At first, Blaine Anderson thought being handcuffed and shoved into a police car at school was the worst thing to ever happen to him. Sitting in a room barely larger than a closet with dim lighting and an extremely uncomfortable metal chair was much worse. He felt like he had been sitting there for hours. There was no clock on the wall though. The only things in the room were two chairs, one of which his leg was handcuffed to, a metal table between the two, and a video camera in the corner across from him.

The teenager was itching to move, to do anything to pass the time. Instead he settled for bouncing his leg nervously. Sometimes he laid head on the cold metal table, sometimes he slouched in the chair. Mostly, Blaine just stared at the window across from him.

Unlike in the movies, it was an actual window, not a one way mirror. Blinds were drawn and the room beyond was dark and still. He could feel the eyes of someone watching him though. Someone was in the room, just watching him from the very moment he was left to rot in the tiny room.

No one could question him until his father arrived. Richard Anderson would take his sweet time arriving too. That is, once someone was able to locate the man. Blaine wasn't even sure he was in the same hemisphere as Ohio.

Apparently, the man was. Not long after Blaine decided he might as well take a nap, a detective walked in followed by Blaine's father and a lawyer.

So he does care, Blaine thought darkly as the detective brought two more chairs in and motioned for everyone to sit.

"Don't answer the questions directly, Blaine," the lawyer said quietly into his ear. "Tell me first then I will tell the detective for you."

Blaine nodded, keeping his eyes trained on the slightly overweight detective.

"First off, Detective, please uncuff my client from the chair. It's not like he could leave the room. Blaine is not some lowlife animal you pulled in off the streets."

With a sigh, the detective stood, walked around the table, bent down and unbound his leg. The teenager felt as though he could hug the lawyer for that. Instead he glared as the detective situated himself across the table once more.

"Alright, Blaine, can you tell me where you were on Sunday?" the detective asked.

Before Blaine could say anything, the lawyer laid a hand lightly on his shoulder. "Can you specify a date and time?" he asked.

"The ninth of September around eleven at night?" The detective looked at Blaine's lawyer darkly, adjust the collar of his cheap, worn shirt.

After a nod from the lawyer, Blaine whispered his alibi to the lawyer. It was true to an extent, but he knew to wait until they were away from the police before telling his lawyer everything. Thought it had been a while, this was not the first time Blaine had been through an interrogation.

"My client was in a last minute rehearsal with several of his fellow Warblers, in his dorm room."

On and on the questioning went. The detective wanted names of the Warblers, what song they were practicing, why they were practicing. Blaine answered questions, barely registering what he was saying.

Except for a grimace, Blaine hardly reacted when the detective spread pictures across the table after the lawyer asked why Blaine was being questioned. The images weren't half as violent on sheets of glossy paper as they were to watch. He glanced at each one in turn then turned blank eyes back to the detective.

Questions started coming from the detective about the pictures. No, he didn't know who they were. He had never seen the two boys before in his life. The answers weren't lies. Blaine had truthfully never met the boys; he had never seen them before Sunday night.

Then came the one question Blaine had been dreading since the moment he and Jeff Sterling, a fellow Warbler were pulled from their second period AP US History class. The police wanted a sample of his DNA.

Over my dead body, he thought darkly.

"Absolutely not," his father said.

"Detective...?" the lawyer started.

"Lewis, Detective Lewis."

"Detective Lewis, you can have a sample of my clients DNA when you show some sufficient evidence to charge him with something. All you have is a hysterical mother that overheard my clients name mentioned by a boy so traumatized he doesn't even know where he is. And only then with a court order."

"A DNA sample would clear his name entirely, and we could move on," Detective Lewis said.

On some halfwit street rat, the suggestion might have worked. Blaine was not just a common boy. He was the son of Richard Anderson and the heir to a media empire. His lawyer wasn't some court appointed attorney, but one of the best money could buy. Neither of them was going to fall for it.

