One more in honor of Father's Day - I think I've posted this before but I love writing Mickey and Yevgeny so here's a scene with Dad Mickey. Yevgeny may be a toddler here but as the child of Mickey and Svetlana, he was absolutely born to be a little menace 👶🏻😈😂
Mickey’s unexpected father/son day was not going exactly to plan, unless the plan was for a toddler to be beating the fuck out of him while screaming at the top of his lungs in Russian.
“Igrat! Igrat! Igrat!” Yevgeny punctuated his demand by banging his Tonka truck repeatedly on Mickey’s legs.
“Fuck! OK, OK!” Wincing, Mickey reached down and picked up the todder. “I still don’t understand what the fuck you’re saying, you know,” he informed his son.
Yevgeny blinked at him innocently and Mickey sighed. “OK, you and I gotta have a little talk, man to man,” he sat Yevgeny down on the ragged sofa and knelt before him. “See, I'm supposed to be getting you to speak English and your mom is giving me nothing but shit about it. So how about we forget about Mother Russia for a while and bring it on home to the good ol’ US of motherfucking A, alright? Here,” Mickey looked around. “How about we practice a bit, whaddya say?”, he reached down and picked up Yevgeny’s truck. Can you tell me what this is?
“Mashina!” Yevgeny said promptly and grinned when Mickey’s eye twitched.
“Try again, kid. Truck,” Mickey enunciated the word slowly. “Can you say that for me? Truck?”
“Mashina! “ Yevgeny repeated stubbornly, jaw jutting out, and Mickey sighed, setting the truck on the desk. “Ok, let's try again. We'll pick something you really like,” he dug his phone out of his pocket, opening his texts. For once, the daily cat pictures Colin sent him might actually come in handy. “K, first, let’s test out what you know. Who’s in this picture?” he opened Colin’s most recent text and showed the picture to Yevgeny; one of Colin cradling his brown tabby cat in his arms. “Who’s that, huh?” he asked again.
Yevgeny shoved a finger in his mouth, uncharacteristically quiet. He looked at his father with big eyes and didn’t answer.
“OK, too much pressure, I get it. Can you point to Uncle Colin?”
Some of Yevgeny’s reticence resolved and his smile came back. He tapped Colin’s face on the phone and looked at Mickey for approval.
“See, you understand what I’m saying!” Mickey encouraged. “Put it there, little man,” he held up his palm and Yevgeny slapped it, giggling.
“OK, let’s try again,” Mickey returned his attention to the phone. “Where’s the kitty cat, huh?”
Yevgeny tapped the screen again, this time over the cat.
“See, this is fucking awesome. Now we’re communicating,” Mickey grinned at his son. “OK, so can you say that? Say cat for me?”
Yevgeny stared at Mickey.
“Please? Say cat!” Mickey encouraged again. “Just say this one word for me, and I’ll leave you alone. Deal? Can you say it? Cat?”
“Gato,” Yevgeny chirped.
“Gato? Ga - is that fucking Spanish??” Mickey stared at his son. Yevgeny grinned toothily back at him.
“OK, now I know you’re fucking with me,” Mickey would have continued, but the phone he was still holding went off abruptly. “This isn’t over, kid. No more Dora the Explorer for you. I’m cutting you off,” Reluctantly, he turned his attention away from his son to look at the display.
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Prompt request? Mickey and Ian have a newborn baby girl and Franny is upset about it. Everyone thinks its because shes not the only little girl in the family now. But Franny shocks everyone when she tearfully admits that "She wanted Uncle Mickey to be HER Daddy."
So this is...less than a year old at least, which is more than I can say for the rest of my inbox. And chosen by an RNG to be my first foray back into speedwrites!
Father Figure--AKA: 5 Times Franny Hated Her New Cousin (+1 Time She Didn’t (also on AO3)
1. It starts at the hospital. The lights are bright, the room is cold, and a gown-clad Debbie is placing a tiny pink bundle into Ian’s waiting arms.
“You did it,” Ian breathes, gathering it close to his chest. “You did it, Debs, she’s perfect.”
“I don’t know about that,” Mickey challenges. “She’s got Milkovich in her, after all.”
But he smiles when Ian turns toward him, and his eyes are wet and shining.
“Do you want to hold our daughter?” Ian asks, and Mickey is already reaching out. He sits on the edge of the bed with the baby in his arms, and sighs.
Franny sits beside him, her short legs dangling. She leans against his side, but his arms are occupied.
