"I keep thinking about her. I can't stop." Puck ran his fingers over the shaved parts of his head. Dave listened silently. "She's... she's so beautiful, man. Every time I see her, I... Fuck, I keep wondering... what if...?" He paused, looking up. Dave nodded encouragingly. "I still... I guess I still can't believe that someone so perfect came outta my gene pool, y'know?"

Dave laughed. "I gotcha."

"The thing is... if I'm this hung up over Beth, you gotta imagine what Quinn's..."

"Yeah." Dave did indeed know. It felt like whatever time he wasn't spending with school, Kurt, or hockey was being spent putting out fires Quinn was starting. Things were coming to a head - he could feel it. Thus the talk with Puck, perhaps the one person who could understand her - or at least, this aspect of her. "Look, man, Ms. Corcoran is getting suspicious. I dunno if we can keep her in the dark forever." Dave licked his lips; he knew Puck wasn't going to like what he was about to suggest. "Do you think... do you think we should just tell her what Quinn is doing?"

"No!" Puck leaped to his feet. "Then she'd never let Quinn near Beth again, and... I can't do that, dude. We've been through too much with the Bully Whips. I don't want to break her." He began pacing. "I just can't."

"Okay. Then someone's going to have to confront her. Someone's going to have to get into her head. And you haven't left me many other choices besides making it me."

"I owe you, Dave, I swear to fuck I do. I'll help any way I can."

"I'm gonna need it. Just tell me everything you know about her. You guys may not have been a couple or anything, but you're at least sort of friends. And you both are Beth's parents. I just... What's going on in her head, man?"

Puck took a deep breath. "Okay..." As Puck began talking, his hands twisting against each other like writhing spiders, Dave wondered just how he got sucked into it all. But he knew; these people - these crazy, crazy people - were growing on him at an incredible rate. No wonder Kurt loves them so much.

Ah, well, if he started absorbing the crazy, at least he already had a therapist.

As New Directions filed out of the gym, battered and sweaty but otherwise whole, Kurt was still babbling. "You were amazing, Dave! I had no idea you were that good at dodgeball!"

Dave shrugged. "Hockey. It's all about aim. If you can do it on ice skates, you can do it in sneakers."

"And you were eliminated protecting me!" Kurt's eyelashes actually fluttered. Dave almost laughed, but quickly suppressed the suicidal urge. He was being flattered by Kurt; the last thing he wanted to do was laugh, assuming he wanted to keep his heart in his ribcage.

"It was nothin'. Really." Dave turned deep red. "That Sheila has a wicked arm on her, though. Oh, hey, you okay?"

Rory stopped short. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just feel lucky I was knocked out early." He paused. "Say, David..."

"Hm?"

"How is, ah... hockey?"

Dave's brow furrowed. "Fine, I guess. Why?"

"Ye sure?"

"Uh... Yes? Again, why?"

Rory affected a casual shrug. "Just wonderin'."

"Oh! Speaking of hockey!" Kurt clutched Dave's arm. "Guess who's going to be front row center at your next game!"

"Well, there's not exactly a front row center... The seats are all around the rink, and..."

Kurt whapped his boyfriend on the shoulder. "I know that! And that's not the point!"

"Just kidding, Kurt. I'm really glad you'll be able to make it; we're on a hot streak. I think we're gonna make States for sure."

"That would be so wonderful!" Kurt paused thoughtfully. "I've always wanted to wear my boyfriend's letterman jacket..."

"Well, then, I'll see what I can do. Once you're class president, you can wear it to council meetings!"

"That is a wonderful idea! Oh, are we still on for debate rehearsal tonight?"

"Of course. But you sure you want to do it? I mean, you've been rehearsing every night this week. As Coach says, there's such a thing as being overprepared, y'know."

Kurt clucked his tongue. "Not in my book. Besides, I almost have it. I know I'm going to kick butt at that debate!"

"You're nervous?" Dave asked in disbelief.

Kurt, his hyperventilation finally calming, only nodded rapidly.

"But... You perform in front of huge crowds all the time..." He waved an arm towards the closed curtain; even muffled, the buzz of the crowds on the other side was almost deafening.

"That's singing and acting, Dave. This is... this is a debate! I'm not a character or anything like that... I'm me. And I'll be competing directly against two more popular students! What if... What if I'm not good enough? What if I'm not what they want?"

