Warnings: Very mild, very brief, references to self-harm, eating disorders, and drug use (not Blaine).

Author's Note: This is my other 4x04 reaction fic, channeling my favorite side of Glee—the cracky side. It's a little mean to Blaine—but it's for the sake of humor, and it comes from a place of love, and it even ends fairly happily, I promise. ;)

MONDAY

Blaine Anderson has never been good at dealing with guilt. It makes him sick.

When he was six years old, he broke his mother's vase while dancing to Barbie Girl and was so wracked with guilt that he immediately called her at work, left a message with her secretary, composed and sent an email detailing the crime (CCing her subordinates), and faxed her in triplicate pictures of the broken vase from different angles as well as a tasteful watercolor-and-crayon apology card (which, in retrospect, probably lost a bit of its charm in fax form).

He's a confessor. It's just his nature.

So when he did the unthinkable, he was on his smartphone booking plane tickets and ordering several hundred apology bouquets before he even walked out of Eli's house. He would've fired himself to New York in a catapult if he thought it would get him there faster, so desperate was he to throw himself on the mercy of the court.

The jury is still out on his sentencing, however, leaving Blaine stewing in guilt. And Blaine Anderson stewing in guilt has never led to anything good.

So he figures 'why not confess some more? It couldn't hurt, right?' Oh, if only he knew.

Invoking his power as the Rachel (Glee Club Charter Section 11-c-1: The Rachel may, at any time, hijack the Glee Club meeting from anyone up to and including the teacher in order to make it all about her/himself), he turns Monday's Glee into a podium for him to stand upon while he vomits the contents of his soul. He spills on the affair and its fallout and how badly he hurt the Most Wonderful Person Ever to Exist, and stands with head hung low to await the judgment of his peers.

The reactions are… mixed.

Tina threatens to split him from crotch to crown with a blade of justice until Artie helpfully reminds her that she was technically cheating on him when she hooked up with 'Shanghai Six-Pack' (Blaine assumes this refers to Mike).

Artie, who himself has been cheated on twice, asks Blaine to compile a short list of horrible names he has called himself since the incident in question. Upon reading this list, Artie seems mildly impressed and claims he can do no better. Blaine is forgiven.

Sam, who has also been cheated on, claims to have no room for judgment due to spending most of last year trying to get Mercedes to cheat on her boyfriend with him for reasons he can't quite explain. ("Last year was weird.") Their broship remains intact.

Unique is mortified that Blaine would wound her idol in such a way. She proposes a Rachel reelection, only to find that such is impossible. Glee Club Charter, Section 12-d-4: The Rachel cannot be reelected, replaced, or removed from the club for any reason unless she or he quits, in which case a temporary Rachel may be appointed until the original Rachel returns (usually in about ten minutes). According to Artie (who wrote the charter), this is one of the defining traits of the Rachel position. So Unique begrudgingly forgives him. But (she helpfully informs him) she does not forget.

Brittany isn't mad at him, but she does inform him that the entire world's unicorn population is now crying and dyeing their manes black and cutting themselves with their horns to mourn the beautiful love that Blaine viciously murdered with his dick.

He kind of wishes she would have just been mad at him.

The rest of the club is somewhat less involved, so their reactions are less intense. Joe, of course, judges him not, for all have sinned and fallen short. Sugar is shocked to learn that he and Kurt were actually together—she assumed they were just gay BFFs due to the fact that she never saw them kiss ("We were a very private couple," Blaine explains). Jake absolves him with the Shrug of Zero Fucks Given, and Marley simply says that as long as he knows what he did was wrong and he won't do it again, there's no reason he should suffer for it.

Blaine likes Marley. She's sweet, if a bit bland.

The relief of their forgiveness (or at least their apparent lack of desire to string him up by his entrails) nearly brings him to his knees, so Mr. Schue moves in to steady him and gives the Lesson of the Day—no one is perfect, and everyone has their flaws.

He very diplomatically asks that everyone be sure to keep what happened between them, as they all have enough on their plate without the spreading of malicious gossip.

The club agrees. Blaine's secret is vacuum-packed and locked up tight, and everyone lives happily ever after.

Yeah, fucking right.

TUESDAY

The second Blaine sets foot inside of McKinley's hallways, the freshly trimmed Jew-fro of Jacob Ben Israel practically pops out of the ground to shove a microphone down his throat.

"President Anderson, your sexual escapades are lighting up the blogosphere. Can you share with us the identity of your Lewinsky? Are you in fact having an illicit affair with your stripper Vice President? Is it true that you barebacked half the football team, and can you tell us which half? Would you say most of them were fully committed to the sex, or did they claim it was just a phase and they were only experimenting? Is it true that you're allergic to latex and rubber and that your house is located next door to an STD clinic for easy access?"

"No comment," Blaine says, grinding his teeth and reminding himself that self-defense is for defense and not for punching out pushy school reporters with grating voices.

He holds his head up high and steadfastly ignores Jacob and everyone else as he marches to class, enduring such creative taunts as 'Skankderson,' 'Anderslut,' and (get ready for this) 'Skankderslut.'

Becky Jackson also has some particularly juicy ringers: 'Trampalampa Ding Dong!' 'Prosti-tooty-fruity!' and Blaine's personal favorite, 'Cheater, Cheater, Pumpkin Eater!'

He manages to make it to his locker, where Sam helpfully pops up to run interference with JBI.

Unfortunately, Sam winds up doing more harm than good.

"Vice President Evans," JBI says. "Is it true that you and President Anderson are getting freaky underneath the Student Council table?"

Sam immediately slips into pitch-perfect Clinton. "Now, I just want to make this perfectly clear: I did not have sexual relations with that man."

"Sam, do you actually know anything about the Clinton administration?" Blaine asks.

"Uhhh, maybe? Why?" Sam asks.

"Nevermind. Let's just go to class…"

As Blaine grabs and practically drags him down the hall, Sam throws up twin V-signs and proudly proclaims "I am not a crook! And… uh… neither is he!"

Blaine resolves to give him a thorough lesson on Presidential History before allowing him to do any more impressions in public.

That afternoon, Finn is strangely absent from Glee Club. He's been a slightly-creepy fixture in the choir room for the past week or two, so Blaine has no idea what to make of his absence.

It isn't until after practice that he learns what became of the Awkwardest Giant. Sam and Joe are trying to sell him on Biblical Repentance Strategies—Joe favors sackcloth and ashes, while Sam thinks he should rend his garments ala Brando in Streetcar—when suddenly his phone buzzes with a text message.

His eyes light up with hope and he whips out his phone with a quickdraw that would drop Doc Holiday's jaw. And then he cringes in disappointment and fights the urge to throw it when he realizes the message is not from Kurt, but his stepbrother.

FROM: Finn
SUBJECT: run and hide.
MESSAGE: okay dude I swear to god I didn't know he didn't know but I kind of sort of mentioned it and then he went all jack bower (guy from 24) and I had to tell him everything and he left all red faced and now I'm locked in the tire shop and burt's gone and I think he's coming to kill you. run and hide.
PS: if you see him tell him to buy milk b/c we are out of milk.

Blaine rolls his eyes at the sheer ridiculosity of Finn and all things Finn-related. Of course Burt isn't coming to kill him. Burt is a kind man who wouldn't harm a flea unless that flea was sucking his son's blood in which case he would CRUSH IT WITHOUT MERCY.

Blaine shudders. That was an unpleasant line of thought.

And then he feels it. A tingle, a tickle, a prickle, like Cooper is playing I'm-Not-Touching-You at the back of his neck. Someone is watching him. But who? Why?

