AN: Here's another section while I sweat trying to figure out how to divvy up the events of "The Sue Sylvester Shuffle" such that the chapters aren't too long while keeping actual events of significance in each part. If I do it in three, the first and third qualify, but the second is a little "boring." Put it into two, and the two chapters are kind of long (at least in comparison). Hmmm.

Anyway, this is, of course, Sectionals, and something happens that really throws "canon" events off the rails. I'm sure you'll spot it, and hope you enjoy.

Those who have only been in the audience of a major production have little conception of what goes on behind the seemingly sedate curtains concealing a stage. The closest they often get is the cacophony of the orchestra tuning their instruments before the first number. But to those who have been there, who have that experience, there's a buzz, a hum, a crackling power not quite like anything else.

Dave was in the middle of a whirlwind. Stagehands and the odd performer hustled about. He knew Wes and David would have preferred he be with the rest of the group warming up and preparing, but Dave liked it better here. He was alone, yet not, drinking in the energy around him.

"La la la laaaaaaa la la la..." He frowned at his scale, then repeated it three more times before nodding in satisfaction. "We don't need to escalate..." he sang softly, his harmony line sounding a little odd without a melody to combine with. It'd taken a while to advance the cause of this particular song; Wes declared that the Warblers "are non-partisan and non-political." But Dave's persistence in advancing its cause as a piece of musical art had finally won out. "...For only love can conquer hate... You know we've got to find a way to bring some lovin' here today..."

His mojo was interrupted by a vague awareness of muffled shouting from the back, near the area of the green room. Dave frowned. He knew New Directions had it at the moment, and wondered if Kurt, who'd separated from the group to say hello to his friends, was somehow involved. Deciding to not risk ignoring it, he started towards the noise, which was interrupted at least once by a door slam.

As he turned a corner, stepping around a hot klieg light, he crashed into a smaller, softer body. Kurt...? But no, this was definitely female, with long black hair and an annoyed expression that somehow felt like it was probably stamped permanently on her face. He couldn't help but shudder as she turned that sour expression towards him. "Watch it, Jolly Blue Giant," she snapped.

"Sorry, sorry..." She obviously wasn't one of the Hipsters, so this had to be one of Kurt's friends in New Directions. "So, uh, have you seen Kurt?"

"Yeah, Gaga Junior stopped by. He took off already, though, to look for his folks."

Dave smiled. "You must be Santana."

She rolled her eyes. "Brilliant deduction, Holmes. What, it was the Latina thing, wasn't it? Sure, why not? It's not like there are many of us in the middle of the bumfuck Midwest."

"Easy, there." Dave paused, not entirely sure he should continue. Some reckless instinct drove him on. "Is... everything okay with you guys?"

"What? Oh, sure. Usual bullshit drama. We'll get over it. If we don't, we don't deserve Regionals anyway." Santana shook her head in disgust. She looked up at Dave, as if actually seeing him for the first time. Her eyes raked up and down him in a way that made him uncomfortable. "Let's see, Dalton, freakishly big... You must be Karofsky, Kurt's new shiny object."

Dave raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"Oh, bravo, real eloquent, there. I mean, you're his mini-obsession this time around, his little pet project. He talks Mercedes' fool head off about your movies and your teaching him hockey and blah blah blah. Then I have to hear it through her at rehearsal, because she seems to think we hang on his every word like she does. Madre de dios, it gets boring fast."

Dave swallowed, not exactly sure his mind was absorbing any of this, and if it was, which parts were getting through. He latched onto the few words he could actually process. "What do you mean, 'this time around'?"

"Fine, maybe that's not totally fair. You're not exactly Finn: the Sequel, since you're at least actually gay. But close enough." She smirked. "He actually thought he was being subtle. There's nothing about Kurt that's subtle. I didn't even know him all that well then, and even I could tell."

"Uh..." Dave's every nerve was screaming to get her off this particular subject, even if he couldn't exactly clearly think of why. Then again, his current state wasn't exactly lending itself to a lot of rational thought. "Have you guys had any... y'know, problems lately?"

"With Blaine Anderson, you mean? He's been quiet so far." Santana frowned a little. "Everyone's been, come to think of it. That big drama explosion back there was actually the most interesting thing that's happened in weeks as far as I'm concerned."

Dave grinned. "All the more reason you guys want Kurt back, I guess."

Santana shrugged. "Like I care. We picked up a replacement, and we weren't exactly friends."

"Then I guess that's it," Dave said casually. "Anderson wins, then. All your effort, and you couldn't beat one meathead football player. Shame. But I suppose that's not any of your business anymore..."

Santana's eyes widened. "Oh, no. You did not just try amateur reverse psychology bullshit on me. I am insulted, Karofsky. Kurt had better not told you that I would actually fall for that kind of crap."