"Then fuck them all sideways with a rusty shovel." Dave gripped Kurt's forearms. "Look, I can do the supportive boyfriend thing and tell you all the ways you're spectacular, but I don't think I need to. You've got this, and you know it! I dunno if you're gonna win the election or not, but you and I both know that you can win one stupid debate that you've been practicing until you're almost hoarse. You did great last night with me and your folks, and you can do it now. For fuck's sake, what happened to 'Eat your heart out, Kate Middleton'?"

Kurt blinked. "You remember that?"

Dave rolled his eyes. "Moment like that's not easy to forget." He grinned wolfishly. "Especially one as fucking sexy as that."

"Well, then," Kurt said with a grin of his own. His shoulders, bunched up with tension, finally relaxed. "Thanks," he sighed. "I'm not sure how much better I feel, but I am calmer. I think that's all I needed."

"Good." Dave pecked him on the lips. "Break a— Wait, do you do that in politics? Or is that just plain bad luck?"

"I have no idea. But I'll take that in the spirit in which it was intended."

"I'll see you at lunch." With that, Dave hurried out of the backstage area. Within a couple of minutes, he was sliding into his seat next to Artie. "Thanks."

"One advantage to being in a wheelchair: you can save practically anyone else a seat." He chuckled. "This oughta be interesting, though."

"Oh, yeah? I thought these kinds of things were always boring. Except for Kurt, of course."

"Of course. But I've learned a lot about leadership this past year. It'll be interesting to see what Brittany and Kurt have learned."

Dave was about to question this further, but Principal Figgins walking on stage to introduce the candidates silenced him. Soon, the debate was underway. Rick Nelson started with his opening statement. Dave had little idea why Rick was running; he never seemed like the leader type in hockey. Maybe he just liked the spotlight; he would hardly be the only one on the team who did.

"... and I'll make sure the teachers really listen to students..."

Artie snorted. "They say in business that the first and last thing you should ever do is listen to your customers. That's doubly true with school. Students would have every class outside and play Telephone the entire time if they had their way."

Dave stared. "Seriously? They actually ask to...?"

"Seriously. I've seen it with my own eyes. You've been spoiled at Dalton for too long." Dave was digesting this even as Brittany began her opening statement. He looked up at the stage and blinked; he hadn't even realized until that moment that Brittany was wearing a formal suit — her Bully Whips suit, in fact. He had little doubt it was intentional.

"Thank you. Fellow McKinley students, I'm running for class president because I believe in our school and in our students. I'll use the skills I've learned as a cheerleader and a Bully Whip to guide us all, seniors and freshmen alike, to a new future..."

"Wow..." Dave breathed. The normally bubbly, flighty Brittany was nowhere to be found. The woman up on stage was direct, serious, intense — she reminded Dave of the competitive champion cheerleader, or the Bully Whip patrolling the halls with her eagle eye.

Artie nodded approvingly. "Way to go, Britt."

"Together, we can make great strides. Together, we can improve the school and our community..."

"You know," Dave said, "she really isn't saying a lot. I mean, it sounds great, but she's kinda short on specifics."

"Yeah," Artie murmured. "It's very clever."

"Huh?"

"It's not about policy or proposals," he said, slipping into an almost professorial tone — one he often used when addressing the Bully Whips or a cast under his direction. "It's about expectations. Everyone knows Britt's rep, so they all expected her to go up there and start promising rainbows in every classroom and setting up traps to keep away the tigers. By being serious, even if she's not saying anything substantial, she's blowing away their expectations, and that gives her a serious leg up."

"Oh." Dave looked about the crowd; he saw Santana and Blaine sitting together near the front row. The latter looked smug, while the former gave the young woman on stage a subtle thumbs-up. He knew now who was primarily responsible for this strategy.

Finally, it was Kurt's turn. Dave straightened expectantly; when Kurt began to speak, he found himself mouthing along, as if he were the one who wrote it.

"Thank you. I'd like to start with a question of my own, to the female students of McKinley: how many of you have felt debased or lessened in the eyes of others because you wouldn't do exactly what a boy wanted you to do?" There was a ripple through the crowd; many of the girls looked uncomfortable considering the question. "Students of color, how many of you have felt forced to laugh at a racist joke told by your friends, even though it wasn't funny?" There was another ripple; Dave saw Az-whatever-his-name-was, one of the football players who'd been dragged into the GSA, shift in his seat. "The Bully Whips are a great institution, but I want to build a McKinley that has no need of them. I want to build a stronger McKinley on a foundation of tolerance, respect, and equality..."

