A/N: I've read your comments, and I've answered your pleas. I held back on posting until I could write far enough in the story that Blaine and Kurt actually meet, and meet for real. So instead of one chapter, I've given you three! I will warn those of you that are hoping for instant Klaine (just add water and a dash of love at first sight): this is not that kind of story. They will not meet and forget about bullies and Jeremiah and be suddenly happily ever after - that's just not my style. Klaine will have their happy ending, but they've got to earn it first. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the next three chapters, and please leave me comments. I may not always be able to give you what you want to see, but I'll always listen to what you have to say. :) Much love, from me.

The entire ride home, Blaine sat in stunned silence, a plastic garbage bag containing his ruined clothes in his lap. His mind raced over the events of the past two hours as he stared, unseeingly, out the passenger-side window of the Prius.

He'd been 'slushied.' That's what Coach Bieste (what an unfortunate name, he'd thought) had called it, anyway. He'd gotten into a fight and though he wasn't sure he won, he was sure he hadn't lost it either. He nearly got suspended but then his da- Hiram stood up for him. That alone was enough to shock him. No one had ever done that before. No one had ever taken Blaine's side as long as he could remember. Not even his own mom….

Hiram's speech (impressive as it was, limp wrists and all) was enough to make Blaine feel like he had entered the Twilight Zone. But as he waited for the other shoe to drop, because so much good fortune never came without a price, something even more extraordinary happened.

Blaine led Hiram into the boy's locker room. He pretended not to notice the twist in Hiram's nose, presumably at the pungent odor that smacked them square in the face upon entering. A chair scraped, followed by footsteps, and Coach Bieste appeared in the doorway of her office. She smiled, and Blaine couldn't help but think that she had a really pretty smile – the genuine kind that touches all her features and lights up a room. "Mr. Anderson?" she asked.

Hiram looked at Blaine, then back at her. "Oh!" he laughed. "It's Mr. Berry, actually. Hiram Berry." Hiram held out his hand and the approaching coach caught it in a firm handshake

"Berry?" she asked, smiling crookedly. "You're not related to Rachel Berry, are you?"

Hiram brightened. "That I am. Rachel's my daughter. You know my Rachel?"

Blaine, still standing beside Hiram, exhaled a sigh and tuned out the conversation about his perfect, popular sister. That is, until he heard his name again. He looked up. Coach Bieste was looking at him and smiling, but Hiram spoke. Blaine could infer the question from the answer Hiram gave.

"Well, actually, he's my son, too. Rachel's brother." Hiram gripped Blaine's shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze. Blaine's jaw tensed. Hiram raised a hand and waived away whatever questions might have been on the coach's mind, "It's a long, complicated story, but anyway, we're here about Blaine's clothes."

Coach Bieste took to the change of topic seamlessly, and in that moment, Blaine decided he definitely wanted her on his side. He liked her. A lot. Coach Bieste disappeared into her office and reappeared a moment later, talking as she did. "That's it, got 'em right here." She handed off a clear plastic garbage bag containing a small bundle of clothes. The inside of the bag was flecked with droplets of artificially dyed high fructose corn syrup. "Those boys did some pretty nasty work on him. I'm just sorry I didn't see it thrown. I showed up a second later. Your boy's got a mean tackle there," she bragged, clear pride in both her voice and her smile.

Hiram cleared his throat and with a sideways glance at Blaine, he said, "Well, LeRoy and I don't approve of violence as a way to solve his problems –"

Bieste's hands went up defensively. "No, no! Of course not. I don't mean to say that fighting's ok. Tackles belong on the football field, not in the hallway. All I mean is, your kid's got talent." Bieste turned to Blaine, then, who was staring, wide-eyed, at the unexpected compliment. "You ever played on a football team before?" Both Bieste and Hiram were watching him.

He shook his head. "No."

"Well you could. If you wanted to. Team's all rostered this year, but think about it for next time, yeah? I'd be happy to have you." She smiled at him again and Blaine smiled tentatively back. "Uh, yeah. Ok. I'll – I'll think about it."

The entire conversation felt surreal to Blaine. He'd never been told by any adult that he was good at anything – not directly anyway. There were certain things that Blaine "didn't suck" at, but that was very different than having talent.

Eyes narrowed dangerously, Rachel grabbed her boyfriend's arm and dragged him over to an unpopulated section of the hallway. She hissed, "Finn, what on earth were you thinking!"

