2009

"Blaine, wait."

He stops, pauses, turns around reluctantly. He schools his face quickly, but David Anderson is a perceptive man.

"Hi, Dad! I, um. Didn't expect you to be home so early."

"I took the afternoon off and hit the links. I thought maybe I'd take you out to the driving range this weekend, figured I'd better get in shape for it."

"Oh. Sure. Yeah, that'd be great."

He shoots a quick smile that doesn't touch his eyes and turns to go.

That's when David notices.

"Hold on," he says. It comes out more sternly than he intended. Blaine stops short. He turns around.

"Yes?"

David doesn't respond. He barely even hears, he's so focused on his son's face. His eye, specifically, and the discoloration he can see clear as day beneath the shoddy attempt at cover-up.

"Did you get in a fight today, Blaine?"

He's not sure which answer he wants least to hear.

Blaine's hand shoots up to his eye, mouth gaping slightly open with panic.

"Of course not, no!"

"Well then, what happened?"

Blaine swallows, hard.

It's a gift, really, that his face is still so expressive. David doesn't always think so, not knowing what he knows about the world, but at times like this, he can't help but be grateful. He knows his son is about to tell him the truth.

"It was someone at school."

"He hit you? Without provocation?"

"It was more of a shove that went wrong. I don't think he wanted to hurt me. Just – put me in my place."

His eyes flash with anger and shift away.

David is angry, too. Rage flares hot in his belly at the very idea of it, the image of Blaine, his Blaine, his son, at the mercy of some beefhead jock with biceps the size of his neck. Blaine is so little and so...gentle. Such an easy target.

His jaw clenches.

"Did you tell anyone?"

Blaine bites his lip.

"I reported it to the principal. I mean, I'm not the only one he picks on, Dad."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Just a little while."

"Blaine."

He glances up at the clear warning in David's voice, eyes wide and skittering.

"Since September."

"Blaine." It's more of an exhale than a word, but that's all he's capable of in this moment. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"There's nothing to say. I'm taking care of it."

And even through the storm of emotion that's clogging his throat, there's still this flash of pride that cuts through like lightning, because that's his son, that's his boy. It's all David's ever wanted, to raise his son strong and independent.

And yet.

"What did the principal say?"

Blaine's eyes flicker away. He hugs his arms to his body. It's an unconscious move, and it makes David's heart sink.

"What he always says. That I need eyewitnesses if I want to get anything accomplished. That the incident was 'unfortunate,' but there's nothing he can do."

His voice is tight, and so is his face, and, everything, really, about him. Like he's holding something in, something so big he'll burst if he lets it out. For the first time in a long time, David feels the instinct to wrap his arms around his son. He could use the extra armor.

But Blaine is in high school, now. He's almost a man, old enough to fend for himself and old enough to control his own emotions.

"Well, you let us know if it escalates, alright? I don't want you getting hurt."

Blaine nods, hurriedly, gaze shifting longingly to the stairs.

"I'm proud of you, Blaine."

His eyes shoot over, wide and overwhelmed. He presses his lips around the beginnings of a smile. He blinks. His eyes have gone glassy. David claps a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

"Thank you."

David smiles and lets go. Blaine lingers a moment longer, looks at David like there's something else he wants to say, but he smiles instead. A bigger smile, this time. He turns around and heads upstairs.

David stands there for a few moments longer. He feels frozen to the spot, weighed down with the force of the emotions still running their course through his body.

Maybe he'll take Blaine with him to the gym this weekend, instead.

&&&&&

It's during a commercial break that he notices.

Kurt is sitting there, curled up in the armchair, just as absorbed in his Vogue as he's been the whole game. It's a new thing, but Burt likes that they can be together like this, even though they have different interests. Kurt used to retreat to his room whenever Burt put a game on. Burt never asked him what he was doing down there.

He's looking fondly at his son out of the corner of his eye, about to ask him something or other about that damn magazine, but suddenly it doesn't matter so much, because –

"Is that the same outfit you were wearing this morning?"

He could have sworn Kurt was wearing a sky-blue sweater-dress-thing when he breezed out the door this morning. This one is more...gray.

Kurt looks up, startled, then looks down at his clothes.

"Oh, yes. I was. I got slushied after third period. But don't worry, I got to a bathroom before the stain set. It would have been murder trying to get red dye number two out of cashmere blend."

"Wait – slushied?"

"It's not that big of a deal. The jocks do it to all the glee kids. It's their way of reinforcing the caste system."

He rolls his eyes and goes back to his magazine, but Burt is nowhere near finished.

"So you're telling me that a bunch of guys in letterman jackets go around throwing slushies at my kid, and your school allows this?"

Kurt looks up.

"Pretty much. It totally sucks, but there's nothing we can do about it except keep our lockers stocked with a change of clothes and a quality detergent."

"Does the principal know about this?"

"It's kind of hard to miss. He says his hands are tied."

And the sad thing is, that's not the stupidest thing Burt's heard Principal Figgins say.

"That's it. I'm making an appointment for tomorrow, and I'm gonna give that jackass a piece of my mind. No one can sit and watch as my kid gets bullied and get away with it."

Kurt's eyes have gone wide, and he's sitting forward in his chair, magazine forgotten and sliding off his lap.

"No, Dad, that's not necessary. Really."

"You can't just expect me to sit back and watch this happen, Kurt. Not with what you spend on your clothes."

Kurt smiles faintly and ducks his head, and Burt counts that as a success.

"Listen, kid. I want you to feel safe to be who you are at school. It's the school's job to make that happen."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Just doing my job."

The game's back on by now, so Kurt goes back to his magazine and Burt focuses back on the Phillies. They're not his team, but anything's better than the goddamn Yankees.

He sneaks glances at his son every once in a while, when the action is in a lull. He looks...happy. Relaxed. Burt hates that it took them this long to get on the same page, but now that they're there, things are looking good. He's going to make sure they stay that way. He's going to pay attention, and he's going to listen, and he's going to make sure that Kurt doesn't have to shout anymore to be heard.

Even if that means he has to do the shouting himself.