"Your boyfriend's off to a good start," Artie said.

"Yeah. Yeah, he is."

"He's really connecting. That was his biggest problem, and he's really overcoming it. I think he may have a shot at this. Hey, if you ever want some tips on the campaign managing thing, let me know."

"Cool." Dave paused in thought. "You don't mind? You know, with Brittany running...?"

Artie sighed. "I'm... I'm accepting the whole breakup thing. Slowly, but I am. Besides, Santana and Anderson seem to have her campaign under control. Hell, with them at the helm, you'll probably need all the help you can get."

"You're probably right," Dave said ruefully. His eyes returned to the duo. "Sometimes I wonder what's going on with those two."

"How do you mean?"

"Hm? Oh... Nothing." Fuck, that was a little too close. It was easy for Dave to forget just how much of a secret that was. He wrenched his attention back to the debate; Kurt was answering a question about club funding. Dave, deciding that Santana had the right idea, gave Kurt a smile and a thumbs-up. He hoped Kurt saw it, but judging by the way his smile widened at that exact moment, he thought he did.

Rachel had always prided herself on being in control: of her life, of her destiny, of everything around her. Each fed into a single goal: accomplishment of her dreams. But the feeling of being in charge of her own fate (which made her more confident, which enabled her to take bold action, which brought about events that improved her chances of achieving her desires, so you see, it was all interwoven) was being... battered lately. Or perhaps more accurately, being beaten to within an inch of its life.

The taking away of her (her!) solos was the first blow. Then the NYADA mixer debacle. Then the sharing of Maria in West Side Story. Then her realization how highly unlikely she was to be elected senior class president (her endorsement of Kurt on the way out was probably the only decent thing to come out of that disaster)... Even a girl as talented as her, even a girl destined for such glorious things, could only take so much.

"Aw, what's the matter, Man-Thing? You look like someone just stole your dog... then put it on Broadway instead of you."

And there was just the perfect topper to a dreadful month.

"Please, Santana, I'm not in the mood..."

"Well, that's just a shame, because my girl — my candidate — just kicked major ass in the presidential debate, so I am definitely in the mood." The other girl cocked her head thoughtfully. "But now that I've got a good look at you, you seem pretty pathetic right now already. So maybe you don't need my help."

Could it be? Could she actually escape this? "Well, I have to go..." She began to turn away.

"Maybe you should join the Troubletones." Rachel stopped short. "You know Ms. Corcoran would let you in in a heartbeat if you asked. Probably give you a bunch of solos too." Rachel turned back towards Santana. "Hell, we could use another diva..."

"R-really?"

Santana stared for a minute, then barked out a shriek of laughter. "Fuck, no! You ser-seriously thought we'd let you..." She let out another peal of hysteria. "Oh... Oh, man! Wait 'til I tell Quinn... Let you into the Troubletones... God, you're even more deluded than I thought...!" With that, Santana staggered away, her entire body shaking with her mirth.

Rachel stared after her, her brain slowly beginning to process what had just happened.

You were thinking about it. You were actually thinking about it! You were going to drop them all, betray them all...

Well, they betrayed me first! Going behind my back like that to undermine me...!

But they're still your friends, despite everything. And you were going to turn your back on them all just because they wanted a chance... You were going to follow in Santana and Quinn's footsteps, and for what...? Your personal glory? Is that all that matters...?

"Oh, my God..." Rachel's tremulous voice said out loud to the empty hallway. "They were right..."

"Well, then, see you all next week!" With Kurt's cheerful farewell, the weekly meeting of the McKinley High GSA was over. The group rose and quickly scattered — some to leave, some to grab more refreshments. Blaine was on his feet at once. He knew if he didn't do this now, he'd chicken out again. "I'll be right back" was all he muttered to Kurt before hurrying out the door — Chris was almost halfway down the hall by that time.

"Hey! Dude!"

Chris turned, his pace skidding to a stop. "Oh, hey, Blaine."

Blaine still wasn't sure how he was going to do this; it wasn't like he had a lot of time to plan, between schoolwork, the Bully Whips, football, writing Brittany's speeches, and listening to Santana gripe about Hudson and his ham-handed attempts to "interfere" with her life. But hell, he'd winged it in more dire circumstances, hadn't he? Like that one game when he was facing down not one, not two, but three defensive linemen just itching to take him down... Then again, there was also that time Kurt followed him into the locker room... That time didn't go so well...

