Disclaimer: Not yours; mine. And beware, 'cause Paul packs a mighty pout.

Author's Notes: If you don't know who Robbie is by now ... I think I've explained it in other stories and it's fairly clear from context, anyhow. This one's short. Written for bodyandsoul100 "Children".

Temper

Out of all his classes, Michael thought he liked his sculpture lab best. He liked his English classes okay, liked analyzing poetry as long as it was rigid and structured like Alexander Pope or the other Neo-classicists, and enjoyed his other studio courses like acrylics or charcoal, but sculpture was the best. It wasn't something Michael often did outside of school and as such, was a form of relaxation for him.

Painting was his passion, but Michael could not call it his escape; he worried too much about the outcome, about making it perfect. Only sculpting, the clay moulding beneath his fingers — often times he had no idea what would happen until it was finished — eased the tension from his mind and muscles until he was almost in a trance. At the end of class he would look at the sculpture and be able to see his mood, his thoughts; it fascinated him.

It was difficult for anything to penetrate Michael's artistic haze if it took over him, and he had no way of knowing how many times the professor called his name before he noticed. "Huh?"

Paul stood next to Michael's stool, Robbie in his arms. Michael blinked and almost went for the schedule in his pocket, except he knew without having to look that Paul had a class now. "Is he okay?" Robbie had his face buried in Paul's neck so Michael could see his face, but that in itself was telling.

"No." Paul's expression was pained; whether it was a parental feeling or one born of years of taking care of so many siblings, Paul hated when he couldn't make a child stop crying. "He wanted to play the instruments and it was disrupting the class. He's usually good and it doesn't matter but he's in some sort of mood."

"Ohh boy." Michael looked at the professor, who'd returned to the front of the room to supervise the students — at least it wasn't a lecture period — and the man just smiled and nodded. This wasn't Michael's shift to bring the boy to class, but all their profs knew they took turns taking care of him when in school. Robbie was normally quiet and well-behaved, but he'd missed his morning nap in favour of drawing.

"I'll take him." Michael held out his arms and Paul transferred Robbie over; the boy's face was wet and his expression scrunched, and as he rubbed his cheek against Michael's shirt he sent Paul the crankiest, most ugly look Michael had ever seen on his face.

Paul's face crumpled, but he tried not to let it. Michael's insides made a funny jump; he held Robbie in one arm and extended the other hand to Paul. "Hey." Michael pulled him down for a quick kiss; Paul whimpered a little and pulled back a few seconds after he should have. "I'll get him calmed down."

"'Kay," Paul said quietly. His face worked; Michael could see he was struggling to keep the impassive parent face in case Robbie was looking, which he wasn't. Averting vision or keeping the eyes closed was the deaf child's equivalent of plugging his ears and singing "NEENER NEENER I CAN'T HEAR YOU", and Paul hated that. "I don't like him mad at me."

"We'll talk tonight, hon." Michael blew him a kiss and decided it was not the time to remind Paul that, with his siblings, no teary eye nor pouting lip could stir him a whit. "And c'mon. Kids get cranky when they don't get their way. He'll be fine."

One of the students brought over an extra stool, and Michael smiled his thanks. He had to watch it; if he wasn't careful, Robbie would end up with all manner of treats slipped his way, as the boy managed to charm most of the girls in the class without doing anything. He placed the stool on the opposite side of the table so they could talk to each other; Michael had done enough today and in other courses that he could afford to play a little for once.

He peeled off a lump of clay and handed it to Robbie, who accepted it with a small grin and began moulding it in his small hands. They worked in silence for a while, but Michael noticed that Robbie kept glancing up at him every few seconds. Finally, Michael raised an eyebrow. "You made Daddy upset."

Robbie's shoulders hunched and he squirmed a little on his chair. "I wanted to play."

Michael fixed him with a soft frown, eyebrows barely pinched together. "Robbie-baby, you know you can't in Daddy's class. People need to work."

Robbie's mouth twitched and he tugged at his bottom lip with his teeth. Finally he said, "He doesn't let me have fun."

He couldn't help it. Michael laughed outright. It was something he'd said to Pete countless times as a child, complaining that his father wouldn't let him do this or buy him that, back before he had much bigger things to worry about than playing close to the road.

"Honey, sometimes Daddies say no," he said. Robbie gave him a look that said he didn't like that very much, eyes slanted and lips pursed. "It's not 'cause we're mean. It's because you're doing something that's not safe for you, or not good. Or because it bothers other people. We don't say no to good things."

Robbie tore off a chunk of clay and smushed it against the tabletop with his fist, and Michael sighed. It was too much to ask that the child's almost uncanny good nature last forever. All he could hope was that he'd maintain a sense of restraint to go along with his sudden crankiness, or they were in for a time. Robbie was a good boy, but he suddenly were to be as un-held back with his bad moods as he was with his smiles, well.

He tapped the table in Robbie's eyeline to get him to look up. "Robbie-baby, Daddy and I are always going to say no to some things until you're big enough to see it for yourself. And you're probably always going to be mad when we do. But I want you to try not to do that to Daddy — if you're cross, talk to him. Don't close your eyes."

Robbie lifted one hand and dropped it heavily, flopping at the wrist; his version of a gusty sigh. "Maybe."

Mental note, Michael thought, teach Robbie how to argue constructively. Because — and here he chuckled inwardly — he and Paul were such experts at that. "We'll talk about it later, hon. For now let's just make things."

They didn't talk for the rest of the studio period, but when the professor waved and told them all they could leave, Robbie frowned and held onto his lump of clay. "Can I keep it?"

Not looking forward to two temper tantrums in one day and the alienation of both parents, Michael winced. "We can buy you clay for your very own."

"No, I need this one!" Robbie pointed at it. "I made it for Daddy."

"Oh?" Michael looked at it, but couldn’t make out any idea of what it was supposed to represent. "What is it, sweetheart?"

Robbie chewed his lip. "It's what 'I'm sorry' looks like."

Michael decided the school wouldn't miss such a small handful; and if they did, he'd darn well buy them a new bag tomorrow.