Is it Burt?

It can't be Burt.

But what if it is?

It isn't.

But what if it is?

And then he sees it. A suspiciously Burt-like shape camouflaged in the bushes ahead, carrying a suspiciously shotgun-like object.

SHIT.

Blaine bolts in the middle of Sam congratulating him on at least not killing anyone with his adultery (because King David totally did and God still loved him). He sprints across the parking lot and practically dives through the window of his car. His tires squeal and his heart pounds as he blazes out of the parking lot.

By the time he's gotten home, he's feeling much calmer and firmly convinced that he was imagining things.

This in no way stops him from locking and deadbolting every door in the house. You know, just in case.

That night, he dreams of Burt chasing him through a thousand places in a thousand ways. Through the tire shop with a giant welding torch. Through the woods with a chainsaw. Through the sea with a harpoon. Through space with a lasso. Down the road in the form of an anthropomorphic truck like the ones from those Chevron commercials.

Needless to say, he does not sleep well.

WEDNESDAY

On the way to his car, Blaine swears he sees Burt next door disguised as a gardener, clipping hedges extra-aggressively as if to say 'Imagine me doing this to your fingers, one by one!'

He gets to school in record time.

Before class, he is approached by Jake Puckerman, of all people.

"Blaine, you seem like a pretty well-adjusted guy," Jake says. "I'm really troubled, so it would be nice to have someone to talk to about my feelings and shit. Can I get your phone number?"

Blaine smiles like the complete moron that he is. "Sure thing, Jake!"

He rattles off the number and the second he finishes, Jake grins. "And… send."

"Send?" Blaine asks.

"Yeah, everything I just said was bullshit," Jake says. "Noah called me last night at 2 in the fucking morning sobbing his eyes out. I couldn't make out a damn thing he said besides your name, so… he's your problem now."

And just like that, Blaine's phone buzzes.

"Good luck!" Jake says, high-tailing it out of there.

Blaine blinks in befuddlement and answers his phone. "Hello?"

"HOW COULD YOUUUUU?" sobs an utterly despondent…

"Puck?" Blaine asks. "Are you okay, what's—"

"YOUR LOVE WAS SO PU-HU-HUUUUURE!" Puck weeps from the other end. "HOW COULD YOU DO IT? WHY, BLAINE? WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?"

He cannot deal with this right now. "I'll call you back later, Puck."

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO BELIEVE IN ANYMO—" Click.

Blaine sets his phone to silent and marches on down the hall, wondering just how far the news has spread.

He gets his answer pretty quick.

"Blaine Anderson!" calls a familiar voice.

Blaine turns just in time to see a door burst open at the end of the hall. Mercedes Jones stares him down, her face unyielding as stone, her eyes cold and hard as yeti nipples. She must be a distant cousin of Medusa because the second Blaine is in her gaze, he finds himself paralyzed as everything slips into slow motion. Mercedes starts walking towards him, dressed in combat fatigues and whipping around a pair of fucking nunchuks like she came out of the womb with them.

There is no question as to why she's here. She only has eyes for him. Her best friend is heartbroken and she's looking to take the difference out of his face.

There's really only one option here.

Blaine makes like Michael Jackson and beats it.

Mercedes doesn't follow him, but she's far from his only problem that morning. The tingle is back. Foreign eyes bore into his skin like botflies.

It's probably not Burt.

But what if it is?

Shut up, brain!

But what if it is?

What if Burt Hummel is stalking him around the school, crawling through the air ducts waiting for the chance to drop down and break his neck like Blaine broke Kurt's heart? What if he's in disguise as a school nurse waiting to give him a lethal injection? Or a janitor waiting to drown him in mop water? Or a substitute chemistry teacher waiting to poison him and then go Walter White on his remains?

Blaine watches. He watches and waits. He watches, waits, and analyzes his surroundings while horror scenarios play out in his head until he's jumping at shadows and seeing Burt in the ceiling tiles. He's fairly sure Burt is in disguise. Blaine just has to figure out who he is and unmask him in public and he's pretty sure they'll make him leave, because his kids don't even go there anymore.

By lunchtime, he's narrowed the field of potential Burts down to one—a janitor in a blue baseball cap who always keeps his head down. Blaine knows all the school's custodians on sight—Eyepatch Peggy, Peg-Leg Pete, Yuri from Yugoslavia, and of course 'The Squeaker'—and he's never seen this guy before. He's got a Burt-like build and he seems to be everywhere that Blaine is.

So Blaine devises a plan. At lunch, he gets a tray chock full of food and spills it in the least convincing stage fall in history.

"Oh, no!" Blaine says. "What a clumsy-claws I am, I seem to have spilled my lunch. If only there was a janitor around!"

Right on cue, Blue Baseball Cap wheels in and starts to clean up the mess, only for Blaine to spring his clever trap and snatch his hat with a resounding "A-ha!"

An unfamiliar face and a naked psoriatic scalp stare up at him in horror as the whole lunchroom bursts into laughter.

The janitor growls at Blaine and snatches his cap back. "That's right, laugh it up! You think this is funny?"

"No, sir—"

"You think psoriasis is a big joke?"

"No, I—"

"You think it's hilarious that my scalp rash looks like a koala bear, don't you?"

"I didn't even notice, I'm—"

"How would you like it, huh? What if you had a bunch of extra nipples and I just walked up and ripped off your shirt? Would that be funny?"

"No, sir, it wouldn't, I'm sorry, I just thought—"

"No, you didn't! You didn't think at all! That's the problem with you damn kids," he says, his face red and his voice choked. "Nobody ever thinks of poor Greg…"

He cleans up the mess and walks out of the lunchroom sniffling as Blaine stands there flabbergasted. Greg? Since when is there a Greg? Was that rumor about Yuri being deported really true? Blaine's pretty sure he saw him just last week…

He's walking down the hall still trying to figure it out a few minutes later when suddenly…

"Oh, Blainers…" sing-songs a smoky, seductive voice. He turns towards the sound and suddenly, he is in his second slow-motion moment of the day.

Santana slinks towards him, every bit the devil-in-red as she draws a razor from her hair and licks it lovingly. Her eyes sparkle with a creative flair that tells him she is the artist and he is the canvas and the paint is pain.

Blaine has no intention of letting her express herself all over him, so he cuts himself out of the picture and scrams.

This school is quickly becoming dangerous for him. Kurt's friends are out for blood, and Blaine can hardly blame them.

He needs to lay low for a while…

A few hours later…

Mr. Schue enters his office with an exhausted sigh, plopping the papers down on his desk and plopping himself down in his chair. It's been a long day, and he can't wait to unwind with a little there is someone under his desk.

"Blaine?"

"Hello, Mr. Schuester. Is it time for Glee already?"

Minutes later…

Blaine sits next to Sam in the choir room. "…I'm telling you, they were here!" Blaine insists. "It's like someone put out a hit on me. It's Kill Blaine, and they are the DeVAS!"

"Dude, I think somebody would have noticed two hot chicks with weapons walking around the school," Sam says. "I think you're imagining things. You're crazy wired right now; you look like a bush baby on meth."

"You'd look the same way if all of Kurt's friends and family wanted to feast on your bones!"

"Dude, relax!" Sam says. "Look, why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off? I'll cover for you at Student Council, just… go home, take a nap, down some cough syrup, chill out."

Blaine turns him down at first.

But on the way to student council, he spots a suspiciously Burt-shaped electrician working on the school's metal detector and imagines himself strapped to a chair as Burt hooks electrodes to his nipples, cackling like a mad scientist.

He then accepts his friend's generous offer.