"You were... uh... You were kinda quiet at the meeting, so I thought we could talk..."

Chris shrugged. "Yeah, well, I'm never really sure what to say, y'know? I mean, I don't really go for that sparkly rainbow shit..."

Blaine forced a laugh. "C'mon, it isn't that bad..."

"It's not? I'm sorry, dude, but the whole thing is a waste of time. I have no idea why you're still doing it."

"Hey, it's going to look awesome on my transcripts..."

"Your transcripts could be just your dad's name, and you'd get into any school in the country. Seriously, Blaine, what's the point? Why was us joining such a big deal? None of us are fags..."

Blaine tried not to flinch at the word — a word, he fully realized in wry irony, he'd slung about himself quite a few times in the past. "Cut the slurs, dude. You're supposed to be learning fucking tolerance in there."

"Like I said, what's the point? It's not like I'm gonna beat any of them up. But you can't teach me to respect 'em. I mean, they're just... not right."

"Oh, yeah?" Blaine swallowed. "Just 'cause they like guys? Or girls? Or both?"

Chris shook his head. "It's fucking creepy, man. It just... it just makes my fucking skin crawl. You agree with me, don't you? I mean, you used to."

"I..."

Fortunately, Chris continued, because Blaine had no idea what he would've, or could've, said next. "Like I said, I don't think they should be harassed or put into straight camps or anything, but seriously, I don't know a single queer who's anything like a normal person."

Blaine didn't have to ask about, or demand, a definition of "normal," because he knew exactly what his old friend was thinking. "What about Karofsky?"

"He's dating Hummel. How normal can he be? He probably wears lacy lingerie under his jeans or something. Look, Blaine, don't get me wrong, I actually kinda respect that you're doing something for society and all that crap. You've got balls, risking your rep for Hummel and his pals. But you're never gonna convince me or anyone else at this school that the gay shit is normal, especially not with a bunch of group hugs and pretty speeches. 'Cause it's not." Chris shrugged again, a casual gesture. But why wouldn't it be; why would anything he said have been offensive or even at all remarkable to Blaine, his best friend whom he knew so well? "I'll leave 'em alone like a good boy. I'll come to the meetings, I'll listen to the speeches... Hell, I'll even put up the posters in public. But seriously, Blaine? You're wasting your time. Nothing's gonna change around here." He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "I gotta run. Hit me up for Halo tonight, okay?" With that, he turned and jogged down the hall.

Blaine could only stare. There were so many things just on the tip of his tongue, but his throat froze before he could even consider saying any of it. Even now, his head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton.

He'd never felt so alone in his life.

"Wooo! Go, Dave!" It was times like this that Kurt wished he'd been able to keep the Cheerios uniform and other accoutrements of his time as a cheerleader (it all went back to Coach Sylvester when he left; when he asked her what good it would do anyone else since it was fitted to him, she replied, "I have my own surgical team." He didn't ask any further). It really would've come in handy. Ah, well, at least he knew how to project his voice. Even over the din around him, Dave's head still snapped up as he skated by. He found time for a quick wave before the ref blew his whistle.

The crowd was raucous, and as big as Kurt had ever seen for a Titans hockey game. The old adage really was true: nothing succeeds like success. With the team's rising fortunes, a guaranteed spot in the playoffs tantalizingly in reach, their cachet had risen significantly, even with the awful mullets (Dave had jokingly suggested he get one — once. Kurt felt some satisfaction that his death glare could cow even a big strong hockey player).

Kurt pounded at the clear plastic wall in excitement, feeling a little like he was peering into a glass bowl, watching a school of fighting fish battle it out. Without the convenient colored glow that TV usually put around the puck, it was a lot harder to keep up with the fast paced action, especially when a single good shot could send everyone rocketing in any seemingly random direction at whiplash speeds. But all Kurt was interested was a number: 7, the one on the back of Dave's jersey. Seeing the 7 glide around the ice, taking shots and defending the puck... It was, he had to admit to himself, a huge turn-on. Something about the grace, the athleticism... When Dave scored a goal, he was on his feet along with the rest of the crowd, screaming his throat out. He liked to think that Dave could hear his voice, and his alone, amongst the other shouts.

