Disclaimer: These are my characters and I love them lots. Please don't do anything that isn't nice.

A/N: This rather silly and pointless one-shot is a gift for Siriusly James, for being one of 2 reviewers to comment on Waiting for a Miracle for 7 out of7 chapters so far. Yay! The request was for something Paul and Michael-ish. This is what they produced. James, I hope you like it!

Interruptions, Interruptions

If there was a better way to pass the time than making out with one’s gorgeous boyfriend, then Michael Walker didn’t know it. Sure, there was cuddling and sleeping and talking and doing absolutely nothing and of course sex, but all of that had its place. At the moment, there was no better position Michael could think of to be in other than right there, lying on Paul Fleming’s bed with the small boy on top of him, kissing deeply.

Of course, given what Paul’s hands were doing, it would be a miracle if Michael managed any coherent thought at all. This fact brought Paul no end of amusement; he loved to stop in the middle of whatever they were doing and ask Michael a simple math problem. Michael would blink up at him in bleary confusion while Paul’s pealing laughter filled the room.

Michael didn’t think it was that funny.

But Paul didn’t seem to be in the mood for that today, his hips shifting against Michael’s in a manner that suggested only one thing. Michael smirked a little, twisting his fingers into Paul’s black hair and pulling out the sparkly pink tie that held the strands from his face. Paul’s messy ponytail was his trademark, but in Michael’s opinion, he was even sexier when he let his hair down.

He felt Paul smile against his mouth, and then the hands at his waist were gone and were creeping under his shirt instead, tugging the material upward, and he raised his arms to facilitate the process. Michael was seriously considering abstaining from his usual habit of insisting that each article of clothing be put away immediately after removal (Paul said it was an instant mood killer), when . . .

“Paaaauuuul!”

The high-pitched voice made Michael jump, but Paul acted as though he hadn’t heard. “Shouldn’t you go see what’s wrong?” Michael asked out of obligation only, for he snaked his arms around Paul’s lithe body to pull him close.

“Naw,” Paul planted a kiss on Michael’s collarbone, “He’s whining, not really upset. It won’t be anything major.”

“Mm,” Michael let the matter drop; Paul knew his siblings better than anyone else did, he supposed. Paul just grinned and slipped his own halter top over his head, straddling Michael’s hips while the redhead just watched and appreciated.

Paul was just leaning down again when fists began pounding on the door in accompaniment to the pleading. This time, even Paul let out a surprised squeak. “Paaul! Mitchie stolded my crayons, an’ he ate the orange one, an’ he says he’s gonna smush th’ other ones, an’ . . . an’ . . .”

“I dinnit! I dinnit! ‘Tony’s lyin’! ‘Tony’s a lyin’ poopy doodie head!”

“’M not a stupid doodie head, YOU are! I hope you get sick from the crayon an’ I hope you poop turns green like the one you ate, and – OW! Paaaauuuulyyyy . . . Mitchie bited me! He bited me!”

“I dinnit! You LIE!”

Paul groaned, dropping his head onto Michael’s chest. “All right, give me a minute,” he sighed, “Mitchell knows he’s not supposed to bite, especially ‘Tony.”

“All right,” Michael kissed him once, quickly. “I’ll just lie here, dying of sexual frustration . . .”

Paul sent him a pained look over his shoulder as he pulled his shirt back on. “Michael, don’t. That’s not fair.”

“I know . . .” Michael grimaced, “We just don’t have much ‘us’ time anymore.”

“Believe me, I know,” Paul tucked the hem of his blouse into his skirt and cast about for a hair elastic. Failing that, the older boy smoothed the unruly strands as best he could and pushed them behind his elfin ears. Michael felt a surge of warmth toward his boyfriend, and he got to his feet, putting his arms around Paul and pressing his lips to the other’s forehead.

“Come on, let’s go deal with the kidlets,” Michael dressed himself and followed Paul out of the room; Anthony’s hysterics were growing more and more pronounced. Michael remembered Paul saying that his next oldest brother was paranoid about germs.

