AN: Obviously, as this is "The Sue Sylvester Shuffle," this is gonna be pretty Blaine-heavy. And as far as I'm concerned, that's okay. One of the things I wanted to do was avoid some of the mistakes made with the canon Dave. Besides, I think Blaine's stronger presence here will make all parts, including Dave's, stronger as well.

I'm a little nervous about this, because Blaine's been one of the hardest parts of this whole thing. I did my best to extrapolate from what I/we know of canon!Blaine to the life he leads in this universe, but it's tough. No matter how you slice it, it's going to at least look OOC if only because he's so different. But does that matter, as long as the results are consistent with how he developed in "real life"? It's a toughie. Hopefully I've done the problem some justice.

Oh, and I think I've resolved my dilemma in favor of a three parter. I think. We'll have to see how events lay out in a practical sense. So far the rest of this "episode" is twice as long as this chapter alone. We'll see.

So, with all that boring stuff said, are you ready for some football?

Chris Strando was worried, a state which itself was worrying, because it didn't happen to him that often, and so it had to mean something bad. He generally didn't concern himself much about other people. Not that he was an asshole or anything (okay, if you had to think objectively about the way he treated some of his peers, fine, he was an asshole to them. But they deserved it), but the kinds of people he associated with-they could take care of themselves. His dad was a rough-and-tumble truck driver, his mom a military brat whose father treated her like "one of the guys." His little sister could take down guys twice her size thanks to tae kwon do (and indeed, she'd had to a time or two). Most of his friends were fellow athletes. All in all, they kicked ass, took names, and didn't cry about it. Nothing wrong with that; that's just the way they were.

So it was with trepidation that he approached his best friend as the team suited up for the game. "Hey," he said quietly.

Blaine stopped lacing his pads as he looked up. "What's up, Chris?"

What was up, indeed? Dammit, he had to be able to say something. He'd known Blaine Anderson for years. He'd been his best friend since the third grade. Even back then, Chris was a... large kid, frequently taunted for his weight. Practically the only boy who didn't mock him regularly was Blaine, something Chris never really understood. Why had he reached out? The dude's rich and white (okay, fine, half-white, half-Filipino, but the guy could pass easy); what did he know about being an outcast?

Whatever the reason, Chris knew he was lucky that he'd gotten on Blaine's good side before he switched from befriending the lonely to shutting them into lockers and pouring flavored drinks all over them. From that first day they met, when Blaine traded his cupcake for the gross licorice Chris's mom insisted on packing, they were inseparable. As they grew older, Blaine taught him how to be a man, see his weight not as something holding him down, but as something to use against others, especially on the football field. Chris's parents definitely noticed the change, complimenting their son on his new confidence; even Vickie tossed him the occasional "you're less lame than usual these days."

So he should be able to ask a simple question, right?

Right?

"Uh… Good luck out there. We're gonna kick ass."

Blaine rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Great, yeah. Go team. Woo. Is that really all you had to say?"

No. There's shitloads more. But… "Uh… I… ran into your mom at the mall on Sunday." Wow, that was dumb.

A shot of panic flared through Blaine's face, but was quickly suppressed - not quickly enough for a friend of almost a decade, of course, but pretty damn quick. "Yeah? And?" He returned to tying on his pads; if Chris didn't know better, he would've sworn that Blaine really didn't care about the answer.

"She, uh, asked me if there was anything going on with you lately."

Blaine's fingers froze. "And what'd you say?" he asked evenly, not even looking up.

"Nothing. I swear, nothing." Chris very carefully did not mention that his lack of response caused Blaine's mom to sadly nod her head, as if it had confirmed something for her.

Blaine visibly relaxed as he pulled on his jersey. "Okay, good. Because there's nothing going on with me. Life is swell. You know that, right?"

What did Chris know? Not a hell of a lot. Was it a girl? Blaine had broken up with his last girlfriend over a month and a half ago, and no one seemed to know of anyone since. Problems at home? As far as Chris could tell, Blaine's relationship with his parents was as good as it had ever been. Grades? Hah! Not with Blaine. He had it so easy...

