It was Tuesday afternoon when it finally happened. Of course, "finally" probably wasn't the right word since Blaine had no idea it was coming until it did. He didn't even know it was a thing that people did. It was his fault though. He'd stopped paying attention, lowered his guard, figured if no one had even so much as spared him a glance, that he was relatively safe to swap his history book for English without looking over his shoulder like some paranoid freak.
He tucked his English book away in his backpack that was hanging off one shoulder he zipped it up, then reached up while one hand closed his bag to shot his locker. He turned around and took a step and that's when he ran face first into a wall of ice. He froze – both figuratively and literally – the shock enough to stop him in his tracks. He heard the laughter, his heartbeat hammered in his chest. The cold, slimy stuff was making its way into his mouth, was up his nose, and he couldn't help but taste it. Cherry. He reached up and wiped his eyes, and even though it stung like hell he opened them to see a small group of gorillas in red letterman jackets.
The one closest to him wore a Mohawk and a shit-eating grin. A few feet behind him was Finn, looking smug as ever. He was already walking away. The closest gorilla said sneeringly, "Welcome to McKinley, Punk." His friends exploded with renewed laughter. He took a few casual steps backwards before turning to walk away with his friends, and Blaine knew, he knew in that moment, as he looked around him and saw the staring and the sniggers that this was it – that this Neanderthal wasn't just targeting him today, but he was setting a tone, and Blaine had done nothing – nothing, except exist.
His lips pulled back and he let out a low growl, tossed his backpack on the ground, and took a few marching steps towards the departing group. He locked his squinted gaze on the mohawked kid, the one closest to him. He picked up speed, pumped his arms, a girl shrieked and darted out of the way, he bent forward, and just as the mohawked bully turned to see why the girl had shrieked, Blaine drove his shoulder into the imbecile's gut, launching them both to the ground.
The gorilla cried out and Blaine grabbed his shirt and wrestled his way up the mohawked kid's torso. He drew his right arm back and punched him once, twice in the face. He tried for a third but large hands grabbed him from behind and pulled him off the gorilla. Blaine's arms and legs flailed as he fought his captor. "Let go of me!" he growled, and twisted. He drove his elbow into the person's side.
The captor grunted, but the captor just adjusted his grip on Blaine. The teen struggled, and tugged, but it was useless. Someone – a guy, was helping the mohawked guy to his feet. Blaine looked over at him. It was Mr. "Shoe," his Spanish teacher. Mr. Shoe was talking to the mohawked kid and helping him up. A teacher was helping him up, but why was no one helping him, why was no one freeing him from whichever Neanderthal was holding his arms? He felt himself being dragged – slowly but most definitely dragged. But he had no idea by whom.
The person was talking loudly into his ear, was saying something to Blaine, that only now, as the realization of the futility of his fight began to sink in, did he begin to hear the words break through the white noise filling his ears…
"Just calm down, kid. Fight's over. Stop it now. It's over. Calm down."
Blaine was hyperventilating, but as it started sinking in that it was not a kid who had him, it was a teacher who had him – a teacher breaking up the fight mere seconds after it started – he stopped his struggle.
"That's it. That's right. Calm now, Pun'kin. Relax, so I can let you go."
He tried. He tried. Relax, he told his brain. Relax, but it was easier said than done. He closed his eyes tightly. He would not cry. He would not cry. A bell sounded. There was the sound of shuffling feet and loud murmurs. Doors closing, and then, echoing quiet. Other than a few raised, slightly panicked voices, everyone had headed off to class.
Mr. Shoe was talking – he recognized that voice. But all he really registered were the words of the teacher who had him in his arms. That unknown teacher, for all his height, berth, and strength, seemed to exude something far more calming, and far kinder, than his size suggested. "Are you calm? Can I let you go so we can get you cleaned up?" the husky but gentle voice asked him.