Still, there was something disturbing the perfection, something gnawing at the back of his mind. It took him until halfway through the third period, when Dave was slammed into the wall by a Thurston High player during a particularly hard assault on the puck, to realize what it was.

Dave was taking hits. A lot of hits. Sure, hockey was a rough, physical game, as Dave himself constantly reminded him (indeed, it was one of the reasons he loved it so much). Yet Kurt had watched a lot of hockey in the course of his sports education under Dave's tutelage. It wasn't supposed to be this violent. It was as though many of Dave's teammates had no interest in covering him unless there was a good shot at stake. And although all the players on the ice were being battered to some extent, Dave seemed to be having it rougher than anyone else.

But that was ridiculous, right? It was just his protectiveness jumping to conclusions. It wasn't like he knew hockey as well as he should. Besides, wouldn't Dave have said something if...?

No, he wouldn't. Dave loves the game too much. This is his one outlet outside of the glee club. Maybe he doesn't even realize...

Kurt couldn't help but remember that bruise on Dave's shoulder. He shuddered.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack and a gasp from the crowd. Kurt's head jerked up; he hadn't even realized that he'd zoned out like that. What the hell had happened...?

Dave was lying on the ice.

Dave... was lying on...

A knot of players were standing over him. The Thurston players looked kind of dazed, and a little concerned. Some of the McKinley players seemed concerned too; one (number 12, Justin McKay, some part of Kurt's mind supplied) was kneeling at Dave's side. But others... They were standing around, leaning against their sticks, looking actually bored.

Kurt rose to his feet, one part of him wide-eyed in concern and another part blood-boilingly angry. Why wasn't anyone helping Dave? Why wasn't...?

Okay, an adult was on the ice now, someone Kurt didn't recognize, but one with a calm, professional air that screamed "medical professional." He joined #12 in kneeling next to Dave, asking something Kurt couldn't hear over the crowd. Dave... thank God, he was conscious. He was saying something, shaking his head. He was trying to get to his feet... The doctor and #12 had to help him get upright. More discussion Kurt couldn't hear followed; Dave apparently wanted to get back into the game, but the doctor seemed to disagree (thank you, doctor). Finally, Dave's shoulders slumped; he slowly skated to the bench or dugout or whatever it was called, sitting down with an annoyed air.

His heart finally calming to reasonable rates, Kurt was inches away from turning to the person next to him, a middle aged woman in a hideously fluffy sweater, and demanding she tell him what had happened. He only just managed to swallow the temptation down. Dave was okay. He was okay. That was all that mattered.

Not that the thought kept him from rocketing to the arena locker rooms the instant the game was over (he only half acknowledged to himself that McKinley won, only felt the slightest jolt of pride — in one player in particular, none at all for the team or school in general). He stood by the door (he knew from personal experience that he wouldn't be welcome inside), bouncing on his heels in frustrated impatience. Finally the team hobbled into view, helmets off and sticks propped on their shoulders, laughing and high-fiving. Dave was near the middle of the pack, his face glowing in the overhead lights from the sheen of sweat. He was talking and smiling and god was he beautiful.

"Dave!" Kurt gave a hearty, full-arm wave. Only then did the team notice him; all eyes were turned towards him. Kurt tried not to let his smile falter in the slightest.

"Hey, Karofsky, you've got a groupie!" one of them laughed. Kurt's spine stiffened; he forced himself to relax. Whoever had spoken, the tone was light-hearted and teasing — not at all hostile.

"Yeah, I do," Dave replied with a laugh. "Jealous?"

"As long as he stays out of the locker room." Now that tone was hostile. It tried to cloak itself in the same teasing tone, and almost succeeded, but Kurt had long, painful experience with telling these kind of subtle differences. And whoever said that (and dammit, he hadn't been able to tell who)... He had a problem with Kurt, and possibly Dave. A big problem.

Dave snorted in annoyance. "Don't worry about it. I'll talk to him out here." He and Kurt watched as the team filed into the locker room; the instant the door swung shut, Dave wrapped Kurt in a tight embrace, culminating in a soft kiss. "Thanks for being here. You really did a lot for my morale."

"Oh?" Kurt asked with a sly smile. "So would you say I won you the game?"

"MVP, for sure," Dave chuckled.

Kurt laughed in delight before remembering what had happened. The smile slipped off his face like rain; Dave's did the same. "Dave... are you okay?"

"What? Why wouldn't I...? Oh. Right. Yeah, I'm fine. Really."