On the drive home, his mind starts running away from him again and suddenly, he's seeing Burt everywhere. Burt on the sidewalk. Burt in the trees. Burt in the car next to him. Burt in the fucking clouds, as if God Himself was announcing support for Burt's holy crusade for revenge against Blaine the Wicked, Adulterous Lech.

By the time he gets home, his heart is practically bouncing against his ribcage. He runs into the house like he's dodging sniper fire and immediately pulls a cricket bat from the closet. With his guts in enough knots to form a doily, he checks every room and closet in the house for possible ambush points. By the time he's finished, it's already dark, he's so tired he's about to pass out, and—

WHAT WAS THAT?

Something moved in the bushes. Something moved in the fucking bushes, he knows it, he saw it, it's Burt, Burt is setting up position outside of his house, hiding in the bush like a true hunter and just waiting for Blaine to pass in front of a window so he can give him all of the bullets.

Well, fuck Burt if he thinks Blaine is going to make it easy for him. He might deserve to die for what he did to Kurt but damn it, he really doesn't want to!

So Blaine dives to the ground and spends the next several hours crawling around the house on his stomach, closing the curtains and blinds on every window with his cricket bat so as not to expose himself. By the time he finishes, it's almost eleven and his entire front feels like it's been bikini waxed.

And then a terrible thought occurs to him.

Shadows.

Burt can see the shadow he casts against the curtains when he walks by. He can extrapolate his position from that and then BLAMMO. The walls are painted with fifty shades of Blaine. Damn it, why does their house have so many lights? He can't possibly turn them all off at once.

Or can he?

The last window he closed was in the laundry room. The laundry room contains the circuit breaker for the entire house.

Blaine grins.

A second later, the entire house plunges into darkness and Blaine feels like a genius.

He maintains the feeling of genius no matter how many things he smacks into or knocks over on his way upstairs to his room.

THURSDAY

Blaine's next nightmare is a bit simpler—he's trapped in a locked room, with Burt outside furiously trying to break down the door. With nowhere to run or hide, he pulls out his phone and sends a desperate text to Kurt.

'Help. Your dad is trying to kill me.'

It only takes Kurt a few seconds to reply.

'Wish him luck for me! xoxo – K.'

Blaine gapes at his phone. He's typing a reply of 'That was uncalled-for!' when Burt bursts through the door and blows him away with a shotgun loaded with condoms and safe sex pamphlets.

He starts awake just after midnight, just in time to hear a crash downstairs.

This is it, he thinks. Burt is coming for him at last.

With his cricket bat at his side, Blaine slowly walks towards the staircase and hopes that Mr. Hummel can at least respect his fighting spirit (and that Kurt won't be too mad at him for beating his father with a stick). He waits at the top of the staircase as Burt gets closer and closer, and when the time is right…

"FORGIVE ME, KURT!" And Blaine immediately starts beating him about the face.

"AH, STOP, NOT MY FACE, I NEED THAT TO LIVE!" shouts a very un-Burt like voice.

Blaine stops his assault and feels very sheepish. "Oh… hi, Cooper."

Cooper is home for a few days to audition for a nearby ad company that's hiring, he explains. And then he makes Blaine explain why none of the lights work and why he attacked his brother with a bat.

"So you two-timed on Rainbow Sparkles and now you think Big Bad Dad is coming to make you pay?" Cooper asks.

"Pretty much," Blaine nods.

Cooper shakes his head and chuckles. "Oh, Blaine. Sweet, simple little Blaine. I'm pretty sure no one is actually coming to kill you—"

"But what if they are?"

"—but just in case," Cooper says, "I'll sleep in your room to keep you safe."

"Really?" Blaine almost-wibbles.

"Really," Cooper says, kissing his forehead. "Get some sleep, little brother. You look like you need it."

And so Blaine settles down for the first truly restful sleep he's gotten in days. As he drifts off, a single thought echoes across his mind.

Cooper is the sweetest, most wonderful brother in the world.

Cooper is the meanest, most vindictive asshole in the world.

Blaine opens his eyes the next morning, and what is the first thing he sees?

A moving image of Burt Hummel less than an inch from his face shouting "It's time to WAKE UP!"

Blaine shrieks and leaps and does the Charleston in his sheets before flipping over backwards and wedging himself upside-down between the wall and his headboard.

Cooper nearly dies laughing and oh, how Blaine wishes he would laugh just a little harder.

Apparently, Cooper found an ad on Youtube from Burt Hummel's congressional campaign titled 'Wake up, Ohio!' and decided to play it on his smartphone about an inch from Blaine's face as a very effective wake-up call.

"I hate you so much," upside-down Blaine grumbles.

"You hit me in the face with a cricket bat, little brother. You earned that," Cooper says, walking out. "And you better hope I have enough make-up to cover these bruises!"

By the time Blaine wiggles free, Cooper has already used all the hot water and Blaine has to take a freezing cold shower. He's shaking so badly from the cold that he cuts himself four times while he's shaving. Combine that with the scratches and little bruises from bumping into every object in his pitch-black house last night, and Blaine leaves for school looking like he lost a fight with a weed whacker.

He pulls out his phone on the way to the car and nearly drops it when he reads the display.

You have 246 unheard messages!

Blaine expects every person Kurt has ever seen or spoken to in all of Ohio to have left damnation in his inbox, but… nope. Every last message is from Puck.

"It's just… *sniff* I believed in you!"

Delete.

"You were fucking beautiful together!"

Delete.

"If your love can't survive, how could the rest of us possibly stand a chan—"

Delete.

"PRETTY PRETTY PLEEEEEAAAASE, DON'T YOU EVER EVER FEEL—"

Delete.

"AND SINCE WE'VE NO PLACE TO GO, LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW, LET IT SN—"

Delete.

"YOU MAKE ME… FEEL LIKE I'M LIVIN' A TEENAGE DR—"

Delete. How did he even know about that one?

Blaine is so focused on scrubbing Puck's tears of blood out of his inbox that he doesn't notice Sue Sylvester until he practically walks into her. And then he does notice her, at which time he squeaks like a stepped-on Pomeranian and nearly leaps to the ceiling at the sight of what she's carrying.

"Well, if it isn't Porcelain's unfaithful man-slut!" Sue says from behind her armful of… Burt Hummel merchandise?

"What is that?" Blaine squints, eying a plethora of posters, t-shirts, and mugs all sporting a stern-faced Burt Hummel in classic Uncle Sam pose and outfit with the words 'I want YOU to Vote Hummel for Congress!' printed underneath.

"Hummel had all this crap made for his Congressional campaign," Sue explains. "I wanted to deny him the indescribable pleasure of having your face on things, so I bought it all and put it in storage. Of course, I later realized that this made me the number one financier to his campaign, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. I need the storage space for baby crap—figurative, not literal—so I'm looking for someone to foist it onto." She narrows her eyes at him. "How about you, Gelmet? Porcelain and Papa share a love that borderlines on incestuous—I'm sure he would love dear old dad's face on everything he owns. It'd be a great 'Sorry my morals are looser than a five-year-old's waggling tooth' present."

Blaine stares deep into the accusatory eyes of T-shirt Burt. He shudders. "No thank you, Coach Sylvester."

And he walks on by, thinking that's the end of it.

He spends much of the morning twitchily looking around for Crouching Santanas and Hidden Mercedes, flinching at any sudden movement and seeing every faculty member as a potential Burt-in-disguise.

By the time he gets back to his locker, he's practically a nervous wreck.

What happens next really shouldn't surprise him, but it does. Oh, it does.