It took a moment, but Blaine nodded silently, and finally, the grip that had him slackened. "I'm going to get him cleaned up," said the voice. "Then I'll bring him to Figgins'." He felt a thick arm slip around his shoulders, and before he knew it, Blaine found himself being led away from the rest of the people. Figgins. Blaine felt his stomach drop. Of course – he was going to get in trouble, wasn't he? He'd beat up some stupid jock and now he was going to probably get suspended while that other idiot got a slap on the wrist for throwing that slushy at him. Blaine's eyes stung, but this time for another reason. He cursed, under his breath.
When he got wherever he was being led, he found himself in the boy's locker room. The husky teacher stepped away from him, and a moment later returned. He set a pile of towels and some folded clothes on the wall of the shower cubicle. "I got you towels, and a spare gym uniform. Go have a shower and get dressed, and I'll be waiting in my office."
Blaine nodded, understanding.
He expected the teacher to walk away, but he didn't – not right away. After a beat of silence, the gruff coach – judging by the tube socks, anyway – asked him even more gently, a note of honest concern in his voice, "You all right, kid?" Blaine raised his head, raised his eyes, and let his eyes fall on the face of the very tall – very female – coach. His eyebrows shot up, he swallowed thickly, and his eyes dropped to the dark stains on her red shirt. From the slushie, no doubt.
Unable at first to find the words necessary to tell the lie, the boy nodded. "M'fine," he murmured. "Never better." He didn't even try to sound convincing.
The coach said nothing, though, merely turned and walked away with a sigh, leaving Blaine to shower the sticky slushie from his hair and eyes.
His first week. His first week and Hiram was already driving (faster than was strictly allowed) to McKinley High to speak to Principal Figgins about Blaine. The school had called him first, and after he got in touch with LeRoy to tell him what was going on, the Psychotherapist had his secretary reschedule his two o'clock with his apologies. He was sure Mr. Mendoza would understand, but if he didn't, Hiram was willing to lose a client if he had to. This was his son.
He pulled into a parking spot, tires screeching, and broke hard. He threw the prius in Park and turned off the engine, then got out of the car, slamming the door, He was halfway to the school before he realized he forgot to lock the doors and doubled back a few steps to get within range of the car and click his remote.
When he arrived at the principal's office, Blaine was already sitting there. He could tell the boy by his curls. Figgins looked as if he'd been sucking a lemon, but wasn't talking, and Blaine didn't appear to be saying anything either. Donna must have recognized him from his frantic look because the secretary jumped up to open the door for him. "Go right on in Mr. Berry," she said. He murmured his distracted thanks and walked straight into the office. Blaine looked up, his hazel eyes hard but widening slightly in what Hiram almost thought was fear.
Hiram patted Blaine on the shoulder. "Hey, Buddy," he whispered, and smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging way. "You ok?" He'd heard the word fight and his first concern was whether Blaine had been hurt in the altercation. He didn't know the details, who started what, because Figgins said he'd explain that later, but as long as Blaine was ok, the rest they could deal with, whatever it was. He bit his tongue to keep from asking why on earth Blaine was dressed in a gym uniform that clearly wasn't his.
To his relief, Blaine nodded, but his "fine" sounded a bit too sarcastic for Hiram's liking. He turned to Figgins. The principal waved at the seat beside Blaine's. "Have a seat, Mr. Berry." Hiram did. "As I told you over the phone, your son, Blaine Anderson, was caught fighting with Noah Puckerman. I have already spoken to Mr. Puckerman and the teachers who witnessed the fight, but as it appears that Mr. Anderson was the one who knocked Mr. Puckerman to the ground and struck him in the face, I have no choice but to suspend –"
"What!?" Hiram reached out a hand instinctively to place a hold on Blaine's forearm. Blaine seemed about ready to get up from his chair and strike the principal in the face. Hiram, himself interjected, then.
"Hold on a moment, Principal Figgins. Did anyone talk to Blaine and get Blaine's side of the story?"
The principal looked taken aback, but answered, "Well, I – it seemed hardly necessary, given the eye witnesses," he responded defensively.