"What happened? I didn't catch it, it happened so fast..."

Dave rubbed the back of his head. "We were tied at the time, right? So there was this huge scrum for the puck, and I... I got nailed. In the head. With a stick."

Kurt gasped. "You...? You got hurt?!" Duh, that had been obvious, but still...! To the head...!

"It was an accident. There were sticks flying everywhere, and I guess someone just got carried away."

Kurt didn't know how to reply to this, so he didn't, for the time being. "And you're sure you're all right? Head injuries can be..."

"I'm sure. The doc looked me over, and I don't even have a concussion. Just got the wind knocked out of me, 'cause it was unexpected. We don't wear these helmets 'cause they're pretty, you know. Plus I got a pretty thick skull to begin with." Dave laughed, but Kurt's lips didn't twitch in the slightest.

"And that bruise on your shoulder... That was just an accident too?"

"What bru— Oh, that. Yeah, it was. I told you, hockey can be a violent game. I know you don't like that, but you don't need to worry about me."

"Dave, something's not right. You shouldn't be getting hurt so much."

"You're worrying over nothing. I'm not getting it worse than any of the other guys."

"Yes, you are! You forget, I saw you every day last year at Dalton during hockey season, and you never were this battered!"

"How would you know?" Dave asked with a smirk. "I wasn't stripping for you back then."

Kurt's mind instantly flashed an image from three nights previous: Dave's little tribute to Chippendale's. He blushed. No, no, head in the game, Hummel. This is exactly what Dave wants to do: distract you! "Be that as it may, I've seen you limp. I've seen you wince when someone touches your arm or claps you on the shoulder too hard. You can't tell me that's normal!"

"It is," Dave replied bluntly. "And if I want to play after high school, even if it's some rinky-dink college team, I gotta learn how to take it." He gripped Kurt's shoulders gently. "I know you're looking out for me, and I love you for it, but seriously, I'm fine. Everything's fine. Some of my teammates are dicks, but we just want to win. I don't think they have it out for me at all." Kurt couldn't help noting that he hadn't even suggested such a thing yet. "I promise, if anything really bad happens, you'll be the first to know about it, and I'll do something. But 'til then... Can you just let me have this? Please?"

The last word was almost whispered, and Kurt's heart dropped. He knew how much had been taken away from Dave when he had to leave Dalton, and it was foolish to expect that being able to be with his boyfriend could make up for all of it. Still... "Okay. I'm going to trust you. But don't think that means I won't be keeping a closer eye on you."

Dave waggled his eyebrows, which sent Kurt into giggles. "I wouldn't have it any other way. I gotta get changed." He pecked Kurt on the lips. "I'll be out in a few minutes. Then we can go out and celebrate."

"See you then." Kurt watched as Dave disappeared into the locker room. He certainly felt better than he had a little while before, but still...

There was something going on. He could feel it.

He only hoped that he'd be able to stop it if it got any worse...

"Go away."

Blaine shook his head, gripping his girlfriend's hand even more tightly. "Your lips say go away, but your eyes say please stay."

Santana rolled said eyes. "Go to hell, Anderson."

"Already there. Look, I have a bad feeling about this. You're gonna need moral support, and I'm gonna give it to you whether you fucking like it or not."

They were almost at Coach Sylvester's office, an unwelcoming place even at the best of times. But there had been something about this summons... He'd been in earshot when she'd received it. He had only been half-conscious of following Santana. He knew that his friends were probably as confused as all hell, but he couldn't bring himself to care at the moment.

"Are you always this freaking annoying?"

"What can I say? It's one of my best traits." They were stopped in front of Sylvester's office door. "You really want me to go away? I'll go. But... like I said, I have a bad feeling, San. I... I want to be there for you. Please let me?"

Santana looked up at him with an imperious look, but her eyes were shining in a way they didn't usually. She snorted. "Fine. If you want to waste your time. C'mon."

They entered the office. Mr. Schuester and Kurt's dad were there; Blaine's misgivings deepened. Sylvester raised an eyebrow when she saw Blaine, but Santana waved her off. "Anything you say to me, you can say to him." The eyebrow inched even further up, but she didn't push.

Then it all came out.

Blaine could only hear bits and pieces over the roaring in his ears: "Reggie Salazar." "Finn." "Lesbian."

"Ad."

"I haven't even come out to my parents yet..."