"Geez, I'm sorry. I just thought... Look, from what Kurt's told me, you have a halfway decent mind for scheming."

The cheerleader seemed mollified somewhat. "Better than that."

"Then you must have some idea about how to help Kurt."

"Like I said, don't particularly care."

"But the rest of the group must miss him."

"Yeah, sure, they do."

"Then they'd be grateful if you helped out, I'll bet."

Santana snorted. "I care about what they think of me even less. Well, maybe one exception, but..." She frowned. "But that one exception... Hmmmm." A squinty, shrewd look settled on her face. "Yeah... Maybe..."

Dave wasn't sure what he was seeing, but he couldn't help but be a little nervous. "Santana?"

"Shh!" She held a hand up as her thought process continued. "Yeah... Yeah, that might be worth it..." She looked up at Dave with something that almost wasn't contempt. "Thanks for the idea, Lurch. Good luck in the competition. You'll need it."

"But..." Santana walked off before Dave could finish his question, disappearing down a hall. He wiped some sweat off his brow as the patter of footsteps came up behind him.

"There you are!" David cried. "Come on, it's almost time!"

Dave nodded absently. "Sure. Coming." As he followed his friend and fellow Warbler, he couldn't help but wonder what exactly he had just unleashed...

Burt Hummel leaned back in his seat, sighing. It's not that he would've missed this, not for the world, especially now that he had two kids performing in it, but that didn't mean that it was any more his cup of tea than it was the first time.

Take the first group, for example. Having a bunch of senior citizens sing a song that was popular when he was young reminded him a bit too much of what he now called in his mind "the Longest Time incident." Then there was the oddness of the divided loyalties thing. Which boy did he want more to succeed? That, at least, was easy: Kurt, without hesitation. But he knew that whichever one came out on top, there'd be at least a tinge of awkwardness at the Hummel-Hudson household, and if there was one thing Burt hated, it was awkwardness, especially among loved ones.

When the announcer introduced the Dalton Academy Warblers, it took Burt a moment to remember that yes, this was Kurt's group now. You'd think I remember with the checks I've had to write, he thought ruefully. The curtain opened on a dimmed stage; he could see the shadowed outlines of the Warblers on their risers, though he couldn't quite make out which was Kurt yet. One of the three in front stepped forward as the lights went up, and he began to sing.

Mother, mother... There's too many of you crying... Burt recognized it at once; interesting choice. He wondered which of these children (and they were still children, as far as he was concerned) came up with it. As the other Warblers brought up their voices in support, Burt's heart leaped; there he was. There was his boy, looking happier than he had in a while. Yeah, Kurt belonged on stage. That much was clear.

Then the large guy next to the soloist began harmonizing; Burt recognized him at once as Kurt's friend Dave. Huh. Not bad. He wasn't quite sure why he was surprised, but he was. Maybe because he looked more the type to have been his son's tormentor rather than his supporter. But then, Burt himself had been one of those guys for way too long. Funny how life goes.

The third Warbler in the front then took over the next verse as the background singers snapped and swayed in tune. It was somewhat disturbing; sure, Kurt had done a lot of backup at McKinley, but seeing him now, in that blue blazer among all those other blue blazers... It just seemed wrong somehow. Burt always knew his son was made, was meant, to shine, and was he actually able to do that at Dalton?

At least he isn't being stalked, his inner voice reminded him. Burt tried to push the tension away from his mind. The Anderson kid at least seemed to be leaving Kurt alone, but the possibility was like a dark cloud hanging over everyone's head. He'd been talking a lot to Paul Karofsky lately about restraining orders. The process seemed simple enough, but with the Anderson parents in the mix, things were complicated immensely. Paul had groaned the instant he heard the names involved. "I won't lie to you, Burt," he'd said. "Getting a judge who isn't somehow connected to Roger or Elaine Anderson is going to be a tough hill to climb." The deliberation and evidence gathering that this made necessary was slowing things down to an infuriating level; none of them had so much as glimpsed a courtroom even after all this time.

But Paul Karofsky was still trying. God bless the man, he was still trying. "I understand how important family is," he'd told Burt during one of their first (and always free; Paul had insisted) consultations. "My ex-wife's dad is still a big part of my sons' lives, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Dave, in particular; they're almost more like best friends."

That brought Burt's attention back to the stage. The Warblers had added a few extra repetitions of the song's famed chorus lines, allowing for more time for a little vocal showing off and choreography with the three principle singers. The Karofsky kid really was good. But then, he supposed, anyone who was that close to Kurt probably would be. Huh. There was something about that thought that sent an odd shudder through him, but why? He wasn't certain.

As the song came to a slow close, Burt reached over and held Carole's hand. She smiled at him and gave a gentle squeeze. Whatever happens... At least I'm not alone. And neither is Kurt.