"Charge him, or we are leaving."

"We can hold him for up to seventy-two hours," Detective Lewis said after several long seconds.

"Try it, and I will have your badge," Blaine's father growled out.

Blaine had to agree. He definitely would not be staying here any longer than absolutely necessary.

The detective's eyes scanned over them silently. A lawyer that graduated in the top of his class from an Ivy League school, Richard Anderson dressed in a three thousand dollar Armani suit, and a boy wearing the uniform to a school with tuition higher than the man's salary, were no match for him in wits. Defeat was as plain on his face as envy. He let them go.

Richard Anderson did not say one word to his son as they left the police station. He didn't say anything in the forty-five minute car ride to their house either. He waited until they were safely behind the closed doors of their home.

The maid that opened the door for them was promptly dismissed for the remainder of the day. Once she was out of sight and earshot, Blaine was roughly shoved through the archway that led to his father's study.

His father grabbed the lapels of his blazer and slammed him into the heavy wood paneling on the wall next to the entrance. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he yelled. "Do you even realize what you were being questioned for?" Beneath the fury that swam in his father's eyes, Blaine noted disappointment lurking there too.

"Can you get off of me?" Blaine said.

With a sigh, he let his son go. He moved across the room and sat in the large leather chair behind his desk. Blaine threw himself carelessly into a chair across from him.

"Care to answer my question now?"

"Not really."

"Well you don't have a choice," his father said. Then he sighed, "Look, Blaine, Andrew and I can't help you if you don't talk to us. Do you even know what you're being accused of?"

"I know perfectly well, father. I am not an idiot. Can I go now?"

"No, you may not. We are talking about this. You were walked out of school by the police, in handcuffs. Do you understand how bad it looks?"

"It looks worse than it is," Blaine said.

"They want to charge you with assault, possibly more. And believe me, if they can get enough evidence against you, they will."

"It wasn't assault. No one will ever get enough evidence to do anything to me."

"So you and Jeffery did put those poor boys in the hospital. You better hope they both recover fully. I will not have our name dragged through the dirt."

"It won't be. None of their injuries is life threatening. They'll have scars though."

"I want to hear the whole story, Blaine. You need to tell me why those two boys are in the hospital, and how you were involved."

"I'm tired. Can I just go to sleep and tell you later."

"No. Talk when you're ready, but you need to go upstairs and start packing."

Blaine couldn't read the look on his father's face. "Packing?" he asked carefully. The teenagers mind was spinning. There is no way he would be shipped off for this.

"Yes packing. The headmaster called me long before the police did. You're out of Dalton for the rest of the year. Wes is going to bring your stuff by later."

"Why am I packing though?" he asked carefully.

"Because I'm not here enough to watch you during the week, and someone needs to watch you. Did you really think another school in this town would allow you to step foot on campus?."

"Stop being cryptic. You're terrible at it. Why am I packing my things?"

"I'm sending you to live with your mother."

Blaine stared at his father incredulously. "There's no way in hell I'm going to live with that bitch. You can fucking forget it," he yelled.

"Language," his father said without flinching. "You're going to live with her. You don't get a say so in this."

"I'm not going. She walked out on us, and hasn't said a word to me since. You can't make me live with her."

"Yes I can."

"I'll run away."

"Try it and I'll make sure you get locked up. Now go pack."

Muttering curses to his father and the bitch that gave birth to him, Blaine stormed out of the room. Blaine's mother walked out on them nearly nine years ago, when he was eight. She didn't even say goodbye before leaving. One day, he came home from school to a house empty of everyone but staff. Melissa Anderson was nowhere to be found. Nearly a month passed before Blaine's father explained she wasn't coming back. It would have hurt less had she died.

Now he was being sent to live with a woman that did not even care enough to say goodbye. His father had definitely lost his mind.

He needed some form of relief. Unfortunately, the gym was located in his father's suite. Instead, he settled for smoking a cigarette. Thankfully, his room had a balcony.