“Mitchell Adam Fleming, get back here!” Paul shouted, even before he opened the door; sure enough, the only child in the hallway was Anthony, still in tears and clutching a well-worn Crayola box. Paul took off after the sound of pattering feet and frightened squeals, after asking Michael to comfort Anthony.

“Hey, kiddo,” Michael sank into a crouch and touched the child’s cheeks, wiping away the tears. “Hey, hey, hey . . . Don’t cry, squirt.”

“I’m not a liar,” Anthony sniffled, his mouth down-turned in a pout. “An’ he bited me!”

“I know, big guy,” Michael took Anthony’s hand and led him to the washroom, smiling as the other’s fingers curled around his thumb. Nor for the first time, Michael wondered if his sister, had she survived, would have been as sweet as this boy was. “Pauly doesn’t think you’re a liar, buddy. Let’s get you cleaned up in the mean time.”

Mitchell’s sharp baby teeth had actually managed to break the skin on Anthony’s arm, and Michael winced. He expected the boy to howl when he applied alcohol to the abrasion, but once he explained that he was killing the germs, Anthony bore the sting with easy humour, chatting about the pictures he’d been drawing and the games he played in his head. As usual, Michael was charmed.

Eventually, Paul marched Mitchell back to them, where after much glaring and scuffling, the toddler gritted out an apology and promised not to eat any more crayons or do any more biting. Anthony had already forgotten and forgiven the transgressions, and he skipped off, humming tunelessly.

Crisis safely averted, Paul and Michael walked back to their room as casually as possible, Michael with one hand resting on the small of Paul’s back, though he doubted that either of them felt nonchalant. He, for one, chafed at every moment not spent in Paul’s arms; with their hectic work schedules, it was rare that they had a night, like now, that they could have together.

Paul kicked the door shut and pounced on Michael, the force of his leap knocking them backwards onto the double bed, and it was not long before they reached the point at which they had been interrupted before.

“I love you,” Michael said between kisses, hooking his fingers in Paul’s belt loops and easing the short garment downward. “You’re beautiful.”

Usually, they weren’t much for talking during their sessions together, but Michael was filled to bursting with adoration for the other teenager, and he couldn’t help it.

“Love you too, handsome,” Paul’s words were muffled, as he did not bother to break away to speak, and Michael felt heady.

Michael had just outstretched his arm in the direction of the nightstand when Elizabeth rapped lightly on the door. He knew it was Bethy, because her knocking always carried an apologetic undertone.

“Michael, are you in there?” she asked, and Michael could have cried. Would there ever be a time when they wouldn’t have to wait until 3 a.m. in order to avoid distractions? “It’s just that I have a history paper due Monday, and I was wondering if you could look I over for me, maybe give me a few pointers? It’s an essay on what I think was the most important contribution that the Ancient Romans left us, and I was thinking —“

Elizabeth shared Paul’s quality of not knowing when to stop talking, Michael thought, and he was about to reply when he heard additional footsteps outside the door.

“Whatcha doin’, Bethy?”

“Asking Michael to help me with something,” Elizabeth slipped into Patience Mode. Michael ran his hands through his now tangled hair and contemplated the cost of a total soundproofing.

“You just want to see him because you have a crush on him!” obnoxious, sing-song, female voice . . . definitely Jolene.

“I do not, Jo. Michael is gay. You know that.”

“Well, which one do you like, then?”

“No one.”

“You do, too! I saw it in your diary, which you shouldn’t leave around if you don’t want people to read, by the way —“

“Jo-LENE! You read my DIARY?” all pretense of the mother-tone was burned up in a fit of indignant, teen-girl-privacy rage.

“Pete! That’s who it is; you have a crush on Peeete! Pete and Beth-y, sittin’ in a tree!”