He opens his locker and is buried in an avalanche of Burt. Burt Mugs, Burt Shirts, Burt Bobbleheads, Burt is all around him and all over him and it's horrifying, like suddenly being covered in star-spangled spiders with shotguns. He flails like he's on fire, slinging Burt onto every surface, and he doesn't stop flailing until every last piece of paraphernalia is dislodged from his person.

Greg the Janitor glares at him in the aftermath. "Boy, you've really got it in for me, don't ya?"

"What? No, no, I mean… I didn't mean to—"

"Save it!" Greg growls. "I know how people like you work. I have endured before, and I shall endure again."

Blaine hesitantly starts to pick up a poster off the ground.

Greg's gaze forces him to drop it. "Haven't you done enough?"

Greg's accusatory gaze joins that piercing eyes of a baker's dozen Burts, and the pressure of all that staring proves too much for Blaine to handle. He runs as fast as he can down the hallway and when he is unexpectedly yanked into an empty classroom, he very nearly wets himself.

"DON'T KILL ME!" he pleads.

"Dude, it's alright!" Sam says. "It's me!"

Blaine nearly melts with relief. "Oh, thank God…" he sighs.

"What is up with you, man?" Sam asks. "Clearly you did not follow my instructions, because now you look like an undead bush baby on meth."

"I can't rest!" Blaine says. "Don't you get it? They're all after me, they're just waiting for me to drop my guard, and then Santana will cut me to pieces and Mercedes will beat me black and blue and Burt will—"

Sam pulls him into a surprisingly calming hug. "Dude, I promise you, it's okay. No one has seen Santana or Mercedes. Or Burt, for that matter. Your brain is just running wild with you, bro."

"I can't take this much longer," Blaine says. "I'm going to have a nervous breakdown."

Sam looks thoughtful. "How about this; you hang with me for the rest of the day. We've got the rest of our classes together anyway, so we can just stick together until school's out. I'm big and tough—nobody's gonna go after you if I'm around. You know how it works…" And in a perfect imitation of the Governator himself, he says. "Come with me if you want to live." He grins. "That sound good?"

Blaine takes a deep breath. "Yeah," he says at last. "That sounds great. Thank you, Sam."

Sam shrugs. "It's what I do."

The rest of the school day goes by in relative peace. He doesn't see any more Secret Agent Burts or Combat-Action Mercedes or Razor-Haired Santanas. He starts to realize how silly he was being, and how crazy he must have sounded to Sam. His ridiculous, guilty brain was just playing tricks on him. There is no one after him.

By the afternoon, he's actually feeling safe enough to walk by himself, so he lets Sam go to the bathroom without him and marches to Glee with a bit more pep in his step.

He's feeling fine. So fine, in fact, that he doesn't notice until about fifteen minutes into practice that Sam still hasn't shown up. He's just about to text him asking him where he is when Sam texts him instead.

Dude, I have something awesome to show you. Meet me in Mrs. Rigby's room ASAP.

The proper spelling and grammar should have aroused his suspicions, but alas, his suspicions remain flaccid for the time being.

As the Rachel, Blaine can walk out of Glee as he pleases, so he pockets his phone, hops up and announces his departure, oblivious to the narrowed eyes and skeptical glances that follow after him as he leaves.

He dashes to Mrs. Rigby's room and spots Sam seated at the front, facing the blackboard. "Hey, Sam," he says, approaching his friend. "What did you want to show… me…?"

And then he sees that Sam's mouth is taped shut. His hands are tied to the desk.

"MMMPH MMPHMMPHMHP MMMMPH!" Sam says through the gag, which Blaine chooses to translate as "You were totally right and I am a moron!"

And then the door slams shut.

SHIT.

"Hello, Blaine," says a low, raspy voice.

And cue slow motion moment number three.

Quinn bears no weapons, wears no armor or special outfit. She has nothing to her name but her luscious blonde hair, sandals, a little yellow sundress, and a beguiling smile. And yet, as she walks towards Blaine with that little smirk on her face, she somehow manages to be more terrifying than Santana and Mercedes combined.

"Quinn, hi!" Blaine says with a nervous grin. "What… haha… what brings you here?"

"You," Quinn says. "I hear you've been a busy boy… going places you shouldn't… doing things—and people—you ought not do…"

As she speaks, Blaine is inching towards the other exit, only for Santana and her razor blades to burst through the door.

"Santana!" Blaine says. "You-you're here too, what a coincide—"

"Santana?" Santana says. "Oh, no. Santana is far, far away right now…" She pulls another razor from her hair. "You may call me Snixx." She smirks. "While you still have a tongue, at least."

Blaine backs away from the crazy women and looks for another refuge. The only other door leads to a supply closet, but it has to be safer than this. So he bolts for the door and is very nearly knocked over when it flies open to reveal Mercedes and her nunchuks.

"Blaine Anderson, you've been naughty," Mercedes says, performing a nunchuk flourish that would make Bruce Lee nod his head in silent approval. "And I think it's time you learned what happens to naughty boys."

"Boys who break other boys' hearts," Santana says.

"Boys who cheat," Quinn says.

"But all three of you have cheated!" Blaine shouts.

Mercedes nunchuk-smashes a flowerpot on Mrs. Rigby's desk and Blaine immediately knows that was the wrong thing to say.

The three deadly divas saunter at him slowly, and Blaine backs away as far as he can. "Come now, let's be reasonable," he pleads. "This is really no call for violence. I'm just a stupid boy—surely I'm not worth an assault charge!" He gulps. "Or murder."

"This isn't assault," Mercedes says. "We don't want to hurt you. We just want to play."

"Though some of us like to play rougher than others," Santana smirks.

Blaine gulps. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The only other way out is an open window and Blaine has no idea what's down below. He's starting to think he should just face the music…

And then Quinn turns a desk towards him and produces some leather straps and a cat o' nine tails out of fucking nowhere.

"Have a seat, Blaine," Quinn says. "The game is about to begin."

Yeah, fuck that.

Blaine takes a running superman dive, sailing right through the open window, landing in the bushes and running screaming to his car.

He'll go home. He'll go home, and he'll be safe. Cooper will protect him. Cooper will—okay, Cooper will torment him less than everyone else. At the moment, he'll take damn near anything.

He runs inside and dashes up to his room to lock himself in, only to come within inches of a heart attack as he opens the door.

Everything.

Absolutely every surface, from ceiling to floor, is covered in Burt Hummel campaign posters.

A note hangs on the inside of the door.

Dear Blaine,

These came for you via UPS from some lady named Sue, so I signed for you. I figured since Burt Hummel is pretty much your favorite person in the whole wide world, I could surprise you by decorating your room to reflect that fact. Hope you like it!

Love, Cooper

PS: It was a nose spray ad. No, I didn't have enough make-up, and no, I didn't get the part. See you at Thanksgiving. :)!

Blaine looks at the hundreds of Burts on his wall, the hundreds of angry faces, the hundreds of accusatory fingers all pointing at him, and feels as if his heart is about to literally explode and kill him in a shower of gore. He doesn't know whether it's exhaustion, guilt, or the glue Cooper used, but suddenly all the posters seem to be moving, living breathing, as if the Burts are alive and trying to escape their paper prisons to get at him. Even the words on the page begin to shift.

'I want YOU to get kneecapped with a tire iron!'

'I want YOUR head on a silver platter!'

'I want YOU as a hood ornament!'

'I want YOUR internal organs decorating my Christmas tree!'

So many Burts. So many angry, stern, protective, loving fathers pointing at him, pointing out his guilt, his shame, the stain on his soul that can never be erased.

Blaine can't take it. He bolts out of the house and goes driving to the only place in the world he can still find refuge.

