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Glancing down and to the right, Mickey hopes to ignore the situation altogether. Perhaps if he doesn’t see it, it will cease to exist and become a non-issue. His brows are draw, plowing deep creases into his forehead. He wipes his lower lip with his thumb. He knows it’s a tell, but this random babysitter doesn’t know that. Plus, if the bitch was stupid enough to singe her ovaries off with Nair, it's not like she could figure out how to blackmail him just because he was slow to answer a dumb question. No, the position of top blackmailer is already filled by that furburger of a woman he'd married.
His silence stretches on as he tries not to dwell on the idiocy of how could anyone possibly expect—or hope—or ask—him to raise this boy in this house. It’s fucking bullshit, he thinks, trusting expletives to reassure him of his control over the situation.
It’s just too much responsibility, a child—a boy. He finds himself correcting his own thoughts thanks to the knowledge Svetlana had shared when she'd burst into the Gallagher house. Fuck that noise, he thinks vehemently. Who gives a fuck whether it's a Jack or a Jill? They both come tumbling down the fucking hill.
"No." It is his simple, one word response to whether or not he'd be helping babysit. It leaves no space for justification, though his silence and roaming eyes betray the fact that the answer is anything but straightforward. Mickey turns and sweeps away as brusquely as possible, the rustling of the jacket easily overwhelming the gentle gurgles and coos of the baby—Yevgeny. "Fuck." Half whispered, he speaks to relieve tension, not to be heard.
As he walks toward the bedroom, he defends his response internally. Even if it’s not too much responsibility in terms of diapers and food and a crib (though he’s not exactly prepared for those aspects of a goddamn baby either), there is no way he can take any part in raising a child. The worst thing he could do in life would be to become a father. He’d seen Milkovich men of various generations. Thanks to his own father, Mickey grew up in one home, had enough to eat, and carried around a sense of self loathing deeper than Lake Michigan.
No. No, Mickey could not have and raise a son. Even in his wildest imaginings, where he was striving for Parent of the Year award (for some fuck-all reason), he knew he couldn’t be trusted with something—someone—this valuable. He doesn’t want to see how he’ll fuck up something that has the potential to be so good and happy. So, once in the safety of his bedroom, after pausing to card a hand through his hair, Mickey begins to pack.