Several cigarettes later, he watched his best friend's shiny red car coming down the driveway. Blaine waived at Wes as the car pulled up to the door. He flicked the remained of the cigarette towards the fountain before going back downstairs to greet the other boy.

"How much trouble are you in?" Wes asked him once they were both safely behind Blaine's door.

"I honestly don't even know yet. I'll find out if they get enough evidence to charge me with something."

"There's a lot you can be charged with. Fuck Blaine, if anyone got wind of half the shit you've done, they'd lock you up for a really fucking long time."

"I know that Wes. I don't intend of anyone knowing anything," Blaine said scowling at his best friend.

"Well, you're out of Dalton, you know that right?"

"My asshole of a father informed me of that less than an hour ago."

"I've got your shit in my car. The dean was quite adamant about having every last trace of you removed from campus."

"I'm sure he's relieved. Bastard has been trying to get rid of me for years."

Both boys laughed at that. Since day one, Blaine had been giving the faculty of Dalton Academy hell. He'd never done anything to get himself into serious trouble though. Figures the dean would use being escorted from campus in handcuffs the perfect excuse.

All too soon it was time for Wes to head back to campus. Curfew was at eight during weekdays, and apparently the majority of the Warblers were being investigated. The staff wasn't stupid. If Blaine and Jeff Sterling were arrested, then the rest of their group was involved somehow. As long as everyone kept their mouths shut, the Warbler's record would remain relatively unharmed. Of course, having the lead vocalist expelled was quite a large blemish on the record.

He didn't make it to bed until well after midnight. Richard Anderson had never been one for idle threats. Blaine learned that fact at a very young age. If the man said he was going to live with his mother, then Blaine could be sure he would be sent to her regardless of how he tried to stop it. He wasn't about to be left without his possessions, even temporarily. Packing was the best option.

Cheerio practice was brutal, and Kurt Hummel was exhausted. Every muscle in his body ached. His usually perfectly coiffed hair lay flat against his head drenched in sweat. It was only six weeks into the school year and the squad's coach was pushing them harder than ever. This year they would be the very definition of perfect.

The three hour daily practices were their punishment for coming in second at Nationals. Coach Sue Sylvester was a winner, and believed if you weren't number one, then you were a loser. Coming in second was a black mark on her record that had to be destroyed.

Practice Monday ended in laps. Two of the three pyramids fell midway through the routine. By the time he finished running, Kurt was ready to collapse. He drank nearly the entire bottle of water.

"What do you say we ditch practice tomorrow, Porcelain," Santana Lopez said as she came up behind him. "I needz to go shoppin' for Puck's party tomorrow night."

Shaking his head, he turned to face the other co-captain. "If we ditch, Coach Sylvester will kill us. We're the leaders of this group, we have to set an example." After thinking about it for a moment, he continued, "Why is he having a party on a Tuesday anyway?"

"Who cares? It's an excuse for us to party, and Britts and I need to party some. Do you realize there hasn't been a single good party this school year."

Britts was a blonde Cheerio named Brittany Pierce, who was both Santana's best friend and lover. The girl in question walked towards the two. Walking with her was another blonde, they were both laughing.

"I hate running," the other blonde, Quinn Fabray, said with a grimace.

"Blame the freshman, Q. They're the ones that can't get the stunts right."

"More like Kitty can't get them right," Quinn pointed out.

"That's an understatement," Kurt said.

The four of them shared a laugh as they watched the rest of the squad finish up.

Kurt turned his eyes towards the football team, which was packing up the equipment for the day, then began his post run stretches. Most of the boys were his type, but he couldn't deny that a few of them had nice bodies. Puck, the guy having the party, was one of the attractive ones. It was too bad that his personality left much to be desired.