“That’s your cousin, Franny,” Debbie says. Franny can feel her mom’s feet twitch under the covers. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
Franny considers the blob in her Uncle’s lap. It’s red and wrinkled and ugly, and he’s looking at it like it’s the best thing in the world.
“It looks like a potato,” she blurts. Jumps off the bed before her mom can kick her.
“I don’t like potatoes.”
2. It’s Friday afternoon, and Franny ran right to her room after school. She’s halfway through packing her overnight bag—pajamas, check, stuffed racecar from Uncle Mickey, check—when her mom catches up.
“Franny.” It’s a sigh, it’s always a sigh these days. Like she was named with the last bit of patience someone had.
“What are you doing?”
Franny looks at her bag. Looks at the blanket in her hand.
“Getting ready.”
“For what?”
“For movie night.”
“Fran, hon.” Her mom pushes off the doorframe, steps into the room. “You’re not going to your Uncles this week.”
“Yuhuh,” Franny argues. “We’re watching Cars.”
They’d made the plans weeks ago. She’d marked the days off on her silly princess calendar with the stickers Uncle Ian had given her.
“Not this week you’re not,” her mom says. “They’re busy with the baby.”
Franny thinks about this. Shrugs.
“She can come I guess.”
Her mom laughs.
“Fran, that’s not how it works. A baby can’t—“
Franny doesn’t hear the rest. She’s already halfway down the stairs, blanket discarded on the floor.
3. It’s eight o’clock in the morning, and Franny has never been this anxious for anything in her life. The table is still littered with sticky breakfast dishes, and her socked feet are wet and cold as the snow seeps through them.
“Where’s Uncle Mickey?” she asks from the open door, shivering in the December air.
“What do you mean?” The question comes from behind her, warm at her back. “He’s at home.”
“No he’s not,” Franny says. “They’re not here yet.”
“What…oh,no.”
Footsteps behind her. The door taken from her grip. Hands on her sides, picking her up—a grunt with the effort—and she’s set back down on the tile inside.
“He’s at his own house, Fran.” Her mother turns her around, looks in her eyes. “With Ian and the baby.”
“But they’re always here for presents,” Franny whispers.
“They’ll be over later for dinner with everyone else,” her mom answers, and that isn’t good enough. They’re not supposed to be everybody else.
4. Franny’s eyes are still smarting from the stage lights when she stumbles out of the dressing room and into her mom’s arms.
“Franny!” She’s picked up and whirled around, set back on unsteady feet. “You were great, honey, a real prima ballerina!”
But Franny isn’t listening. She’s looking for someone else, someone who promised he would be there.
“Did he miss it?”
Her mom stops talking.
“Who?” she asks, and Franny scowls.
“Uncle Mickey. Did he miss it?”
“Oh.” Her mom laughs. “No, he was here. He watched the whole thing.”
“Then where is he?”
He was supposed to bring her flowers. The good ones, their favorites. And then he was going to take her out for ice cream, and let her ride in the front of the car with him, and—
“He had to run,” her mom says. “Your Uncle Ian called, the baby had a fever, and—“
Franny started walking.
5. “Why is she here?”
It’s the first thing Franny says when she opens the door to her two Uncles and the baby-pink monstrosity of her cousin’s stroller.
“Uh.” Mickey answers first, exchanging a look with Ian and rubbing a hand over his chin. “She’s a little young to be home alone, don’t ya think?”
It’s light, like a joke. She doesn’t think it’s funny.
“But why is she here?” Franny emphasizes. “With you?”
He looks confused, now.
“Because I’m her dad?” he says. “Franny, what—“
“You’re supposed to be my dad!”
The silence after her outburst is deafening.
“You…”
Her eyes are closed. She doesn’t open them. She doesn’t even bother to slam the door when she turns tail and runs straight to her room.
He finds her there a few minutes later. Too long. Not long enough. He sits next to her bed with a groan as his knees fold, and leans his head back against the mattress.
He doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t either. But her sniffles dry up, and he pats her ankle where it hangs over the edge of the bed, and he stays.
“I know you’re not my dad,” Franny admits. The words are raw in her already sore throat.
“No,” Mickey agrees. “I’m better.”
It earns him a ragged little giggle, almost without Franny’s own permission.
“You know,” he starts once she’s calmed down again, “you’re kinda the reason we have her.”
And Franny doesn’t really like that.
“Why?” she asks, and thinks she knows the answer.
