion on everything."

What was the right thing to say in this situation? He should've skipped the lunch and spent longer on the PFLAG site.

"I mean," Peter began slowly. "Does anything really need to change?"

Peter instantly saw that was the wrong response. As confusion moved to shock then disappointment then anger.

"So I should go back to hiding who I was," Blaine said slowly.

"What? No, what I'm trying to say is I don't understand-"

"Don't understand what, dad? Me?"

"Well, that's partially true, but that's not the point."

"Then what is, dad? What's the point?" At that moment, Peter's beeper lit up and began buzzing across the counter. He reached down to see the message as Blaine set down his mug. "Whatever," he muttered, leaving the kitchen.

"Blaine! Get back here! I'm not done." The tumor patient. The front door slammed. Peter closed his laptop, turned off the coffee pot and went to deal with the easier situation – his patient.

Blaine wouldn't talk to him. And Peter didn't know what to say.

"Just try," his wife would keep saying. Every time he did try it devolved into an argument. Unfortunately, for both of them, arguing generally meant silent treatment and storming out of the room. It made it difficult to resolve anything. Peter took a waiting strategy. His son might hate him now but he was a teenager. No one enjoyed raising a teenager, right? It was supposed to be hard.

One horrible April night convinced him the hands-off approach wasn't working.

It was the middle of April, just a few weeks after Blaine came out to them. Nikita was in Los Angeles for the week. She was called in to work on a particularly complicated case involving a five year old with a failing heart.

"You can't leave me here alone with him," Peter had begged her, sitting on the bed as she stood and packed her bag. "He hates me. At least when you're here, there's a buffer."

"Peter," she said, exasperated. "Are you really asking me not to help with this case so that I can stay and be a buffer?"

"Yes!" They continued looking at each other. Finally, he sighed. "No. But I reserve the right to complain about it anyway." She laughed, taking his face in her hands and bending down to kiss him.

"You'll be fine," she said, standing back up and returning to her suitcase.

The week had drug on. Peter tried to arrange his schedule so he would be home at nights before Blaine went to bed. Dinner consisted of take-out in front of the TV. Silence. Then Blaine would head to his room and Peter to his. Thursday night, the silence was broken.

"I'm hanging out with friends tomorrow," Blaine said, during take out and TV time.

"Be back by 12."

"Whatever."

Friday night, Peter stayed at the hospital to catch up on paperwork. It was quiet in his office. No patients to worry about, no interns harassing him for surgeries, just him and the charts with some classical music in the background. It was peaceful.

Of course someone would knock on the door.

"Come in." In came Jason. Peter's oldest friend. They were assigned to the same resident during their time as interns. They were housemates throughout their residency until Peter proposed to Nikita and moved in with her. Jason had been best man. They still had lunch together at least once a week.

"Peter, I only have a second because I'm scrubbing in but it's Blaine."

When your best friend is also the head of trauma surgery, the last thing you want to hear from him is bad news on your child.

"What is it?" Peter said, trying to remember to breathe as he stood up and headed to the door.

"He and a kid who was brought in with him were attacked," Jason began as they hurried down the hall together. "I don't know the specifics, but the police are on their way." Peter pumped him for whatever information he had. What was the surgery? The severity of the internal trauma? Who was scrubbing in and damn it, it had better not be anyone less experienced that a fourth year resident. No interns, no first years, no third years. Fourth years and up. When they reached the door to the OR, Jason stopped.

"You know you can't come back here."

"He's my son!"

"Exactly. You can't be back here." If Jason wasn't the best trauma surgeon Peter knew, he would've punched him right then. However, Jason was the best. And Peter wanted the best surgeon on his son's case.

"You might need me in there. I-"

"No."

"I can't just sit out here and wait! I need to be in the OR!"

"You can't come in here."

"I'll stay in the scrub room. I just need to be able to see what's happening."

"No, Peter."

"He. Is. My. Son!"

"I know. But I can't focus on my work if you're standing there with big, sad, don't-kill-my-kid eyes."

For a minute, Peter and Jason stared at one another. Eventually, Peter realized that Jason wasn't backing down.

"Right now," he said quietly. "I hate you." Jason gave him a sad smile.

"I can live with that," Jason said just as quietly. He then put his hands on Peter's shoulders.