"'Course. I know that."

"Good. Now stop acting so weird." Blaine rose. Panic unaccountably rose in Chris's throat.

"Blaine?"

"Yeah?"

"You know you're my best bud, right? That I'd kill a guy for you?"

The expression on Blaine's face, as was so often the case, was unreadable. "Yeah, sure. C'mon, it's almost time." He tucked his helmet under his arm and started towards the door. Chris followed, his thoughts darker than ever.

He yearned for a problem he could just tackle to the ground. And since he was about to be presented with a full team of them, he was determined to work out his frustration every chance he got tonight.

Blaine Anderson loved to test himself, and as far as he was concerned, football was the ultimate test, World War III in a hundred yards. He turned up his nose at those who thought it was just about three hundred pound guys crashing into each other; they were just ignorant rubes who couldn't handle the strategy, the grace, the raw cunning and snap decisions that had to go into every down. It required chess-like tactics, rapidity of thought, and a body tuned to fulfill every mental command. It required the complete package, and as far as Blaine was concerned, he was about as complete as it could get. Not that it was surprising; he'd worked hard, very hard, to get to where he was.

And God help anyone who stood in his way.

That's one reason why Hummel had to go. Fucking fairy. What right did he have being so self-righteous, anyway? How dare he just prance around McKinley with his clothes and his hair and his high-pitched voice? Someone had to show him what the real world was like. Someone had to show him that people like him were deviants and perverts and freaks. Someone had to show him a little preview of what life did to those who didn't belong.

Blaine was the perfect person to do that. And why not? Hummel was a burr in Blaine's shoe, the crack in the eggshell, the imperfection that threatened to break everything apart. Now that the threat was removed, things could go back to the way they were before. Why wouldn't they?

He tried to ignore the feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he passed by Hummel's locker. He tried to ignore the flash of what couldn't have been guilt he felt every time a passing Glee Clubber glared at him. He tried to resist the urge to check out Hummel's Facebook page to find out how he was doing at Dalton from the little public information he could see (and similarly resisting the urge to vomit every time Hummel posted a new status on how he and his bestest buddy Dave were doing some gay shit).

If only that one nagging stupid question (Why? Why did you protect me?) was answered. Then he wouldn't need Hummel anymore. He wouldn't think about Hummel anymore. He wouldn't wonder about Hummel, picture Hummel, yearn to talk to Hummel.

"You're weak, like the rest of us. Scared, like the rest of us."

He knew. How did he know?

"He… we know what you're going through."

"You shouldn't be beating yourself up or hiding who you are."

Blaine didn't want to remember those words, the desperation on Hummel's face as he begged Blaine to let him in. But he did. The memories kept sneaking into his mind at the most awkward times...

"Hey, Anderson, you listening?"

Like now.

The football team (or, at least, the offense) was huddled together somewhere around the 35 yard line, the spotlights glaring off their helmets and the roar of the crowd in their ears. They'd already clinched a championship berth, but this was the chance to keep their skills sharp and show everyone what they were made of.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm listening."

"All we have to do is run down the clock," Hudson continued. "We'll play it safe. Let's do Tight 9. I'll fake a handoff to Anderson before giving it to Jameson for the rush." Finn looked up, his eyes blazing through his helmet. "You can handle that, right, Anderson? You're pretty good at faking."

Blaine's breathing seemed to echo in his helmet. He still believed Hummel hadn't told anyone (but again, why why why not?), but the remark struck a little too close to home, however inadvertently. "You've got a lot of balls insulting me, Hudson, considering that bunch of fags you hang around with. Ever heard of glass houses and stones?"

Puck growled. "Watch your mouth!"

"And you, Puckerman. You used to be somebody. How's it feel now? If you'd been cool, we might've been able to help you with the whole baby thing. Too bad you had to throw in with the Pretty Patrol and turn your back on us."

"Guys...!" Mike Chang tried to futilely cut in.