A couple hours later…

Sebastian Smythe opens his dorm room door, takes one look at Blaine, and drops his jaw. "Holy shit."

Minutes later…

Blaine sips at his warm mocha latte, fetched by one of Sebastian's freshmen lackeys, as the boy himself tries to figure out what the fuck.

"You're not dying, are you?" Sebastian asks. "Is that what this is, like a cancer thing? Because I don't really do last requests…"

"I'm not dying," Blaine sighs. "Do I really look that bad?"

"You look like you're ready to die, or ready to slit someone's throat for a fix," Sebastian says. "What happened to you?"

Blaine sighs. He is a confessor, after all…

Sebastian listens patiently as Blaine tells him the whole sordid story. When he finishes, Sebastian steeples his fingers and looks thoughtful for a moment.

"So let me get this straight," Sebastian says. "You're super-loyal to your Pretty-Pretty-Princess boytoy until the actual second he moves out of town, and then you turn around and go whole-hog cheating on him—"

"It's not that simple," Blaine says.

"—with somebody besides me?" Sebastian finishes, incredulous.

Blaine's jaw drops. "Are you serious."

"I could ask you the same thing, Skippy!" Sebastian says. "What the fuck? Why would you go and bone some stranger when I'm right here? We're still facebook friends for God's sake! You didn't even unfriend me after I nearly blinded you!"

"Unbelievable. You're actually mad that I didn't cheat on my boyfriend with you!" Blaine says.

"Well if you were just gonna do it anyway, you could've at least helped a guy out!" Sebastian says. "Do you know how long it's been since I've gotten any action? All this 'being nice' and 'straight and narrow' crap might get you a lot of things, but laid is not one of them!" He crosses his arms. "It's insulting, to be quite frank. I can hardly stand to look at you right now."

Blane sighs. "I can't believe I thought this would be a good idea. I'll go, forget it—"

"No, stop," Sebastian says, making an effort to calm himself down. "I'm sorry, I'm being irrational. You don't have to go. If it's a bed you're looking for, you can take mine."

"But where will you sleep?" Blaine asks.

"I know a few people who might be willing to share," Sebastian says, waggling his eyebrows. "It's fine. Hell, you can use my pajamas, since you clearly didn't bring any of your own."

"I… I couldn't…"

"Come on," Sebastian grins. "You know you want to. Genuine silk."

Blaine sighs and can't help his grin. "Thank you, Sebastian. Seriously."

Sebastian shrugs. "It's the least I can do. Goodnight, Blaine."

"Goodnight," Blaine says. Sebastian moseys out of the room and Blaine dresses for bed (he was right, the silk pajamas are spectacular, even if they swallow him whole). The smell, the feel of Dalton is just so right that he has to fight back tears as he drifts off, feeling truly safe and at home for the first time in a while.

FRIDAY

Blaine wakes up at a little past mid-day. The room is empty, but Sebastian left a note on the bedside.

You looked so peaceful, I couldn't stand to wake you up. There's a place in my bed any time you need it. For sleeping or… otherwise. ;)

~S.S.

Blaine grins and shakes his head. Sebastian is incorrigible, but there is only one person for Blaine as far as he is concerned, and Sebastian just isn't it.

He drives home feeling better than he has in days. Puck's messages seem to have tapered off, and he's pretty sure Quinn, Mercedes and Santana had to have gotten kicked out of school for tying up Sam, if nothing else (he really hopes they didn't do anything to him after he got away). He has every intention of going home and relaxing for the day when Sam texts him again.

dude I dont know if ur sick or w.e but if not u shuld com eto glee club.

It's poorly spelled and largely unpunctuated, so it's probably genuine, but then Sam sends a picture of himself with a shit eating grin and two thumbs up titled 'not tied up!' and Blaine can't help but laugh. So even though he's missed pretty much the entire school day, he heads to Glee Club to hang out with his friends and celebrate this hellish week finally coming to an end.

Except it's not over. Not by a long shot.

As soon as he walks in, the door closes behind him and Sam has an arm over his shoulder. "Hey, glad you made it, buddy! Have a seat."

The seat in question being the single empty chair in the middle of a semicircle composed of the entire Glee Club, plus—

"What are they doing here?" Blaine asks, tensing at the sight of Quinn, Mercedes, and Santana.

"Relax," Santana says. "We're not gonna hurt you."

"We weren't gonna hurt you yesterday, either," Mercedes says. "We just wanted to make you squirm a little."

"Wait, so all of that was just for show?" Blaine asks.

"Yup," Quinn confirms.

Blaine is. He just. He cannot even. "I dove through a window to get away from you."

"And a fine dive it was," Mercedes says.

"Solid ten from the Romanian judge," Santana agrees.

"Psychological warfare is my favorite kind," Quinn says. "But this is serious, and believe it or not, we're here to help you."

Blaine takes a seat in the semicircle's center. "Help me with what? What is this?"

Sam takes his place in the center chair, sitting opposite Blaine. "This is a Cheatervention."

The non-word smacks him across the face like a bucket of garbage water. "You have got to be kidding me."

"This isn't a joke," Sam says. "We thought your little, you know, whatever was just a one-time thing, but now we can see it's plainly just one part of a larger problem."

Artie rolls forward. "You are in a tailspin, Blaine, and your downward spiral is affecting us all."

"Your meltdown is making my meltdown look like not-a-meltdown," Brittany says sadly. "It's like the opposite of a meltdown, so like a freeze-up. You're making my meltdown look like a delicious popsicle."

"What meltdown?" Blaine asks.

"Come on, Blaine, we all see the signs!" Tina says. "You're skipping classes, disappearing for hours at a time, losing sleep, jumping at shadows and looking over your shoulder like you've got something to hide…"

"And we have it on good authority that you spent last night in the company of notorious gutterskank Sebastian Smythe," Unique says.

Blaine gapes. "I just… that wasn't… we were just talking—"

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Unique says.

Sugar chimes in with a helpful summation. "Basically, you're a big fat whore."

Blaine gasps. "I am not a whore!"

"Blaine is not a whore," Artie agrees.

"Thank you!" Blaine sighs.

"It's important to use the correct terminology," Artie continues. "Whores are paid for their services. Blaine is a slut."

Blaine half-heartedly flails in stupefied silence. "I don't believe this."

"It's okay, dude," Sam says. "We all have our problems, and we're here to help you. That's what this is all about."

"Do I get to tell my side at any point, or are you all just going to talk at me the whole time?" Blaine asks.

Artie pulls out a handbook labeled 'INTERVENTIONS MADE EASY.' "First the second thing. Then the first."

Blaine shrugs. "Great. Just great. Well, far be it from me to get in anyone's way." He folds his arms and crosses his legs and sits with all the sass he can muster. "Go right ahead."

Tina pulls out a sheet of paper. "It's important for you to understand that your actions affect not only you, but everyone around you. In this letter, each member of the glee club has written a way in which your refusal to tame the trouser snake has negatively impacted their lives." She clears her throat. "I wrote; You are casting negative aspersions on the Asian community at McKinley."

Blaine opens his mouth, but Sam shakes his head.

"Listen first, talk later," he says, so Blaine crams everything back down his throat as usual.

Tina continues. "Artie wrote: You are a disease risk and I am hesitant to perform with you because of it, which sucks because you are the only brother in Glee Club as fly as me. Sam wrote: I am sir…sirhusly rowried.."

"I am seriously worried about you, because you are my best friend," Sam clarifies with a slight blush. "Sorry. Dyslexia gets worse when I'm emotional."

Blaine softens a bit. It's almost enough to get him to forgive Sam for luring him into this trap.