"I will do my very best work," Jason promised, speaking softly. "But you are going to stay out here and wait. If you even try to get into that room, I'll call security. You know I will. I'll send a nurse to update you every chance I get, OK?"

Peter could only nod. Jason squeezed his shoulders and then headed into the OR to scrub in and begin.

The waiting was excruciating. He paced back and forth in front of the door. News spread through the hospital quickly and nurses, interns and residents came by to check on him. Eventually, the police found him as well. They had questioned the friend — who hadn't needed surgery but was in the ER overnight for monitoring — and told Peter what they knew. Apparently, there had been a Sadie Hawkins dance at the school that night. Blaine and his friend were going together. Before they made it into the school, a group of guys had attacked them. According to the friend, that group had been threatening him and Blaine for awhile. That night, they carried through on their threats.

Peter didn't know whether to cry or yell or break something or cry more. His son – his darling, darling boy.

Later that night, after he had finally come through surgery, Peter sat by his bed and watched him sleep. His face was bruised, his arm was broken and the internal damage extensive. He looked so small and so broken. Peter reached over and stroked his son's hair. He should've known about the dance, he should've known about the bullying, he should've been there for his son.

"I'm going to fix this," Peter whispered to him, before kissing his forehead.

Nikita and Peter knew Blaine couldn't stay at that school. After some research, they found a private school in Westerville with a zero-tolerance bullying policy. They filled out the paperwork and put down a deposit. Blaine was never going back to his old school again.

Meanwhile, Peter researched father-son bonding activities. He tackled it as he would tackle a tricky case. Through reading, list making, and detailing a cost-benefit analysis. Hunting was not an option. Not only did they not own a gun but Peter had seen far too many gunshot victims in his OR. He knew exactly how catastrophic it could be. Fishing was out. Peter couldn't swim. Football games were out. It wasn't football season yet. Finally, he came across a page on restoring old cars. He smiled. A perfect bonding activity.

"Come out to the garage with me," Peter announced one June morning after the school year was over. "We're going to restore a car."

Blaine simply looked at him, his expression unreadable. "Come on, Blaine. Let's go."

They went out to the garage where an old car (courtesy of Jason's brother-in-law) awaited.

"This is going to be great!" Peter said, trying to drum up some enthusiasm.

"Since when are you into cars?"

"Since I decided to be."

Every Saturday, they worked on that car in the garage. Conversation wasn't easy but they managed a few exchanges. Peter tried to avoid dwelling on this hospital but outside of the hospital, he didn't have much else to say. Occasionally, Blaine brought up some magazine he was reading or a new movie. Peter rarely had time for magazines (outside of medical journals) or movies. Again, he didn't have much else to say. By the time July rolled around, the Saturdays were mostly silent.

"Just keep trying," Nikita would say.

"I don't know what to say."

"Just start talking. Don't over think it."

At the beginning of August, on one of their last Saturdays before school began, Peter tried not to think and just speak. He tried to pretend he was in the OR. It was just him and the brain. Peace.

Of course he wasn't in the OR. He was in a garage. He didn't have a scalpel. He had a wrench. Peace was hard to force.

"Isn't this great? Working on this car, like real men. I don't know where that image of real men comes from. Something about automobiles and getting our hands dirty." He heard a clang as Blaine threw down the tool he had been holding.

"Is this what the summer has been about?" He demanded.

So much for peace. Peter was confused.

"What do you mean?"

"Becoming real men!" Blaine said, making air quotations around the term. "Getting our hands dirty."

"Well, yeah. You know, the two of us out here, getting our hands dirty, talking cars-"

"When are you just going to accept that this is who I am?" Blaine cried out. "I'm not changing! I'm gay, dad! And you're going to have to accept that!"

"This isn't about that!" Peter yelled back, beginning to lose his temper. He tried and tried and tried. Nothing ever worked.

"Yes it is! We never talk about it! We never talk about anything!"

"I'm trying but you aren't giving me much to work with!"

"You haven't been trying, dad!"

"Yes, I have! Why do you think we're out here? God damn it, Blaine, sometimes I just don't understand why you have to be like this!" Why was this so hard?

Blaine glared at him and stormed out of the garage. Peter, also angry, began putting the tools away. Once everything was in it's place, he went inside and began washing off his hands. As he scrubbed, he felt his anger seep out only to be replaced with sorrow. He turned off the water and leaned against the sink. Everything he did or said was always the wrong thing. When did it get so hard?

