Judging by his dad's reaction on the phone, Kurt had been steeling himself the entire drive home for confrontation. As comforting as it was to have Blaine beside him and ready to face the onslaught, he knew nothing could prepare him for the moment when his father would start yelling at him about trust and responsibility. He had not been looking forward to the guilt that was sure to come, nor the task of convincing his dad to see reason, or even let Blaine into the house.

What Kurt hadn't expected though, was how his father had really reacted.

When Burt opened the door, he paused for a moment, looking at the pair with a bleak expression. The disappointment brimming in his eyes made Kurt look away, the guilt pooling in his stomach and rising into his throat. It was even worse than Kurt had anticipated. Normally, his dad was a fighter, but this? He just looked saddened.

"I thought I told you to leave my son alone." Said Burt, turning to face Blaine instead.

Blaine, for his part, looked suitably chastened and dropped his gaze towards the floor. "I know sir," he said, "But I swear I had good reason."

Kurt, of course, had no idea what they were referring too, but was too ashamed to say anything at all. As they made their way into the living room and sat down Burt in his favourite arm chair, Kurt and Blaine together on the couch he'd completely forgotten everything he'd been planning to say in the car ride over. He almost wanted to reach over and grab Blaine's hand, but he didn't think that would help the situation much.

To his surprise, it was Blaine who broke the silence first.

"I think I owe you an explanation, sir," he said carefully, hands folded neatly in his hands, his expression deceptively calm.

"I think the both of you owe me that at least," Burt agreed dryly.

"Well then, let me begin Blaine shot a glance over at Kurt, who looked in no condition to speak. "Kurt and I met a couple months back, at the political gala in Westerville. We've been pretty much seeing each other since back then, without either yours or my parent's knowledge. Blaine paused here to glance at Burt, but the man's expression didn't change. He continued"I didn't tell my parents because I figured they wouldn't approve. Not only because of your position, but because of the idea of their youngest son bringing a boy home for dinner. I figured Kurt was of the same opinion about you, and given your speech that day when I came to talk to you, it almost made sense."

"Wait, when did you guys talk to each other Kurt began, but Burt shushed him with an impatient gesture.

"Go on, Blaine." He said.

Blaine cleared his throat delicately and continued"Well, at first I was pretty hurt by what you'd said. I couldn't believe you'd make such a harsh snap-judgement about me based on my family. Which then in hindsight, didn't make sense. Didn't you tell me that day that it was for that very reason I was bad for Kurt? Because my family was too judgemental? And for a guy whose entire political campaign was based around giving mutants a chance and a voice it seemed kind of strange. And then I had this weird dream, and I guess everything I'd been thinking and ignoring all surfaced in my subconscious, until suddenly it all made sense."

Kurt watched his dad carefully. As Blaine spoke, Burt's face slowly grew stonier and stonier, his expression darkening as he caught on to what Blaine was getting at. He knew. He knew that Blaine knew. Kurt thought he was going to faint, this was too much pressure…

Blaine paused in his monologue. He looked pensively at Mr. Hummel, as though weighing his following words with precise care.

"Mr. Hummel," he began, his expression genuine in the way only Blaine could be, "I love your son. No matter what. I would never hurt him. I would never let anyone else hurt him. If I may be so bold, I'd hazard a guess and say I care about him just as much as you do."

Kurt reached over and took Blaine's hand. Burt watched them carefully, considering Blaine's statement. His face had cleared again into its unreadable state once more.

"Do you trust him?" he asked, turning to his son.

"Implicitly," said Kurt. Blaine squeezed his hand.

"And do you know how he figured it out? We can't have people wandering around and just figuring this out, Kurt."

"I know dad," said Kurt quickly, "It was my fault, not Blaine's. I told him about mom, and he put two and two together when he saw me and the rest of New Directions. And he had to do a lot of research to actually make sure we were the same person."

"And even then, it was more of an educated guess than an inescapable proof." Blaine added.

"I promise though, dad, it won't happen again. Blaine was the exception, and the only one at that."