Standing next to him were Finn Hudson, Puck's best friend and Kurt's freakishly tall step-brother, and Sam Evans. Sam transfered to McKinley at the beginning of the year and quickly made friends with the two. Kurt had a huge crush on the blond boy.

"Staring at Trouty Mouth again?" Santana asked. She had probably been checking Puck out and caught Kurt.

A blush rose on his cheeks.

"Why don't you ask him out?" she continued. "Those lips were made to suck dick."

"He's not gay, Satan," Kurt sighed. At first, he had hoped Sam was, but after several parties and all-night Black Ops tournaments with Finn and Puck, Kurt finally had to give that fantasy up. Plus, he was sure the football player had a crush on Quinn.

"Besides didn't he join Glee club?" And that more than anything made Kurt keep his distance. Nothing would ever make him go back to the life he had before joining the Cheerios. The same could be said for the three girls too.

"That was a sad day," Quinn said. "Why would anyone join a club that makes them a social leper?"

"I want a leopard," Brittany said once again misinterpreting what was being said.

"I'll get you one someday," Santana said causing the blonde girl to smile.

The remainder of the squad finally finished, and with a shake of their heads, Kurt and the Unholy Trinity headed back to the locker rooms to change.

Not being a fan of locker rooms, Kurt waived bye to his friends and made Santana promise to text him the details of the party. He quickly grabbed his things from his locker before heading to his Navigator.

Leaning on his baby was Finn, and attached to his face was the leader of the freak squad that called themselves the Glee club, Rachel Berry.

At one point, during their freshman year, Kurt and Rachel had been friends. Balancing the glee club rehearsal schedule with Cheerios practice, and eventually when he had to choose, Kurt went with the Cheerios. Surprisingly, it wasn't a hard decision. Not only were his best friends on the Cheerios, but competing with Rachel constantly for the spotlight got old quickly.

Those few months he tolerated her because he had to. It's been two years and some months since then. Kurt didn't have to look at her face if he didn't want to.

"She can find her own way home, Finn," Kurt said. He clicked the unlock button on his keys as he spoke causing the couple to jump apart.

"Dude, she's coming over," Finn said. He sounded like a five year old whining because he couldn't have a toy.

"Then you can help her find another ride. She isn't riding in my car." Kurt paused for a moment and added, "And stop calling me ‘dude'. I've told you that a million times."

Rachel was glaring at him like a petulant child. He nearly laughed at her.

"Don't be a bitch, Kurt. It barely takes ten minutes to get to your house. It won't kill you," she said.

Not wanting to argue, he agreed. "If you so much as utter a word, I will tape your mouth shut," he warned her before climbing into the car.

The ride was tense, but quick. Once he was sure the two were out of his baby, he didn't waste a second before hurrying upstairs to his room. The sweat from practice had begun to dry on his skin. He grabbed a pair of yoga pants (Quinn turned him onto them last year, and he couldn't get enough of how amazingly comfortable they were), an old t-shirt, and his bag of toiletries he didn't dare leave lying around.

Finn had a thing about using anything left in the bathroom, regardless of purpose or who it belonged to. It took less than a month for Kurt to realize his stepbrother would misuse his expensive products, even if Kurt put his name on them. He moved everything he cared about to his room after Finn used face cream that cost more than fifty dollars on his feet. He had yet to see the money to replace it.

The bathroom they shared was at the opposite end of the hallway, past Finn's room. He heard Rachel's obnoxious giggling through the slightly cracked door as he passed by.

While he waited on the water to heat up, Kurt ensured the door was locked, then examined himself in the mirror. His eyes had dark bags under them from spending half the night studying subjects he barely understood and Cheerio practices that never seemed to end (Monday through Saturday, with Saturday being six hours). His skin was slightly darker than usual too. The sunscreen he used was not doing it's job of protecting his skin from the harmful UV rays.

Appalled by his appearance, Kurt decided to let Santana know he was definitely game for the party before he started cooking dinner. His skin needed a break from Coach Sylvester's torturous practices.