Santana was on her feet and out the door by the time Blaine came back to himself. He rose; Sylvester stopped him with a raised hand.

"You aren't going to get anything out of her. Not now. You try, she'll slap you so hard it'll straighten your hair."

Blaine sank back into his chair. He knew that she was right, but... "But... she's all alone..."

"Give her time to calm down." Sylvester regarded him for a long moment; Blaine started to feel himself withering under her gaze. "You knew."

It wasn't a question, not at all. It was a pure statement of fact. Blaine saw Mr. Hummel and Mr. Schuester exchange puzzled glances. He just nodded. It wouldn't do any good to lie now, especially not to Coach Sylvester.

"So why?"

She didn't explain her question any further, but she didn't have to. He had the feeling she had at least an inkling of what the truth was, but hell if he was going to come out now, especially with Kurt's dad right there. "She was blackmailing me." That at least had the benefit of being part of the truth, and he felt fairly confident that Mr. Hummel and Mr. Schuester would never guess what she was blackmailing him over, even if they were curious.

Coach Sylvester merely nodded, which did nothing to disprove his theory about her suspecting. "I've taught her well. But I always knew she was a natural. She reminds me of one Sue Sylvester. Of course, I was barely out of diapers when I hit her level of deviousness, but she has potential." Her squinty gaze drilled into Blaine's forehead; he could physically feel it. "The crap is going to hit the fan, and as much as I am loathe to admit it, I am helpless to stop it. Not that I won't systematically ruin Reggie Salazar's pathetic life, and reduce him to a quivering wreck of a man unfit for anything but the derision and scorn I normally reserve for glee clubs, but that won't prevent what's going to happen." She glared, a full on Sylvester glare, the expression that was whispered of in harsh tones in McKinley's halls, a sight to be feared. "She's going to need friends."

Now here was something he felt comfortable with. Blaine did his best to hold Sylvester's gaze. "She'll have me if she'll let me."

"Not good enough. She's going to try to push you away. Bleed in private. You do NOT let her. You got that, Baggins?"

Blaine nodded his head firmly. "Got it."

"Loyalty and unquestioning obedience. Good. Maybe you aren't as hopeless as I thought. Although I'm still fairly certain I could scrub my bathtub with that head of yours. Now get out of here. The adults — and Schuester here — have a lot to discuss."

Blaine didn't need to be asked twice. First, a text to Santana. No reply. Call. Voice mail. He struggled to remember what she said her plans for the day were.

It took him a while, too long, to remember. In his defense, there was a lot weighing on his mind already. He hadn't told Santana about his conversation with Chris; it would've opened up too many cans of worms, tempted him to tell her things he really shouldn't be telling her. He badly needed someone to talk to, but who could he turn to? Certainly not Kurt or Karofsky, not when...

But that could wait. He had to find Santana. He wasted a lot of time searching the school and talking to people before he finally recalled her saying something about a Troubletones performance. Well, it was worth a try.

When he barged into the auditorium, no one noticed; they were too busy listening to the performance. Santana and Quinn were taking lead, in slinky black dresses, and if Blaine hadn't witnessed Santana's life being ripped away from her, he wouldn't have believed anything had ever happened, watching her on stage now.

He should've known better. The way his life was, the way it was going, the way it tainted everyone it touched... He should've known it would blow up.

He wasn't quite sure how it went down; it all happened so fast. He caught a glimpse of Hudson and Rachel Berry talking. The next thing he knew, Santana was in front of them, as if she'd teleported. She was screaming, her voice choked. "Now everybody's going to know!"

Kurt was sitting a couple of rows away, staring in shock. Karofsky was next to him, halfway out of his seat, as Santana blasted Hudson with the full force of her fury.

Blaine knew Santana by now — knew her more intimately than he ever would have as an actual, genuine boyfriend. So it was with certainty that the thought came to him: Fuck. This isn't good.

He strode forward without even really thinking. Santana's anger was reaching a fevered pitch; it was now or never. Blaine was at Hudson's side before any of the three — screaming Santana, gaping Hudson, shell-shocked Berry — even noticed his presence. He grabbed Hudson's shoulder; that got their attention. Hudson and Berry turned towards him, while Santana's eyes widened in surprise. Blaine hauled Hudson to his feet — an easier task than he'd expected, given their height difference, but he had the element of surprise, and Hudson was already stunned by Santana's epithets.

Then he socked Finn Hudson square on the jaw.