"Fuck you, Anderson," Puck snapped. "You don't know the first thing about me or the Glee Club."

"We know enough, don't we, guys?" There were muttered agreements amongst the majority of the huddled players not in said club. "Hell, the whole school knows. This isn't Carmel. You actually think you can join that fruity club and get away with it?"

A loud, sharp whistle broke the conversation. Finn and the others straightened. "Tight 9," Finn snarled in a barely controlled temper. As the Titans got into position, Blaine met the eyes of George Peyton, the center. Blaine nodded; Peyton nodded back, and jogged forward to take possession of the football for the snap.

Finn called the snap count, his voice projecting over the tumult of the spectators. Blaine prepared to make his run, even though he knew what was about to happen.

Afterward, those who saw it happen would grudgingly admit that it was hard to see exactly what was going on and whose fault it was, which was a testament to George Peyton's skill and subtlety. It looked for all the world like a perfectly good snap. That is, until it seemed to change directions practically in mid-air, bouncing wildly off of Finn's outstretched hands. It spun almost directly into the arms of an oncoming linebacker. Puck took him down seconds later, but too late to prevent the almost picture-perfect fumble recovery.

Finn's voice was drowned out in the roaring, but his arms were flailing in frustration. Coach Beiste's voice, however, was not drowned out; she was shrieking her head off. Blaine gave Peyton a subtle low-five as the two passed by each other. Seconds ago, the game was over. Now it hung by a thread. And, of course, it was all Finn Hudson's fault... or so it appeared.

It was Blaine's usual M.O. A simple thing, and it had gone off as well as he could've hoped.

So why did he continue to feel so unsatisfied?

Blaine hadn't intended for the recovery to start a last minute game-losing drive, but what did he care? They had the championship game already, and it made Finn look even more like an idiot, which of course he was. The locker room afterward was like a crypt; the room seemed to have a line painted right down the middle, with the singing and dancing members of the team on one side, and the... normal ones on the other.

Before any of them had a chance to get more than their helmets off, Coach Beiste stormed into the room. Blaine swallowed; this was the one part of the plan he wasn't comfortable with. It was times like this he missed Tanaka; he was a predictable, easily manipulated idiot. But Beiste... She was a much tougher nut to crack. Blaine was certain that as much as she liked his skills on the field, she didn't particularly like him personally - one of the few faculty who didn't. That was always a wild card that Blaine was never quite sure how to handle.

"What the hell happened out there?" she demanded. "It was a routine play! You should've been able to do it with your eyes closed!"

"Sorry, Coach," Strando said, shrugging. "But Hudson..."

"Don't give me that bull! Peyton!" The addressed center nearly jumped out of his skin. "What was with that snap? What were you thinking? Why'd you screw it up so badly?" She looked into her player's fear-filled eyes. "You didn't do it on purpose, did you?"

"I knew it!" Hudson cried out. "Coach, Anderson put him up to this! I know he did!"

"Why the hell would I do that?"

"Because you can't take that me and the rest of the Glee Club know what you're really..."

"The Glee Club!" Blaine rolled his eyes. "Every fucking other word out of your mouth is about the stupid Glee Club. Give it a rest, already!" He turned to Coach Beiste. "I can't deal with him and his baseless hostility. I'm not taking another pass from this clown. I refuse!" There were rumbles of agreement from many of the other players.

Sam Evans stepped forward, glaring. "If you can't handle what we do in our spare time, that's your problem."

"It is when it gives the rest of us a bad name!" Azimio declared.

"Yeah!" Jermaine Andrews chimed in. "You think it does us any good when we're associated with a bunch of prancing..."

No one was quite sure who dove towards whom first, and when, but as the locker room dissolved into shouting and chaos, with Coach wading into separate the struggling "teammates," Blaine tried to enjoy his handiwork. But for once, all he could do was watch. Stare...

Cheerleading is all about timing, as is many things in life.

One particular cheerleader decided that she had waited and watched long enough. The time was now.

"Hey, stud." Blaine slammed his locker door shut to see Santana Lopez smiling at him.