Finn cringed.

"You got him suspended? Don't you think my dads will figure out that Puck was involved and trace it back to you and then from you to me?"

Finn closed his eyes. He tried to follow her words. He felt a sharp throb in his temple. He opened his eyes. "Rachel, he got himself suspended, ok?" he argued back, gesturing towards the general direction of Figgins' office. "All we did was slushie him. How was I supposed to know he'd go all crazy and attack like that?"

Rachel let out a frustrated growl. Not unlike the one that Blaine emitted earlier. Finn flinched away from her. "Rachel, you said –" But she didn't care what she'd said. She interrupted him with a finger poke to the chest.

"Look, Finn, I don't care what I said. Just stay away from him from now on, ok. This was a close enough call."

Finn tried to put Rachel's words out of his mind. He entered the unused classroom with a heavy sigh. "Hey, bro." Finn looked up as he padded over to his seat. There was Puck, a stupid, arrogant smirk on his face, sporting a really bad shiner, and turning a football over in his hands. He sat perched on the back of the desk chair, his feet planted on the seat.

"Dude, what happened to your eye? It looks like, a billion times worse."

Puck lightly tossed the football to Sam as Finn plunked himself down on his own seat. Sam tossed it back. "Oh, you know how it is. Worse than it looks. All that matters is I got in a good punch or two myself. That little bitch will be hurting while he's on house arrest." Puck threw the football at Finn, who screwed up his face as he struggled to remember when Puck had actually landed a blow. It had all happened so quick. He thought that only Blake had managed to connect his fist to someone's face, but maybe he was wrong. Finn threw the football back to Puck.

Sam piped up, his face screwed up in confusion. "Speaking of arrest… Puck, aren't you supposed to be on probation?"

And that's when Kurt walked in. And that's when Finn internally groaned at the first glimpse of feathers on the boards that Kurt was carrying. Could this day really get any worse?

On Wednesday evening Burt was sitting in his favorite chair, in a silent living room, simply waiting. Because he'd gotten a voicemail from McKinley, and it appeared that Kurt had skipped school. And after yelling at the idiotic woman on the line for waiting until three o'clock in the bleeping afternoon to tell him that his only son had not shown up, he'd called his son. And then he'd called again. And again. And after five voice messages telling Kurt to call him back – now – Burt started to really, really worry. But he didn't worry long, because he'd then received a text. Kurt was fine. He was spying on a rival glee club and would be home in time for dinner. He was sorry for making him worry. And that's when Burt got angry. But he was halfway home before he started to worry again. Because it wasn't like Kurt to text him unless he really couldn't talk. Or didn't want to. Because something happened. And Burt would know it from his voice.

Burt's knee bounced involuntarily as he waited. Finally he heard the sound of tires in the driveway. He glanced out the window. It was Kurt's Escalade. He got up and swiftly marched his way to the door. He opened it, stood in the doorway, and crossed his arms. He watched as Kurt climbed out of his truck, as Kurt shut the door, as Kurt looked up at him with the most lost expression he had ever seen on his son's face since the weeks just after his mother, Elizabeth, died. His heart started to beat faster. He uncrossed his arms and stepped down onto the porch as Kurt walked dejectedly up the drive. Kurt stopped just in front of his dad, eyes averted, and Burt could see his skin was paler than usual and his eyes were reddened and puffy.

"Dad, I…"

Burt's son's voice broke, and so did Burt's heart. He opened his arms and moved to embrace his son. "C'mere Kurt." And Kurt obeyed. He squeezed Burt so tightly he was afraid he might actually pop. But Burt did not protest. He heard the quiet sniffle and had to look up at the sky to keep from crying himself. (This was why he couldn't watch those sappy movies – as soon as Kurt would start with the waterworks, his own eyes would start tearing up, like a damn reflex.)

He shushed Kurt, then pulled away. "Come on inside, Kurt. We need to talk."

Kurt nodded into Burt's chest as he pulled away. He let out a shaky sigh, but went inside like he was told.

Once they'd both been settled on the couch, Kurt sitting crosslegged and holding a pillow, Burt cleared his throat.

"What the hell happened today, Kurt? Where the hell were you? Who were you with?"

Kurt braced himself. And so it begins.