"Well, I for one would like to know what prompted the fight. Good or bad, there must have been some reason Blaine knocked Mr. Puckerman to the ground and – struck him in the face, if indeed that is what happened." The corner of his mouth twitched. He knew Noah Puckerman, and though he didn't know him well, Hiram had not been keen on his daughter dating him, Jewish or not. He was sure whatever had happened, Noah probably deserved it.
He turned to Blaine then. "Blaine," he addressed him. The young man turned his eyes on Hiram. Though the man still had his hand resting gently on Blaine's forearm, his son hadn't pulled away. He looked Blaine directly in the eye. "Can you tell me what happened? When and how this all started?" And what on earth happened to your clothes? he added silently in his head.
Blaine hesitated, he shot a distrusting glance at Figgins, and Hiram didn't blame him – not when the Indian man had so clearly made up his mind already. But then – to Hiram's great relief, Blaine started to talk. "It started at my locker. That – guy – he threw a slushie. At me. And he and – and his friends," he said, eyes shifting away as if there was something to hide, "were all laughing. He said 'Welcome to McKinley'. Everyone was watching me and I couldn't just stand there. Do nothing. They never would have left me alone!" Blaine's jaw tightened. "I only hit him twice before the teacher's broke it up. But I didn't start it! I swear I didn't." Blaine looked between Figgins and Hiram.
By the time Blaine finished recounting the story – as short as it was – Hiram was practically fuming. "And that's why you aren't wearing the clothes you were wearing this morning." Blaine didn't have to answer him.
Hiram turned to Figgins then. Figgins was shaking his head. "There is no proof that any slushie-thowing by Noah Puckerman was anything more than an accident. Or a good-natured prank," said the principal.
"A prank? You call assaulting a fellow student and intentional destruction of personal property, a 'prank'? Because in my book, that's assault and battery, and fits the textbook definition of bullying behavior. I take it there is proof a slushie was thrown or Blaine would not be sitting here in gym clothes. That in itself is evidence of provocation. So if you're going to suspend my son for fighting, you had better be suspending Noah Puckerman for starting the fight." Hiram's voice was steadily rising.
But Figgins argued back, "Mr. Berry, I cannot suspend a student for starting a fight without proof that he actually did."
Hiram's eyebrow arched. "You mean you can't suspend Noah Puckerman without proof. But you were perfectly fine suspending my son without any proof that he was the one who started things." Figgins started to sputter, but Hiram went on. "Are you telling me, Principal Figgins, that you and the school board have a policy of suspending students who defend themselves against bullying behavior? That you allow the instigators of fights a free pass as long as they are football players while retraumatizing and blaming their victims? Because if so, I will gladly give my contacts at the ACLU a call and let them sort all of this out."
He glared at the principal. He didn't want his son to think that fighting was ok, but being punished when the kid who started it got off Scott free was an injustice that Hiram Berry was not about to sit by and allow.
Principal Figgins blinked at him, then raised his palms. "Mr. Berry, please, there is no need to bring in anyone else. Clearly, this is all just a – misunderstanding. Given that it is Mr. Anderson's first offense, and it is unclear who started the altercation, I will give both boys a stern warning." Figgins pointed his finger at Blaine. "But young man, if any other fights break out between you and Mr. Puckerman, I will have no choice but to suspend the both of you, understood?"
Blaine looked on disbelievingly. Hiram stood. "Fine," he said stiffly. There wasn't much conviction or real authority behind Principal Figgins' voice. Hiram knew him to be little more than a pawn at the mercy of the school board, but Hiram wasn't going to push it any further. "Let's go, Blaine. I'm taking you home." Hiram led the boy out of the office after Blaine looked back at Figgins wordlessly one last time. He would have to ground Blaine. He knew he would. Fighting was not ok, and Hiram had to teach him that, but that would have to wait until he spoke to LeRoy. And anyway, no was not the time.
"Where'd you leave your clothes, Blaine?" he asked. Blaine pointed the way and Hiram followed as Blaine led the way to the locker rooms.