"And you won't tell anyone?" Burt shot Blaine a most threatening look.

"Not a soul." The boy replied.

"Good," said Burt decidedly, leaning back in his chair. Kurt could tell he was still uneasy. He was a careful man, but not a cruel one. He was going against his better judgement, and he was giving Blaine a chance. And that was all Kurt could ask for. He knew that as time went on and the two spent more time together, Burt would slowly cotton on to Blaine. And he wouldn't fight it either, because that was the man he was.

"You know Blaine," said Burt casually, "If you do endanger my boy, in any way, you'll regret the day you were born."

"Dad!" Kurt sputtered.

Burt chuckled in amusement. His son was shooting him an impressive death stare, and Blaine looked torn between making another earnest speech and being afraid for his life. He watched as Kurt pulled on the other boy's hand, flouncing angrily from the room and announcing that the two of them were going out for coffee. And yes, he'd be back before six.

Burt smiled after his son, and took a moment to appreciate the normality of the scene, a scene from the life Kurt should have had. And if this Blaine character could give him that life, Burt supposed he could learn to live with the guy.

But still he worried.

The Anderson's dining room was an elaborate affair of thick velvet draping and heavy mahogany furniture. A fire place was built into one wall and an expensive china cabinet by the other. The table was long and wide, and a large bay window stood behind the head of the table, illuminating the scene now with a watery day's sunlight.

"I won't do it Smythe," said Brom Anderson coldly from where he sat at the head. Campaign papers were strewn between them on the table, untouched for some time. Richard Smythe was leaning back in his chair, hands resting calmly on the table. He'd anticipated this reaction: unlike himself, Brom wasn't a man of vision. He would settle for lesser strategies in order to win the election, and as such admit defeat at the hands of the mutants. He wouldn't fight for success the way Smythe would, and that was his failing. It was a pity. Anderson had so much potential, and it was a shame that Smythe would have to resort to his following tactics in order to ensure his own victory.

"I'm afraid you don't have any choice in the matter." Said Smythe easily, "We're not going to change the campaign."

"Of course I have a choice, Richard!" Anderson bristled, "I will not remain on this sinking ship when there are perfectly good lifeboats to see me through."

"Or you could stay on the ship and plug its holes," Smythe added airily, "No, I'm afraid you really don't have a choice."

At that moment the door at the end of the room opened slowly, revealing a fearsomely tall man. His hair was long and lank, curtaining his scarred and tattooed visage, and his clothes were dank and tattered, a mess of leather and chains and a long overcoat.

"Meet Mongrel." Smythe shot Brom a cordial smile, one that didn't meet his eyes. "He's new to our campaign, and I'm sure he'll fit quite nicely onto the team. You see, Brom," Smythe leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table with a patronizing look, "Mongrel here and I have a common enemy. One that should be yours, too. We have all been wronged by the mutants, all of us they have attempted to thwart. But we believe, Brom, that mutants have their place. The place where they should have stayed at the bottom of society. And we intend to keep them there."

"You're insane." Brom's face was pale, his eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at his partner. A man he'd known for so long, yet suddenly couldn't recognise. "This isn't happening, Richard, look at yourself-"

"Come now, Brom," Smythe shook his head regretfully"I don't think you understand. This is happening. And you're going to help us. Don't you think it's high time we put Hummel and those New Directions back where they belong?"

Brom's voice was barely a whisper as he forced out the words. "And where's that?" he asked, afraid of the answer.

Smythe just smiled. Standing up, he strolled across the room, coming to stand behind Brom's chair.

"Wouldn't it just be terrible," he began, resting his hands on the man's shoulders, "If something were to happen to Blaine. We wouldn't want an incident like last time; I know how much that frightened you. And Blaine is such a nice boy … such a bright boy, with a bright future, too …"

"What do you want, Smythe?" Brom spat, his fists clenching at his sides. He couldn't seem to stop them shaking.

"What do I want?" Smythe seemed to think carefully about the question, glancing at Mongrel and at Brom. Finally, he patted the man warmly on the shoulder and returned to his chair, answer ready.

"I want to win."