"I went to Dalton Academy," Kurt started, clearly picking the easier question to answer first. His voice was surprisingly steady. "It's an all boy's prep school in Westerville," he explained upon seeing the questioning look on his father's face. And then Burt's eyebrow jumped. "I wasn't meeting anyone, if that's what you're thinking. I really was there to check out their glee club," he insisted. He already knew the first think people thought of when they heard about Dalton. G-A-Y Gay. "And – I wasn't with anyone. I went by myself."

Burt opened his mouth as if to speak but Kurt cut him off, "I know what you're going to say, Dad. That was stupid of me. I shouldn't have gone alone. But it's fine dad. I'm fine." He tried to put as much conviction as he could into his voice, even tried to smile, but it was useless.

Burt just scowled. "No, you don't know what I was going to say, because you never should have been there to begin with, Kurt."

"I know! I know." Kurt sighed. "I wasn't a very good spy. They caught me – the Warblers, I mean."

"Warblers?"

"That's what they call themselves. The glee club at Dalton. Anyway, a few of their older members, they…" Kurt swallowed thickly. It was painfully awkward enough that he had almost burst into tears in front of total strangers over coffee. He had tried so hard to keep his bullying a secret from his dad, that now admitting just how badly he wanted a place like Dalton, a place where bullying wasn't actually tolerated, felt like betrayal. But he felt his dad's thick hand squeeze his arm. He winced.

"Kurt, did they hurt you?" asked Burt urgently. "You tell me if they hurt you."

Kurt's eyes widened. "No, Dad, no!" He covered Burt's hand with his own and shook his head insistently. "Not at all, they actually – they invited me for coffee." The corner of Kurt's mouth twitched upwards. It was kind of comical to think about, really. Rival glee club catches spy. Rival glee club proceeds to treat said spy to coffee and conversation.

"Coffee?"

"Yeah, Dad, coffee. They took me out for coffee. They – wouldn't have hurt me," he started tentatively, because the swell of conflicting emotions were starting to overwhelm him again, and more than anything, he wanted to tell his dad the truth, to tell him everything and have his dad swoop in and make it better. Except that he knew that couldn't happen. But there was a very small part of him, the smallest part of him, that hoped his dad could read between the lines, could understand how much he wanted this without him having to ask for something his Dad could not afford. That very small part of him wanted his Dad to know, as much as his greater logical self insisted it wasn't a good idea.

"Dalton has a zero tolerance no-bullying policy. That's enforced," he admitted, hoping his dad would believe he'd never been in any actual danger. "They have kids in their own glee club that are gay, Dad, openly gay. And nobody – nobody calls them names," he finished lamely, his voice sounding small, even to his own ears. His chin quivered. 'Calls them names' – it sounded so juvenile, so impotent compared to what he actually lived through at McKinley.

He went quiet, and for a few seconds neither of them spoke. Finally, Burt looked at and spoke to him very seriously. "Kurt – do people at McKinley – are they calling you names? Like, more than usual?"

Kurt looked up at his dad, his hands wringing in his lap. He felt like he was standing at a precipice. All he had to do was jump. All he had to do was fall and let his father catch him, let his father who had always taken care of him catch him, let his father, who he now knew more than ever was mortal, and was the only parent he had left, catch him.

"No," he croaked. He cleared his throat. "No," he said again, looking away. "It's – nothing I can't handle," he lied. And judging by the way his father was breathing, Burt knew better than to believe him.

"Kurt, look at me." Burt placed his free hand on Kurt's knee and rubbed it reassuringly with his thumb. "Those people. Out there. None of them matter. You matter, Kurt. You. You matter to me," he said, his deep voice quavering. "You may be gay, Kurt, but you are so much more than that. First and foremost you're a Hummel." Kurt looked up again just in time to see the corner of Burt's mouth twitch upwards. "Nobody pushes the Hummels around, okay, Kid? Nobody."

The lump in Kurt's throat felt like it was about to burst, but he fought it. Fought the tremble in his chin and the tears that started leaking out of his eyes. Kurt nodded, and as if the men had read each other's minds, Kurt leaned into his dad just as Burt moved to embrace him. Kurt took a deep breath, took in the smell of engine oil and sweat. The smell of strength, and home. For a long minute he stayed that way. Then, he felt Burt's jaw move as he broke the silence. "You do know you're grounded, right? For skipping school and making me worry sick."

Kurt hiccupped a laugh, unable to help himself. With that, he felt the tension in his shoulders lessen slightly. "Yeah, I know. I really am sorry, Dad."

"I know you are."