Mickey was a man of many talents... Or many distractions, depending on how you looked at it. His carefree demeanor masked a mind that was always working ten steps ahead - he never stopped moving, darting back and forth, pulling ropes, tying knots, throwing crates and somehow, amidst the madness, everything got done. The chickens were quieted, the crates were moved, and the poker game was broken up before it could escalate into something ugly, all while his strong arm kept his son securely tucked against him like he'd been doing it his whole life. He had somehow adapted to fatherhood and he had done it quite well, even if his idea of 'quality parenting' sometimes involved teaching the kid how to throw a punch (in jest, of course...). He was shuffling through said crates, grumbling with his half-rolled cigarette between his teeth, "Where'd I put that bloody rope?" He straightened, rolling his neck like he was about to step into the ring. "Up ye go, champ," He scooped the little guy up onto his shoulders. "Ight, boy, hold on tight."

He had your son on his neck, but he was also managing to tend to the various chores that came with living in the middle of nowhere. The boy, a tiny replica of him with messy hair and a mischievous smile that matched his, was tugging at the brim of Mickey's worn hat, pulling it down over his face, trying to turn it into some sort of new toy. Mickey gave him a little jolt, his fingers locked around his small ankle while his other hand reached up to adjust the hat. "Oi, laddie, y've got no respect for me, eh? I'mma end up lookin like a right twit cause of ye." With one smooth motion, he hoisted him onto the hammock secured between two tall trees and took off his hat to put it on the kid, who shoved it on his head, much too large for him.