“Jolene, you are going to be in so much trouble —“

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G! First comes love —“

Paul stormed across the room, throwing on his housecoat en route, and he whipped open the door so hard that the knob slammed against the wall. Both girls screamed, and Michael tuned out Paul’s tirade, knowing it was one from the oldest sibling’s stockpile of speeches for every domestic disturbance. Michael crossed his arms behind his head and gripped his wrists, stubbornly, and willed himself not to take a running jump at Paul and snog him right there.

After Jolene was duly chastised and Elizabeth both consoled and given promise of an essay review session at an unspecified date and time, Paul returned to the bed. His bright green eyes blazed, a mixture of passion of frustration, but before he even undid the tie on his house robe, Tiffany, a.k.a. Ravyyn Moonlight, interrupted them, her monotone filtering through the closed door.

“Paul, did you wash my shirt yet, the one Shannon threw up on? Because —“

“THAT’S IT!” Paul roared, startling Michael. He yanked on the nearest article of clothing, which happened to be Michael’s boxers, and stomped outside the room. Ravyyn looked at her brother and his state of undress, and her eyebrows skyrocketed.

“Everyone who’s not Mom, come into my room, NOW!” Paul’s voice thundered through the house, and Michael shook his head. His boyfriend didn’t raise his voice often, but when he did, watch out.

It then dawned on Michael that he was naked in a room that would soon fill up with impressionable, scar-able children. He glanced around for something to wear, but his pants were across the room, and that would require him exposing himself even more. Michael settled for dragging the sheets up around his hips and hoping none of Paul’s siblings caught on. Though, judging from the smirk that twisted Ravyyn’s black lipstick-ed mouth as the preteen sat backwards on Paul’s desk chair, at least one of them already knew.

Once the requisite crowd assembled, Paul swung his legs up onto the bed and stared them all down. “Listen,” he said, firmly, “If my door is open, you know you can come in at any time, for whatever reason. But I’m making a new rule. When it’s closed, you can’t come in. You can’t yell through the door. You can’t knock. You may write your requests on a piece of paper and slip it under the door for me to read later.”

Jolene thrust out her lower lip. “But what if I knock first?”

“What did I just say?” hands on hips, Paul cocked his head. “No knocking. The only time you’re allowed to bother me when the door is shut is if one of you is badly hurt, sick, or dying, or if the house is on fire. Got it?”

Michael tried not to snicker at Paul’s melodrama, knowing his amusement would only exacerbate things. Most of the children nodded, but Mitchie crossed his short arms. “Why?” he demanded, complete with a head toss for effect. The kid was a redhead in more ways than one.

“Because,” for a horrifying second, Michael thought Paul was going to go into detail. “Sometimes, Michael and I need our private time.”

“Like Mommy-Daddy private time?” Jolene, at ten, was the youngest sibling to remember life before the departure of their father. She wrinkled her nose.

“Yes!” Paul seized upon the analogy like a cat on a stray shoelace. “Exactly! Michael and I need alone time, same as Mommies and Daddies do.”

Fortunately, no one brought up the point that neither Michael nor Paul were female, but Miitchell did play the ‘why’ card again.

“Well, you can come in if you really want to,” Paul lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “But I’m warning you, if you do, you’re going to see . . . THIS!” upon the last word, Paul climbed onto Michael’s lap and proceeded to join their mouths with a wet smack.

Amid the various shouts of “Ew, kissy-kissy!” and “Ugh, grownup stuff,” and other such comments, Michael knew he should hold back. But Paul was an excellent kisser even at the worst of times, sometimes aggressive, sometimes submissive, at other times matching Michael play for play, and right now, Michael was almost horny enough to begin doing inappropriate things to inanimate objects. This, coupled with only two thin layers of cotton between him and Paul’s body, made for no contest.

Eventually, a soft cough brought them back to their senses. Michael opened his eyes and almost bit off Paul’s tongue; Elizabeth and Anthony remained in the room. Anthony grinned as he always did, but Elizabeth looked almost strangled.

“So,” she choked out, and Michael had the sense that if life were shoujo manga, Bethy’s eyes would be the size of dinner plates, and her nose would be gushing blood. “If we want to, can we watch?”

“GET OUT!”