“Never thought I’d be much of a dad,” Mickey answers. “But hanging out with you…you made me realize I could.”
Oh. That wasn’t what she was expecting.
“I did?”
“Hell yeah, kid.” Mickey leans his head back, looking at her upside down from his place on the floor. “You’re a badass, and for some reason you seem to like, me, so…”
“You’re my favorite Uncle,” Franny tells him, and watches him grin.
“And you’re my favorite Franny.”
+1. The others are all there when they come back downstairs. Mom and Uncle Ian are exchanging weird looks, Uncle Lip is pretending to drink, and Tami and Uncle Carl are on the floor playing with Fred and the baby.
They all avert their gazes when Uncle Mickey, standing next to her, glares at them.
“You wanna come hang with me and Ian, kid?” Mickey asks her.
And she does. She really does. But she wants to do something else first.
“I want to play,” she says instead, and plops right down on the carpet next to the younger kids.
She knows the adults are all watching. She doesn’t really care. The only eyes she’s concerned with are Uncle Mickey’s, and the pale blue orbs on the face in front of her.
“That’s not how you do it,” she says, and takes away the block the baby is slobbering all over.
“Franny, why don’t you—“
She ignores her mom, and puts one block on top of another.
“You do it like this,” she says sternly, and then kicks the tower down.
The baby shrieks with laughter.
“Let them play,” Mickey says in the background. “My girl knows what she’s doing.”
Next time, Franny helps the baby knock the tower down.
GLADLY!! PROTECTIVE DAD MICKEY MAKES MY BRAIN GO BRRR
Their kid's "friend" has come over for some project or assignment or something and mickey's so ANNOYING about it. “Keep the door open 3 inches 🤨” *randomly checks in to see if all's ok* *opens the door even farther as he leaves* *lurks in the hallway for a bit before ian drags him away*
*leaves his brass knuckles somewhere in plain sight*
“You know not to fuck with Milkoviches, right?🤨 She's got scary relatives.” *gets dragged to the kitchen by ian* “No, I'm not threatening him Ian, don't be stupid. I'm just making small talk that's all 😊”)
Get her back home by 7 SHARP 🤨. *stares at the clock till it's 7 and then stares impatiently at the door till he hears a knock* “It's 7:03. I'd said 7 sharp 🤨”
😁Hey. Before you leave 😁 Don't ever hurt her or I'll break all your knuckles 😁 Cool? Cool. Nice chat 😁
ok we need some daddy mickey headcanons now too. to be fair of course
oh 🥺 okay 🥺
mickey's really into floor time. like when she's able to roll over and almost crawl... they lay on the floor together and play with toys. she likes the ones with lots of colors, and mickey talks to her about colors and shapes. maybe she'll be an artist 😌
he loves the carrier - like the one that's a wrap? he likes having her close to his chest while he's puttering around the house. he'll just be walking around, doing his thing, but he keeps a hand over her little head 🥺
mickey also loves bath time. he likes watching her splash and play. but his family never really cared if he was clean or comfortable, so he cherishes giving her that attention
When their daughter is four, Ian enrolls her in dance. The classes are objectively hilarious and adorable to watch, and her little leotards and tutus and teeny tiny dance shoes absolutely kill him with how precious they are. And she LOVES it, executing every wobbly move with as much joy and focus as she can muster. But one of Ian's favorite parts is Mickey's unexpected interest. He knew Mickey would of course come to her recitals and be her biggest supporter next to Ian. What he didn't expect was how enthusiastic he would be about it, how cute he so obviously found the whole thing, no matter how much he tried to feign nonchalance (never disinterest, though) in the beginning. When she asks for help practicing at home, he holds her hands to help her steady herself as she focuses on her steps, a huge, delighted smile on his face. He starts coming with Ian to watch her cute little classes so he can know the steps too and better help her when she's bouncing around the house and trying to remember what she learned. He learns from Debbie how to get her hair in a perfect little top knot for her recitals. He is obviously so endeared by the whole thing, and Ian loves Mickey's sweet enthusiasm as much as he loves watching their daughter have fun. It's a little disappointing when she loses interest the next year, both of them missing her jumping around and dancing in their living room. Ian misses the teeny dance shoes and her wobbly steps and the adorable classes. And he misses watching Mickey hold her little hands and help her practice. But of course he ends up being just as helpful and enthusiastic about every other activity or sport they sign her up for, because that's just how he is. So Ian has no shortage of moments where he gets to watch his husband and daughter bond over her activities over the years.