"Sugar wrote: You being a big old ho-bag is seriously bad for Glee Club rep. Joe wrote: You are fostering sin in the youth of the school. Unique wrote: You make me so mad, I just want to spank you. I just want to take you over my knee and pull down your pants and get a handful of that cute little tushy…"

She trails off, and everyone side-eyes Unique.

"Unique is a firm believer in radical honesty," she says in her defense.

Tina clears her throat. "Brittany wrote: All the unicorns are anorexic and homeless and selling themselves to buy cocaine. And there's a drawing."

She turns the letter around to show Blaine a rather horrifying crayon drawing of an alley of dangerously thin crackhead unicorns. It's downright shudder-inducing.

"Marley wrote: You're hurting yourself, and all the underclassmen who look up to you. Jake wrote: You made my big brother cry. I know I haven't known him that long but I am pretty sure I'm not cool with that."

Jake shrugs. "Blood is thicker, I guess."

Tina hands Blaine the letter. He takes it with a sigh. "Are you done?"

"Not yet," Artie says. "It's important for you to know where this path will lead you if you don't stop."

"I cheated once and got pregnant," Quinn says. "Not a real risk for you, but something to think about."

"There are all kinds of diseases out there," Mercedes says. "All it takes is one broken condom and BOOM. You're itchin' and oozing and popping nasty-ass pus warts for the rest of your life."

"Worst of all, if you keep going at this rate, it's just a matter of time until you wind up on national TV one day explaining yourself to Joey Greco," Santana says. "And no one should have to talk to Joey Greco."

"He's super-greasy," Britany nods. "If you tried to climb him, you would slide off."

Blaine massages his head in his hands. "Well, thank you for that. Is it my turn yet?"

"Just one more thing," Artie says.

Marley hesitantly steps forward. "My mom says 'Once a cheater, always a cheater,' and she's usually full of down-home country wisdom. But in this case, I'm breaking with her opinion. I think people can change if they want to, and everybody here agrees with me, so we got you these from Miss Pillsbury's office to help you on your path to redemption."

She hands him three pamphlets, titled as follows:

Your Cheatin' Heart: Dealing with Two-Timer's Guilt.

Oh No! I'm a Ho! :O

Bad Dick! Down, Boy! Ten Easy Tips for Quelling Unwanted Erections.

Blaine's jaw hangs open in mortified awe. He very nearly starts drooling.

Marley steps back in line, and Sam steps forward to finish. "I know it seems bad, dude, but we're all here to help you. We believe in you, and even if Kurt doesn't take you back—" Blaine flinches. "—we'll still be here for you. We can help you if you'll let us. Help us help you."

He steps back in line to a smattering of applause, and Blaine gathers his composure. "May I talk now?"

Artie nods. "Go ahead. Share your feelings with us."

Blaine stands up and hurls the pamphlets at the far wall.

"Rude," Unique says.

"You are all insane!" Blaine shouts. "I am not a whore—"

"Slut," Artie corrects.

"—or a slut, or anything else! I made a mistake—once—and now everyone thinks I'm the Tiger Woods of McKinley!"

"What does golf have to do with this?" Sam asks.

Blaine sighs. "I thought you guys were supposed to be my friends."

"We are your friends!" Artie says.

"Then why are you acting like this?" Blaine asks.

"We're trying to help you, fool!" Unique says. "Unfortunately, you are still in denial."

"I am not in denial!"

"And now he's denying his denial!" Tina says. "It's even worse than we thought."

Blaine's frustration can no longer even words at these people, so he just throws his hands up and growls.

"Come on, dude, why won't you just admit it?" Sam asks.

"There's nothing to admit!" Blaine says.

"So all you did with Sebastian was talk?" Sam says.

"Yes!" Blaine says.

Sam sighs. "Then how do you explain this?"

He pulls up a facebook picture on his smartphone and shows it to Blaine, and suddenly, all of Blaine's blood drops to his feet.

It's a picture of him in obviously oversized pajamas, sleeping soundly in a Dalton dorm room, taken as if the photographer was lying right beside him. The photo was posted that morning by none other than Sebastian Smythe, with the caption 'Look who's in my bed… ;)'

Blaine's heart runs the gamut. Shock. Betrayal. Anger. Sadness. Disappointment. Outrage.

Then, he realizes something. This is a public photo. He's tagged in it. Anyone can see it. Anyone.

And at that moment, something inside him snaps.

He starts laughing. Quiet first, but steadily getting louder and harder until he's practically howling. The glee club can only watch with wide eyes as Blaine completely fucking loses his shit right in front of them.

And in a split second, it stops, and Blaine stares at his peers with an odd sort of resignation.

"You know what?" Blaine says. "Fine. You want a meltdown? I'll give you a meltdown…"

And then it gets weird.

Blaine shrugs off his sweater vest and whips off his belt with a crack that could herd cattle. He untucks his shirt and rips it open with so much force that the buttons fly off (one of which ricochets off Artie's glasses). He runs frantic fingers through his hair, gel-be-damned, until it looks as wild and unhinged as the rest of him.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Sam asks.

"I'm just living up to expectations," Blaine says. "You already think I'm a whore—"

"Slut," Artie corrects.

"—so why not just run with it? It's not like anybody's gonna listen to me anyway, so fuck it. I'll be a slut. I'll sleep with everyone. I'll be looser than the plot of that god-awful Bryan Collins show Sing. I'll fuck anyone that asks nicely. I'll fuck anyone that asks. I'll fuck anyone at all!"

With wild eyes, Blaine starts strutting towards his fellow glee clubbers, only to have them quickly back away.

"What? What's wrong? You all look so shocked. Isn't this how you already see me? I'm a slut, might as well look the part, right? What do you guys think?" He picks at his clothes. "I could pull my pants a little lower. Should I lose the underwear? Oh, who am I kidding, of course I should! And clearly I'm wearing too many tops. What do you think—ditch the button-down for the tank-top, or vice versa? Or maybe I should go completely topless! Why bother with the wrapping when all anybody wants is the candy, am I right?

The club splits like the Red Sea to allow Blaine to start climbing the risers.

"Blaine, no offense, but you're acting a little crazy right now," Quinn says. "And this is from someone who knows her crazy."

"Crazy? What could be crazy about this?" Blaine turns a manic grin towards his gobsmacked audience. "I'm just going with the flow. The world has deemed me a slut, and I am done fighting. I mean, it's not like it matters anymore…" His smile stays constant, but his voice starts to quiver. "Because Kurt's never gonna speak to me again. And who can blame him? When he sees that picture, he's going to assume exactly what everyone else did. He's going to think I fucked Sebastian, and you know what's funny? You know what the most hilarious thing about it is?" And then he's yelling. "I have no fucking grounds to deny it!" He takes a shaky breath. "Because I did it once. I betrayed him, and slept with someone else, and now, as far as he and everyone else is concerned, I'll sleep with anyone for anything." He shakes his head. "It's over. I ruined… I ruined everything."

The room is stunned into silence. Sam actually starts to climb towards him, but Blaine goes from depressive to full-on manic in a split second and scares him back down.

"Whoops, made myself sad there," Blaine says. "Better fuck a random! Because that's just what Blaine Anderson does, you see. When he's sad, he fucks randoms. When he's lonely? He fucks randoms. When he's tired, or bored, or hungry, he fucks randoms!"

Blaine climbs onto a chair on the highest riser to deliver the grand finale. "So come on, world! I'm ready! Let's go! Let's get freaky. Let's get nasty. Let's just have a big old orgy, right here in the choir room! They're giving out free rides on the Anderson Express! Who wants to go first?"