"Santana." There was a pause. "What do you want?"

"What I want..." she purred, running a finger down the collar of his shirt, "is for you to take me out to coffee after school."

"Really." Blaine's mind was a whirl of satisfaction, glee, and suspicion. "What happened to all the 'no's you've been giving me since last year? Now you're the one approaching me?"

Santana shrugged. "A girl can change her mind."

"And what about your friends in the Glee Club? Aren't you betraying them?"

"Friends? Yeah, right. Besides, I'm already on the outs with them because I'm competing in cheerleading Nationals instead of the halftime show. Anyway..." She touched Blaine's nose playfully. "Seems like you could use a friend like me, especially right now."

Blaine thought for a moment. Certainly having Santana as a girlfriend couldn't hurt his rep. On the other hand, she definitely wasn't the type to take "no" for an answer when it came to the bedroom. On the other other hand, refusing her now would be even more suspicious... Blaine's heart pounded. "Uh... We sort of have zombie practice today..."

"Tomorrow, then," Santana whispered in his ear. "Lima Bean? Four o'clock?" She flounced away without another word, leaving Blaine gaping in the space where she once was, wondering what the hell just happened.

Dave Karofsky looked over the array of clothes laid out across the bed. Shirts of every color and style, pants from jeans to dress, ties and scarves and even a couple of pairs of suspenders... It was like the basic essence of a department store laid out before him. He began to sweat.

"Well?" Kurt asked.

"Okay, okay, give me a minute!" Hesitantly, he reached out and grabbed a yellow collared shirt from the array. He looked up at Kurt, who watched with a blank, impassive face. Dave gulped, his mind racing. The pairs of pants seemed to all blur together in this tutti-frutti mix of cloth and buttons. He picked up one of them, and turned towards the full-length mirror that Kurt had found who knows where, holding shirt and pants against his body. He stared, trying to will the sight into a right or wrong answer. They remained just a shirt and pants. Shaking his head, he threw the pants back on the bed (which Kurt immediately reached out to straighten) and took up another pair, holding them up with the shirt. Finally, he nodded, turning back towards Kurt. "This?"

Dave's face fell as Kurt shook his head. "No, sorry. The colors are all right, but the designs are completely incompatible."

Dave threw the clothes onto the bed, groaning. "I'm not getting this, Kurt! I'm just not!"

"Relax, Dave. You've made a huge amount of progress. You just need more time and practice. You don't play hockey without practice, do you?"

"Yeah, but that's different." Dave paused. "By the way, 'do you believe in...'?"

Kurt sighed. "'Miracles.' Try something harder." He picked up the shirt that Dave had held earlier, and swept up another pair of pants. "Here, I would put these together. See how well they complement each other?"

Dave's brow furrowed. "Yeah... I think..."

"Can you explain why?"

"Nope," he replied immediately.

"Come on, Dave, you can at least try. Take a good hard look."

"It's because of the... stripes?"

Kurt beamed. "Yes! There you go! You're remembering my little lecture on patterns!"

"'Little'? I've had shorter lectures from Mr. Gardner about the Civil War." Dave was rewarded with a shirt tossed into his face. "You're gonna get that wrinkled if you keep doing that."

"Then don't compare me with Mr. Gardner. It's cruel." He put away the chosen outfit. "Now, try again with the rest."

Dave shook his head as he regarded the spread out clothing. "You're a real slave driver, you know that?"

Kurt shrugged. "That's what makes me such a good teacher."

Dave broke out into a smug smirk. "Okay, smart guy, try this one: who was the second overall draft pick this year who's now new right wing for the Boston Bruins?"

"Tyler Seguin." Dave looked up at Kurt in surprise; the latter was grinning. "You should've picked someone who's not so hot shirtless."

This time Kurt got the shirt in the face. Dave smiled, a radiant look that seemed to say a dozen deep things at once. It was gone, and his gaze back to the clothes, by the time Kurt, still sputtering with mock outrage, pulled the shirt off his face.