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if you are still doing the wish you'd write a fic thing....
i kinda have two requests because i love your writings/opinions/consider your future stuff as totally canon, so..
everyone always thinks ian and mickey's little girl (because they totally need to have a girl lbr) goes to ian for comfort, but i'd like to see her go to mickey too. so i wish you'd write a fic where mickey comforts their girl.
second thing... i wish you'd write a fic with them and a newborn <3
Hi Anon, thank you for prompting me and for being lovely!
Not gonna lie, I've been struggling with words and inspiration today, but in the last five minutes I now have a completely new headcannon involving how Ian and Mickey acquire not just one, but two daughters (and eventually a son) by the "local stray" method. It'll take a lot of work to turn into something, though, so for now have this itty bitty snippet as today's untitled speedwrite!
--
Mickey woke to the bed shifting under him, displaced by the weight of the child trying in vain to climb up onto the mattress. He rolled over with a groan, sitting up just enough to get his hands under tiny arms and hoist his daughter up to rest next to him, now accustomed to the sudden appearance of small children when he was trying to sleep.
He tugged the covers up higher and closed his eyes again, but it wasn't long until the kid was poking at his face with sharp little fingers.
"Ugh, what?" he rasped, voice thick. "I'm tryin' to sleep here, go bug your dad." It wasn't unusual for one of the kids to come in after Ian was up, but they normally at least let Mickey keep resting.
The poking stopped, and he relaxed back into the plush bed, eager to fall back asleep. Then he heard a telltale sniffle, and he was awake in an instant instead.
"The fuck's wrong?" he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His daughter was kneeling next to him, crying quietly, tears leaving tracks down her face. She wiped her dripping nose with her arm, and Mickey winced, reaching for the edge of the sheet to clean her up.
He wiped her face, then propped himself up against the pillows and opened his arms.
"C'mere, kid," he prompted, and she fell forward into his chest, curling up tight against him. She nestled her head against his heart, listening to it beat, as Mickey ran a soft hand up and down her back.
"Gonna tell me why you're cryin'?" he asked after a few minutes, but she just shook her head against him. He shrugged, and held her tighter. "Alright," he said, "fair enough."
Eventually, she quieted, and started to pull away. He let her go, knowing what it was like to need space after letting go like that.
"You ok now?" he asked, and she nodded, eyes focused on the bedspread.
"Don't tell daddy?" she asked, not meeting his eyes.
"Don't tell him what?" Mickey retorted, flicking her chin up with one hand. "You haven't even told me anything yet, kid."
That earned him a tremulous smile, at least. "That I was cryin" she answered, "he'll worry."
Mickey snorted. "Fuck that." He bent to bring their faces level, and waited until she looks at him. "You rather make me worry, huh?"
"No, poppa," she relented, then murmured something he couldn't hear.
"What was that, mumbles?"
She took a deep breath, then said, all in one go, "Don't wanna go to school the boys they're mean and they won't let me play guns and Tommy says I should do girl stuff and I said guns are for girls too and he said if I had a mommy I'd know better and--"
"Whoa whoa whoa!" Mickey cut her off. "Jesus, take a breath, kiddo, you're gonna have a stroke or somethin'."
Her eyes widened, and he cursed himself for forgetting that--
"I'm gonna die like--"
"No!" he yelped. "It's just a, a saying, you're fine." He really needed a better filter, but in his defense, he had just woken up. "Why don't you want your dad to know?" he asked, desperate to get her back on track.
It worked, thankfully; he blessed the wonders of a child's short attention span.
"He tries to fix stuff," she said.
Mickey understood immediately. "You're worried he'll talk to the teacher again, aren't you?" He had done that last year when some asshole little kid had tripped her on the playground; the end result had been a forced apology from the boy in front of the whole class, after which the rest of the kids had either taunted her for being a wimp or tried to help protect her. She hadn't been sure which bothered her more, and he didn't blame her.
"Tell you what," he decided. "We're gonna tell your dad." He held up a hand to halt her protests, and continued.
"We're gonna tell him, and then you're gonna play hooky and ride with us today." She lit up at that; she loved doing pick-ups. They got some weird looks sometimes for taking a kid in an armored ambulance on weed runs, but it was only the cushy routes, and no one was going to complain as long as deliveries were on time.
"And then," he said as he swung his legs over the side of the bed to stand, his daughter shuffling toward the edge of the mattress on her knees. "Then, we're gonna sit down, and we're gonna talk about how you--you, not us," he emphasized, "are going to handle this."