Swear to god, at least two hands start to rise before being smacked down by those with better sense.

"Ah, screw it, I'll take you all at once! Come on, Glee Club! Let's fuck. Fuck everyone!" And his pointer finger starts flying. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you! But most of all…" With arms wide, he throws his head back and smiles at the sky. "Fuck me. Because I deserve it."

Stunned silence. Not even Quinn knows what to do with this pile of crazy.

"What are we supposed to do now?" Tina whispers.

"I don't know! This scenario was not covered in the Intervention Handbook!" Artie replies.

As the newly skankified Blaine stands with his arms wide, that familiar tingle starts to creep across his spine. Blaine looks down and—THERE. He ducked down as soon as Blaine looked at him, but it's too late. Blaine has him made. He's hiding in a fucking trashcan just outside the choir room.

"I see you, Burt!" Blaine says, and now no one has any idea what he's on about. He hops down off the risers. "Come on out, I'm ready. I'm not afraid of you anymore. I'm not afraid of anything, because I have nothing left to lose!"

He starts marching towards the exit, only for Sam, Jake, and Joe to form a human wall in his path.

"Out of my way," Blaine says. "Glee Club Charter, Section 11-f-6: The Rachel has unlimited flouncing privilege and may exit the club meeting without interference at any time, for any reason, because interference only delays the natural process of un-flouncing."

The club turns to Artie, who shrugs. "What? You expected a position called The Rachel to not be based on Rachel Berry?"

The human wall subsides, and Blaine eyes the trashcan with the frenzy of an incensed rhino. "Come on, old man! Let's dance."

And then Blaine Anderson sacks a trashcan with a force that would probably get Coach Beiste to put him on the football team. It takes a few moments of kicking and punching and wrestling with the garbage before he realizes that Burt is not, in fact, in the trash.

This only heightens his mania. "No… no, he was here. I know he was here, I saw him! He must be hiding in another trashcan!"

And so the Club heads out into the hallway, watching Blaine attack trashcan after trashcan with the kind of mortified fascination that only comes from watching the most horrific of trainwrecks.

"Great. Now my meltdown looks like an ice sculpture," Brittany says sadly. "I am the North Pole, and Santa Claus is within me."

CRASH.

"Someone should probably stop him," Artie says.

"Not it!" choruses most of the club.

Artie sighs. "Fine then. If you want something done right…"

Down the hall, Blaine is still fighting the War on Garbage, overturning can after can and growling in frustration each time Burt fails to appear (which is every single time). He's charging for his tenth can when suddenly, he catches sight of a familiar blue cap.

Greg the Janitor regards Blaine with the disappointment and resignation of a Buddhist monk about to set himself on fire out of protest. "Is there no bottom to your hate?"

Blaine has just long enough to come to his senses and survey the aftermath of his trash-scattering tornado before he is suddenly and painfully taken down by a ramming-speed Artie.

Minutes later…

The Glee Club bursts into Miss Pillsbury's office just long enough to drop off their struggling cargo.

Sam gives the low down. "Hi Miss P! We thought Blaine was a whore—"

"Slut!"

"—but it turns out he's just crazy and we would really like it if you could fix him, okay? Okay, bye!"

And then the club departs, leaving a rumpled, filthy, slightly battered Blaine Anderson sourly sitting across from her.

"I'm not crazy," he pouts.

Emma approaches the situation carefully. "Okay…" she says. "Can you elaborate just a bit? In what specific ways are you not-crazy?"

Blaine sighs. He's confessed to damn near everyone else. Why not her, as well?

So he tells Miss Pillsbury the whole sordid tale while the entire Glee Club stands outside gawking at him like a dolphin in an aquarium. Someone even has their face against the glass—Blaine can hear it squeaking.

When he finishes, Miss Pillsbury looks slightly taken aback. But then she goes into deep thought mode, and emerges with a question that takes Blaine by surprise. "Have you actually seen Burt?"

Blaine blinks. "Of course I have, I've seen him in—"

"I mean outside of disguises or hiding places. Have you seen Burt for longer than a second? Have you actually spoken to him at all?"

"…no," Blaine says. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, he is the odd man out here," Miss Pillsbury says. "Burt Hummel is one of the kindest, most reasonable people I've ever met. This seems wildly out-of-character for him."

"So, what?" Blaine says. "Are you saying I'm imagining him? Because Sam said the same thing about Santana and Mercedes and Quinn, and look how that turned out."

"Santana and Mercedes both have a history of violent reprisal for perceived wrongs against them, and Quinn Fabray is terrifying on a good day—please don't tell her I said that—but Burt Hummel is an adult. He is a Congressman and a small business owner. If nothing else, it seems very unlikely that he would have the time to stalk you with that degree of intensity."

"…huh," Blaine says. "I… never really thought of that."

Miss Pillsbury nods, and smiles gently. "Let me ask you this; before all this, before the cheating, what was your relationship with Burt like?"

Blaine looks away. "It was… it was wonderful, actually." He swallows. "He was kind and thoughtful and understanding and always willing to listen. He went out of his way to make me feel like I was welcome in his house. Like I was a part of his… family." A tear makes its way down his cheek before he can wipe it off.

Miss Pillsbury's big bright eyes soften with empathy. "I'm going to tell you what I think, and then you tell me what you think, okay?"

Blaine nods, still slightly choked up.

"I think your mind is conjuring phantoms of Burt Hummel to torment you because your guilt towards Burt remains unresolved. You were very eager to confess your wrongdoings to Kurt—which is wonderful—but other than Kurt, Burt is probably the person you feel that you betrayed the most, and you haven't faced him yet."

Blaine is stunned. He hadn't really thought of it that way, but now that she is saying it out loud, it makes perfect sense.

"I think you should go talk to Burt. The real one," Miss Pillsbury says. "You'll see he's nothing to be afraid of."

Blaine gulps, still just a bit nervous. "Are there any other options?"

"We could treat you for a serious mental illness that causes hallucinations and paranoid delusions…"

"I'll talk to Burt."

Blaine emerges from Miss P's office with hands in his pockets, looking small and ashamed.

"So, what's the deal?" Sam asks.

"I'm not crazy," Blaine says. "Not all the way, anyway. I've just got a little more guilt I need to offload." He swallows. "Sorry I flipped out on you guys."

"After the week you've had, we can't blame you," Tina says.

"You were listening?" Blaine asks.

"Unique is an insatiable gossip hound," Unique says. "But in her defense, she was concerned for a friend and wanted to know if she could help."

Blaine rolls his eyes and grins.

"We're sorry for forcing you to sit through the Cheatervention," Artie says. "It was kind of a dumb idea to begin with."

"It wasn't that dumb," Blaine says. "At least it came from a good place."

"As long as we're doing apologies, I'd like to throw mine on the pile," Mercedes says.

"Me, too," Quinn says.

"Me, three," Santana says. "As fun as it was to watch you squirm, it didn't help anyone and it just made a bad situation worse for you. Mea culpa."

Blaine shrugs. "I can't blame you for wanting to avenge a friend."

"But you're our friend as well," Quinn says. "And I think it's time we proved that. My girls and I are prepared to make up for our part in this, but I need one thing from you first." She walks up to Blaine, grabs his face and forces him to look at her straight-on. "Look me in the eyes and swear you never slept with Sebastian Smythe."

Quinn's eyes whisper promises dark and cold, speaking of torments born in the black void of space beyond the furthest stars, torments that would make demons in the deepest Hells shudder and cover their privates. Blaine looks into her eyes without fear and speaks the truth. "I swear I have never slept with Sebastian Smythe."