On stage, Dave Karofsky sang his heart out.

"What do you think?" Kurt whispered as the Warblers gathered on stage. The Hipsters and New Directions also took their places.

"I don't know," Dave whispered back. "Your friends were good." And they were. Sam and Quinn were wonderful in "Time of My Life"; who could tell that they'd broken up just days ago? And Santana in "Valerie"? Wow.

"They were. But so were you... we." Kurt straightened his tie as the announcer approached center stage. "I don't know... If we win, I'll feel guilty, like somehow I helped us beat them..."

"Well, you did. Would. Whatever."

Kurt smiled a little. "Not sure how I feel about that. But if they win, I'll be devastated, of course. It doesn't seem like there's any way around it."

It was then that both realized, to their surprise, that they'd missed a good deal of the announcement. "Here are the results...!"

"Okay, so I was wrong," Kurt said to Dave later in the former's room.

"Had to happen sometime." Dave ducked a crumpled piece of paper tossed in his direction. "But hey, maybe this is a sign."

"Of what?"

Dave shrugged. "Dunno. But doesn't it seem kind of... significant?"

"I don't see how. I don't believe in signs or portents or burning bushes... Unless I see someone running away with a match and some lighter fluid."

"Okay, okay... Still, it's weird that both we and New Directions are still in this. I wonder if it's because you made us better or you leaving made them worse?"

Kurt blushed a little. "Oh, stop that. I am not the center of the musical universe here."

"You have to admit, that's a lot of second chances for one competition. For us... for you."

"Maybe." He rested his chin on his arms, which were folded across his desk. "I wonder if I'll be able to take those chan... Oh."

"What?"

"Pavarotti. He's losing feathers."

Dave got up and looked over Kurt's shoulder. "Huh, he is. Poor guy."

"He hasn't been singing much either." Kurt's face turned stormy with worry. "What if he's sick or something?"

"I wouldn't worry about it," Dave said, clapping a warm hand on Kurt's shoulder. "He's probably still getting used to his new surroundings. A little TLC, and he'll be back to fighting strength before you know it."

"Well... What if this just isn't the place for him? It's not like he has much of a choice."

"I... I don't know. Lucky for him he has folks who can help him with whatever he needs. New cage, new seed, whatever. Sure as hell ain't alone. Right?"

Kurt exhaled. "Right." He felt a light squeeze on his shoulder.

"It'll be fine," Dave said softly, though Kurt couldn't tell who he was talking to, who he was trying to convince. "It'll be fine..."

Practically everyone who cared about the situation with Kurt thought that if only they could get a peek into Blaine Anderson's head, they'd be able to understand everything better.

They were, of course, so completely and utterly wrong that Blaine found it unaccountably hilarious.

The first few days after Kurt's transfer were a special kind of hell. Even with Kurt's destination shrouded in secrecy (though considering Dalton Boy's involvement, it wasn't hard to guess), Blaine considered dropping him a line with the Hotmail account or a call with that prepaid cell phone he'd bought. After all, with two hours separating them, Kurt might feel safe in blowing the lid off of... what happened. If not him, that big dude (whom Blaine eventually discovered was apparently named "Dave") could decide to do so whether Kurt wanted him to or not. He seemed like the kind to go off half-cocked that way.

But a few things stopped him. Even with Kurt gone, his Glee Club pals were apparently still on high alert. Puckerman especially looked about ready to kill at the drop of a hat. Blaine couldn't expect his own football friends to keep up their vigilance forever. Then there was his father. He'd done a fine job defending him to Sylvester, but the damage was done; even though Blaine was sure that his dad was absolutely convinced of his innocence, the fact that he had to assert it in the first place... Blaine had noticed his father giving him an odd look or two occasionally, asking more about his school days (more than his mother now!), and he was pretty sure he'd overheard dear old Dad talking to Figgins behind his back at least twice. And, of course, there was the Dalton administration. Blaine knew by reputation that they had some pretty heavy hitters, many of whom actually did not travel in his parents' social circles. Making waves was more complicated with them involved. Oh, sure, he could probably still get away with it, but there was still that tinge of risk that he could ill afford, given everything else.

Those were fine, rational reasons. But none of them were the real reason.

Somehow, he knew now that Hummel wasn't going to spill the beans, and that he'd keep his pal Dave from doing so as well. After all, he'd had the golden opportunity in Sylvester's office, in a way that would've shattered the threat against him forever. But he didn't.

Why the fuck not?

He wanted to ask Hummel. He needed to ask Hummel. But obviously that was impossible now, thanks to his own actions. So Blaine sleepwalked through his days and lied awake in bed during the nights, the same word ringing through his head: why?

And when he finally dropped off to sleep, he dreamed of locker rooms, of soft lips beneath his, and of wide eyes that shimmered with an undeserved compassion.