He stretched, then reached down to help her off the bed as well. "That sound okay to you?"
She nodded, face serious. "What if I wanna punch 'em?" she asked, and he shrugged.
"Then you deal with it by punchin' 'em, I guess." Not like he could say shit about that. "How I used to deal with stuff. But your dad," he grinned down at her, "he might have another idea. "
Her face screwed up. "A better idea?"
"Hey, I didn't say that," he protested. But then he lowered his voice, crouching down to be on her level again. "But he did get a kid in so much trouble, once, that he never touched him again. Kid even cried about it after," he confided.
She thought, then agreed, "I guess that sounds okay. And I won't get yelled at then."
Good kid, Mickey thought. Gotta have priorities.
"Alright, let's go track down your dad then, huh?" He ruffled her hair, laughing at the annoyed face she made as she pushed his hand away and tried to fix it. "If you ask real nice, maybe he'll make us banana pancakes before work."
i wish you'd write a fic where mickey reluctantly goes on a picnic with ian (maybe with their baby girl and dog?)
This is a great excuse for a little more of my new headcanon where they pick up a couple strays. I have to apologize, though, because this is probably not as fluffy as you imagined—there’s a pretty heavy backstory that’s hinted at. I tried to add some cute things too, though!
For the curious, first mention of their oldest daughter Brit (Mickey calls her Brat) here and of the dog, Basil, here.
---
“You want to go on a what?” Mickey asks incredulously as his husband putters around their small kitchen, putting together sandwiches.
“A picnic, Mick,” Ian replies, his head currently stuck inside the open fridge. He pops out long enough to give Mickey a look. “And don’t act surprised, I told you yesterday.”
Mickey holds out his arms, palms up. “Do I look like I knew this was comin’?” He moves out of the way as Ian closes the fridge and rounds the counter, lunchmeat in hand. “I didn’t know you were serious, man!”
Ian sighs, laying ham on bread and reaching for a knife to spread the mustard. “What’s the problem, huh?” he asks. “You don’t want to have a nice day with us?”
“Hey, don’t you do that,” Mickey commanded, pointing a finger at him. “Excuse me if I don’t want to take a toddler and fucking dog to a damn tourist trap.”
Ian rolls his eyes as he finishes the sandwiches, setting them neatly in a piece of tupperware that Mickey doesn’t remember owning. “It’s not a tourist trap, Mick,” he says patiently, “it’s a park. And your daughter wants to go.”
Mickey scoffs, trying not to soften too noticeably. Ian knew he always gave in when he used the d word. “Yeah, she wants to go cause someone showed her a bunch of pictures yesterday.”
“I was trying to keep her occupied, Mick,” Ian says for what feels like the millionth time. “She just saw her mom in the hospital, she needed a distraction.”
“That bitch has never been her mom,” Mickey starts to respond, and Ian glares at him.
“Told you not to say that shit,” he says lowly, casting his eyes around for their daughter. “She doesn’t need to hear it.”
“Relax, she’s in her room,” Mickey tells him, but he stops anyway. Well, stops the name-calling, at least. “But you know I didn’t agree to lie to her, Ian, that’s all your brilliant idea.”
Returning to the fridge to grab a few cold pops, Ian blows out a breath. “And I told you, we’re not lying. We’re just…,” he stands there for a second with the door open, considering, before finishing with, “we’re just holding back a bit until she’s older.”
Mickey’s mouth is twisted, but when Ian comes closer to put a hand against his face, it relaxes. “Just for a little bit, Mickey, ok?” Ian asks softly. “Just let her think she’s a normal kid for a little longer. Longer than we got to.”
And fine, Mickey could do that. He nods.
Ian smiles, pecks him on the lips and pulls away. “Good,” he says. “I’ll go get Brit, you get Basil, and we’ll get on our way in a few minutes.”
Mickey stands still in the corner of the kitchen for a long moment, listening to his husband call out for their kid. “We’re goin’ on a picnic,” he mutters to himself. “With a kid and fucking dog. How the hell did I end up here?”
He whistles, hears the patter of small paws against tile as said dog comes careening around the corner from the living room. Basil comes to a sudden stop against Mickey’s legs and drops his rear to the floor with a thump, tail whipping rhythmically against the wooden counter. Mickey sighs as he grabs the leash off the hook on the wall behind him and bends down to attach it to the dog’s bright red collar.