And just like that, Quinn's eyes are as warm as a summer sunrise. She smiles and lets him go. "Come, ladies. We have an appointment at Dalton…"

And just like that, the trio departs. Mercedes and Santana give him little smiles and waves as they go, and Blaine feels just the tiniest pang of sympathy for Sebastian.

"So… what now?" Sam asks.

"I've gotta talk to Burt," Blaine says.

"Ouch," Artie says.

"Yeah," Blaine says. "It would mean a lot to me if you guys could come and support me doing this…"

And suddenly, Blaine is buried under an avalanche of excuses.

Joe: "Sorry, leading Bible study. We're doing Song of Songs, and I have to make sure the kids don't hear the dirty parts, which is pretty much the whole book, so…"

Tina: "I have to get my daily meditation done. I'm mere days away from achieving enlightenment."

Unique: "Gotta wash and deep fry my hair."

Brittany: "Unicorn rehab. Lord Tubbington is leading. His story is super-inspiring, but he needs me to translate."

Marley: "Hat fitting!"

Sugar: "You're cute, but you're not worth dying for. Sorry!"

Jake: "I just really don't care that much. Good luck, though!"

At least the last two are honest.

In the end, only Artie and Sam are left. Artie looks at him carefully. "Just one question: Did you make Kurt cry?"

Blaine winces. "…yes."

Artie pats him on the arm. "Rest in pieces, buddy."

And he's off, and it's just Sam.

"I have to go pick up Stevie and Stacy from school," Sam says. "Like, seriously. I'm not making that up. I promised mom and dad I would and I'm already late."

"Damn it!" Blaine says. "Oh, well. This is probably something that I should do alone, anyway."

Sam gives him a reassuring hug. "You're not alone. I'll be with you in spirit. Just, like, imagine Ghost Sam floating over your shoulder, looking all badass with his arms crossed like Akinator. Oh, wait, that's even better! Imagine Genie Sam. Genie Sam is way cooler."

Blaine smiles and hugs him back. "Thanks, Sam. You're a great friend."

Sam shrugs. "It's what I do."

They hug for a few more moments.

Sam sniffs. "You might want to wash up before you go. Just FYI."

And that's how Burt Hummel winds up opening his front door to find a nervous, slightly rough-looking Blaine Anderson standing in front of him like a kicked orphan.

Burt takes one look at him and decides to have a little fun. "So, you decided to show up and face death with dignity? I can respect that. Just let me get my shotgun…"

Clearly, Blaine is not in the mood for fun, because the kid suddenly bursts into tears and falls on his knees to beg Burt not to kill him. Burt's a little freaked out, to be honest.

Once he convinces the kid that he does not now or ever intend to kill him, he gets him to come inside and gently pokes at him until he just lets it all out. The boy's a waterballoon of repressed feelings, and you've gotta be careful when you poke at him. Do it too hard, and he'll pop. Do it too soft, and you won't break through, and the pressure will keep building until he explodes. You want him to let it out nice and easy, like taking a whiz after a long roadtrip. It should be a relief.

And let it out, he does. Kid spills absolutely everything. Some of it, Burt already knew, some of it he didn't. All Burt has to do is sit back and listen and the kid just pours his heart out, takes his soul and stretches it across a rack for the whole world to see and begs for somebody, anybody, to tell him he isn't scum. Burt'll tell him now, and he'll bet the kids friends have told him already, but he'll probably have to hear it a bunch more before it starts to sink in. He's one of those kids. The ones that'll take every word you say as the gospel truth until you try and give 'em a compliment. Then they don't know what to believe in.

Near the end, the kid looks him right in the eye and goes "Why are you doing this? Why aren't you yelling at me? What I did was… terrible and… and… unforgivable and…"

"Here's the deal," Burt says. "If it comes down to your side versus Kurt's, you know whose side I'm gonna be on."

Blaine nods.

"The thing is," Burt shrugs. "We're already on the same side. You know that what you did was wrong. You know there's nothing you can say or do to excuse it. As far as you're concerned, Kurt's side is the only side there is. So the way I see it, I've got nothing to yell at you about."

Blaine blinks, like Burt just smacked him upside the head with some ancient Tibetan wisdom or some shit, and Burt has to fight not to roll his eyes. He's not that great.

"And as for unforgivable," Burt says. "That's for Kurt to decide. Whether or not he forgives you, takes you back, or even talks to you again—I got no say in that, and I won't push him, you understand? He's his own man now, and he has to decide what's best for him."

Blaine nods.

"Having said that," Burt says. "I don't tell Kurt who to like, who to be friends with, or who to hang out with, and the same goes in reverse. I decide who is welcome in my house, and I decide who I like and who I don't, and I like you, kid. What can I say? You wormed your way in."

Blaine looks down to hide his grin.

"As far as I'm concerned, you're always welcome here, and I'm always willing to talk. Things get to be too much, you need a place to hide out, or just an ear to listen to you blab about stuff, all you gotta do is show up. My door's open."

Kid looks like somebody told him he gets to have two Christmases every year for the rest of his life, and Burt feels like he's done something right for the day.

'Cause the simple truth is, the kid did worm his way into Burt's heart. When he heard about what Blaine did, he was pissed, Hell yeah he was pissed, but it wasn't shotgun-to-the-bastard-boyfriend-pissed. It was grab-the-kid-by-the-ear-and-yell-at-him pissed. It was 'What the Hell is wrong with you? What were you thinking? How could you be that dumb?' pissed. It was the anger a father feels when one of his kids screws up something they should know better. He already thought of Blaine as a member of the family, and once somebody's in that deep, you can't just pluck 'em out again. Doesn't work like that.

Nope, Blaine might as well be one of his own now, and it's a good thing too. The kid's a fighter. He's been fighting on his own for a long time.

And Burt thinks it's about damn time he had somebody in his corner.

By the time Blaine leaves Mr. Hummel—errr, Burt's house, the sun's little more than orange haze in the west. He feels drained and weary, but lighter than he has in weeks. All of a sudden, it seems like things might actually be okay. He still hasn't heard from Kurt, and he's got a lot to figure out about himself and who he is and who he wants to be, but for the first time in a long time… he feels like he might actually be able to pull it off.

When he gets home, he decides to check his phone one last time before bed.

You have 3 unheard messages.

Still nothing from Kurt. They're all Puck, but at least he seems to have calmed down a little bit. He starts to listen.

"YOU BASTARD! YOU JERK-FACED JERK OF A JERKMONGERING—"

Delete.

"Life is meaningless. Love is dead. Abandon all hope—"

Delete.

"Anderson, you listen to me. You and Kurt were fucking beautiful together, and both of you deserve a better ending than this. So you better win him back, you hear me? Whatever it takes, whatever you gotta do. If he wants you to slay a dragon, you put on your big boy pants and you get a sword and you slay that motherfucker. Fight, damn it. Fight for him, and for what you had together. Because if anything in this ugly world is worth fighting for, it's that. I still believe in you, man. Don't let me down."

Blaine stares down at his phone in silent awe for a few moments. And then he smiles.

CLICK.

Message Saved.

Sebastian Smythe's facebook page undergoes a dramatic update that afternoon. All of Sebastian's pictures are replaced with an animated gif of Sebastian's head photoshopped onto a meerkat dancing above flashing text that reads 'I AM THE KING OF SKANKS.'

All of his personal information is replaced with a disclaimer that he has never slept and will never sleep with Blaine Anderson, and that you probably shouldn't sleep with him either because he has All of the Diseases.

Kurt never sees Sebastian's photo of Blaine. He highly approves of the update.