Chaos reigned in the McKinley High School Glee Club. This in of itself was probably not unusual. Hell, from what Blaine could tell, it was typical; he was starting to think that Berry, for one, was actually clinically insane. But this time it seemed particularly bad, considering that the football team was involved.

It was bad enough when Will Schuester and Coach Beiste announced that the entire football team would be joining the Glee Club for a week. But when Jason Richmond made a crack about Rachel and Puck's performance of "Need You Now," a fracas resulted that made the locker room brawl look like a debate over parliamentary tactics at high tea.

Just like the incident at the game, this too failed to satisfy him the way it would've just weeks before. It was starting to annoy him. What the hell do I want? This was a question he had so far failed to answer.

Then came Schuester and Beiste's brilliant plan of having them do the halftime show at the game, dancing to a mash-up of "Thriller" and "Heads Will Roll." They had just finished the first day of "zombie camp," as Beiste called it, with Chang and Brittany taking them through the first steps of the choreography. Blaine had started to zone out at first, but actually found himself (gasp!) paying attention as the rehearsal wore on. He was already used to being agile on the field; turning that agility to dance seemed... natural somehow.

He was now alone in the locker room, freshly showered; his fellow players had already left while Blaine chatted with Mia Winters, who had great potential to become his next Cheerio conquest if the whole Santana thing didn't work out. The conversation had put him into a cheerful mood. He had to admit that "Thriller" was a bit of an earworm, so it was little surprise to him that he began singing it as he prepared to leave for home.

They're out to get you... there's demons closing in on every side...

Blaine bounced on his feet as he pulled on his shirt, his volume slowly increasing.

They will possess you unless you change that number on the dial...

He slammed his locker shut, twirling a full 360 on his heel. His voice rose, booming and echoing full through the room. Nothing interfered with the song. Nothing held him back. It was just him and the music.

Now is the time... for you and me to cuddle close together...

Here Blaine punctuated the line with a high-pitched, Jackson-esque "ow!"

All through the night I'll save you from the terror on the screen... I'll make you...

He spun again, only to come face to face with Will Schuester. The song choked in his throat with a yelp as he jumped back, startled. Schuester was leaning against the side of a bank of lockers, his arms crossed, a small smile on his face.

"I can't believe this is happening again..."

"Huh?" Blaine swallowed. "Uh, what are you still doing here, sir?"

"I just helped finish cleaning up on the field. I was passing by in the hall, I heard you, and..." The smile dropped off Mr. Schuester's face as he straightened his back. "Blaine... I have to tell you, ever since Kurt transferred, I've been paying... more attention to my students. I suppose I realized just how much I failed Kurt as his teacher, and I've been making it a point to listen to what everyone has to say, not just the popular kids. And..." He sighed. "I didn't realize the kind of reputation you have. The one that the teachers here don't know about... or just ignore. I suppose I'm guilty of it myself."

"Mr. Schuester, I..."

He held up a hand. "Please. Let me finish. At the same time, I'm hoping that this collaboration between the football team and the Glee Club will help both of you understand each other better. And I think that'll be much more likely if someone from the football team were to step up and sing one of the leads during the halftime show. I want that someone to be you."

"Me?" Blaine squeaked.

"Yes, you. You have a terrific voice. And you showed out there today that you're pretty good at dance. If you focused the energy you spend on bullying the unpopular kids on performing instead... I think you could go really far."

Blaine's eyes widened. "S-seriously?"

Mr. Schuester nodded. "Besides, if you could show your teammates your willingness to be in the spotlight like that, I think they'd better appreciate what their peers in the Glee Club do." He paused. "It's up to you. But I really think you should be sharing your gift."

"I..." Blaine tried to remember the last time he was speechless. But he couldn't, for the same reason he couldn't seem to speak.

"Why don't we talk about this tomorrow?" Mr. Schuester turned to go, but stopped, and turned back. "You shouldn't be embarrassed about your talent, you know. No one should be ashamed of who they are."

He left, leaving Blaine alone in the locker room once more, gaping at empty air.