“At least you’re not wearing a fucking sweater,” he tells Basil solemnly, and sputters when Basil rewards him with a lick across the face.
—
They’re almost there on the L, Brit clinging to Ian’s leg on the crowded train and Mickey trying not to let on that he has a 40 lb dog hidden in giant fucking tote bag between his feet. Thankfully, Basil is great at playing dead—Mickey taught him that one himself—so the biggest difficulty will be carrying him out without getting a hernia.
The kid tugs at Mickey’s pant leg as the train rounds a corner, and he looks down to see her grinning up at him through wisps of dark hair that escaped her messy pigtails.
“Are we goin’ to see the baby?” she asks excitedly, lisping a bit as her tongue hits the space where her front teeth used to be.
“Uh,” he says, looking to Ian for guidance. Ian is pretending not to listen, though, the bastard. He looks back down into his daughter’s dark eyes.
“Not today, Brat,” he tells her, and keeps going before she can pout. “We told you it’s gonna be a while, yeah? Your sister’s not done bakin’ yet.”
“Like a cake!” she exclaims. Mickey sees a little old woman smiling at them, and wonders if she’d think it was so cute if she knew half the story.
“Yeah, like a cake, kid,” he agrees.
“But where are we goin’?” she asks next.
Mickey absently tucks a longer strand of loose hair behind her ear, and answers, “Remember that place your dad was showin’ ya the other day?”
She gives a delighted gasp just as the announcement is made for Lake Station, and when she sees him bend to hoist up the bag they’ve hidden Basil in, she dashes for the now-open doors.
“Hey, wait!” he calls after her, but Ian beats him to the door with his long, unburdened stride, catching up to her quickly and leaving Mickey to deal with everything else.
Mickey looks down into the open tote, and Basil blinks an eye open to look back from where he’s curled around the container holding their lunch.
“Typical,” Mickey mutters, and hobbles off the train in pursuit.
—
Thankfully, the kid was more interested in seeing the gardens and the lakefront than any of the crowded, no-dogs-allowed areas, so after a few quick pics of her fooling around in front of the Bean, they get settled in with minimal fanfare toward the center of the park.
Mickey is leaning back on his elbows on the ratty blanket they brought, picking at his sandwich and watching his little girl run wild over the grass as Ian and Basil chase her, their own meals half-eaten and forgotten beside him. He watches as Ian catches her, the two of them falling to the ground in a tangle of limbs as Basil’s leash wraps around them, the dog running circles around his humans. Mickey laughs when Ian tries to stand and promptly falls back over, having to stop and free his damn giraffe legs from the leash before he tries again.
Ian kisses their daughter on the head and hands the dog off to her as he gets up, heading back toward Mickey. There’s no need to worry about whether she can handle it—Basil may weigh almost the same as her, but the dog had always been careful with her since she came to stay with them more than a year ago.
“This isn’t so bad, is it?” Ian asks softly as he approaches. He collapses onto the blanket next to Mickey, just close enough to press their legs together. He lets a hand rest between them, and Mickey shifts his weight off one elbow so he can take it, twining their fingers together. His eyes are on their children, the human and the furred, but he can see Ian smile from the corner of his eye.
“Nah,” he murmurs quietly. “Guess not.”
Ian leans in and presses a kiss to the side of his neck, then to his cheek. “Just think,” he whispers into Mickey’s ear, “in a few months we’ll have another one.”
Mickey can’t help but snort. “Yeah, if we can keep her incubator from runnin’ off and overdosing again before then.”
Ian nudges him with his knee, and Mickey looks over with a raised eyebrow. “Hey, I didn’t call her a bitch this time,” he points out, and Ian rolls his eyes.
“It’s progress, I guess,” he relents, settling more firmly into Mickey’s side. They sit together, holding hands, and watch Brit and Basil play under the bright noon sun.
“I want to come back once she’s here,” Ian mentions. “The new baby." He turns his gaze to Mickey, eyes soft. "All of us together, as a family.”
“Fuck no,” Mickey vetoes immediately. “You want to do all this with a noisy infant in a shit-filled diaper, you get to do it yourself.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Ian responds, and Mickey groans.
Because he knows if Ian wants it, he’ll be dragging a 40 lb dog, a hyperactive child, and a newborn around the damn park before he can even threaten divorce.
But as he watches his daughter walk their dog on the green grass, his husband reclining beside him on a soft blanket, the sun shining down on him, he thinks about adding a baby carrier to the picture, just there next to Ian. And he has to admit that it might not be too bad.