He reached for a towel and as he dried his hands he couldn't help but think that he wasn't a bad man, just a bad father.

Nearly a year later, Nikita was telling him yet again to keep trying while reading her pediatric surgery journal.

"You're a smart man," she said, smiling, her journal forgotten. "You'll figure it out."

Later that night, as she lay sleeping next to him, Peter decided he couldn't sleep. He didn't know anything about his son. What he did hear was second hand through Nikita. He knew his son had a boyfriend and that they went to prom at the boyfriend's school. She had showed him the pictures. He didn't know anything about this boyfriend. Was he a good kid? Was he kind? Was he as driven as Blaine? Could he trust him? So much was unknown.

Peter slipped out of bed and headed down to the kitchen. He grabbed his practice tools and sat down at the kitchen table with a banana. There were few things more calming than suture practice. As he set his first stitch, he heard movement and then Blaine was in the doorway.

"Hi," Peter said, glancing up from his banana.

"Hi," Blaine said, going to the sink and filling up a glass of water. Silence fell. Peter focused on his stitches. In, across, out. In, across, out.

"I saw the prom picture," Peter said, still focusing on sutures. In, across, out.

"Yeah, that just came in today."

"Was it fun?"

"Yeah."

"Your date had a crown. Did he win Prom King?"

"Something like that."

Silence.

"We had a formal at the end of my intern year." In, across, out. Peter smiled as he thought back to that night. "It was a way to celebrate the fact we were all still alive. Or maybe it was one last break before we began residency. Your mother was in my intern class. I had such a huge crush on her but I was too shy to make a move. I'd never been good with the ladies." In, across, out. He reached the end of the banana. Cut the stitch. He turned the banana over and began on the other side.

"Anyway, I always said the wrong thing around her. She told Jason that I was either really obnoxious or socially stupid."

In, across, out. Jason had tried so hard to be a good wing man. Too bad Peter was just such a horrible pilot. In, across, out. Peter could hear Blaine pull up the chair next to his but he didn't look up. He focused on his sutures.

"One night, I was in skills lab, practicing alone. I'd been there about an hour before your mom came in and started practicing on the dummy next to mine. Standing over those open models, the blade in my hand, I told her I thought she was amazing. That she was the smartest, kindest, most compassionate, talented surgeon I had ever met. I said I would be honored if she would just consider going to the formal with me."

He kept stitching.

"Everywhere else in the world is filled with noise and uncertainty. Sometimes I think I can only be myself in the OR. I only know how to say the right thing, do the right thing, when I have a scalpel in my hand. It doesn't mean I don't care, it just means I don't know how to make the next move."

In, across, out. Both sides of the banana sufficiently stitched. He closed and set down his tools. Finally, he looked at his son. Blaine looked like he was on the verge of tears. For once not thinking, not planning his next move, Peter grabbed his son and pulled him into his arms.

As Blaine hugged him back, Peter managed to choke out, "I love you, kiddo."

After a beat, he could hear – ever so faintly – "Love you too, dad."

There wasn't peace with his son like with the OR. He couldn't interact with him like he would interact with a tumor. He couldn't predict the next move. He wasn't sure he even understood him.

But he loved his son. And his son loved him. And perhaps, right then, that was enough.

Author's Notes: That exchange with Jason and Peter outside the OR? Slightly stolen from Grey's when Christina was telling Meredith to wait. Also, Peter's pick up line as the whole "you're a super talented surgeon, Nikita"? I feel like Peter and Blaine are very similar (only Peter is far more awkward). Like Blaine realized he loved Kurt when Kurt sang, I think Peter realized he loved Nikita after seeing her perform some bad ass surgery. Finally, I know some people will think Blaine is out of character or melodramatic or whatever. My defense: he's a teenage boy. He's friends/boyfriend persona WILL be different than his home persona. Also, remember how short Kurt was with his dad before the heart attack? (I'm thinking specifically Grilled Cheesus when he was all "Don't care about dinner"), I think Blaine would've went through a similar phase. Finally, we saw in BIOTA that Blaine has a tendency to walk away when he's offended. So, his dad would say something, he'd leap to the worst meaning, and then walk away. Hope that all makes sense!