The morning came slow. The Gallagher house always woke in pieces—one floorboard creaking, someone groaning in bed, the pipes clanging like they were about to split. Sunlight broke through the blinds, streaks of pale gold cutting across the messy living room.
Francis stepped out of his room, rubbing the back of his neck, still heavy-eyed from the night before. The house smelled faintly of dust and old coffee. He paused at the hallway, hearing a door click.
Steve stepped out of Fiona's room, shirt half-buttoned, hair sticking up like he'd just rolled out of bed. He froze when he saw Francis standing there, arms crossed.
Francis's stare was flat, unreadable. His voice came steady, low.
"Does he live here now?"
Fiona appeared behind Steve, already annoyed. "Leave him alone, Francis."
Steve raised his hands like he'd walked into a police stop. Francis didn't push it. He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as he walked past them. "Whatever you say."
He made his way downstairs, the steps creaking under his weight. The kitchen light flicked on, weak and yellow. Francis tied the old apron around his waist, pulled a pan from the rack, and set it on the stove. The hiss of butter hitting the pan filled the quiet house.
He was halfway through cracking eggs when small footsteps padded down. Carl wandered into the kitchen, his hair sticking out in all directions. In his hand, clutched too casually, was a switchblade. He twirled it once, grinning.
But the grin died when he caught Francis's stare.
Francis didn't say a word. His look was enough—sharp, steady, heavy.
Carl hesitated, then quickly stuffed the blade into his pocket. He looked up with his wide, guilty smile, the one that always tried to make him seem harmless.
Francis's mouth tugged into a reluctant smile. "Cute." He nodded toward the counter. "Get plates. Help me out."
Carl nodded fast, eager to please, and scrambled for the cupboard. He pulled down mismatched plates, stacking them on the counter with a loud clatter.
By the time the rest of the house stirred awake, the kitchen smelled alive—eggs frying, bacon crisping, bread toasting uneven in the old oven. Debbie carried Liam down, Fiona followed with her usual half-tired, half-bossy stride, and Lip slouched into the kitchen like he hadn't slept at all. Ian came last, still touching his nose tenderly from last night's fight.
They gathered around the table, crowding into the too-small space. Francis set plates down one by one, the food steaming. Carl beamed, proud that he'd "helped," even though half the silverware didn't match.
Fiona raised her brows as she buttered a slice of toast. "No Alibi Room today?"
Francis poured himself coffee, leaning against the counter. "No. Got some business to look into."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Business?"
He smirked. "Relax. Nothing illegal."
She didn't look convinced, but she let it slide. Everyone dug into breakfast, chatter bouncing around the table. Debbie complained about gym class, Carl tried to get Lip to look at the switchblade he'd hidden again, and Ian sat quieter than usual, still mulling over what Francis had told him last night.
It was messy, loud, imperfect—but it felt like family.
When the plates were cleared, one by one they peeled off to their day. Debbie walked Liam to daycare, Carl ran outside with his jacket half-zipped, Lip muttered something about school but looked like he was already planning to skip, and Ian left with his backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. Fiona stayed a little longer, her eyes still curious about Francis's "business," but eventually she headed out too.
The house grew quiet again.
Francis stood alone in the kitchen, rinsing plates under lukewarm water. For a moment, it was peaceful. But the sound came again—metal on stone. Chains rattling faintly below.
His jaw tightened. He dried his hands on the apron, grabbed a plate of leftovers, and made his way to the basement door. The hinges groaned as he pulled it open.
The air down there was different. Damp. Heavy. The dim bulb above barely lit the cramped space. Frank sat slouched against the wall, hands chained, eyes half-closed like he was in some kind of drugged-out meditation.
When the smell of food reached him, his head lifted.
"Took you long enough," Frank muttered, his voice hoarse but still carrying that smug rhythm. "What is that, eggs? Bacon? Not enough."
Francis set the plate on the small wooden crate beside him. "Eat. Don't choke."
Frank ignored the food, eyes narrowing. "Where's the beer?"
Francis's voice was dry. "The only alcohol you're getting is my piss."
That got Frank's attention. He sat up straighter, face twisting. "Oh, very funny. Very noble of you. You think you're better than me?"
Francis leaned against the wall, arms folded. "I don't think. I know."
Frank's laugh was sharp, bitter. "Ungrateful. That's what you are. You're sitting up there, pretending to be the man of the house, but let's not forget who put a roof over your head. Who kept you fed when your precious mom was gone. Me."
Francis's eyes hardened, but his voice stayed calm. "Fed? You mean when Fiona stole food so we wouldn't starve? When Lip had to hustle money for bills? When Ian patched holes in this house because you were too drunk to stand? That kind of fed?"
Frank waved him off, already spiraling into one of his rants. "You kids think you're saints. I gave you life. I gave you the Gallagher name. Without me, you're nothing. You'd be crawling in the gutter without my blood in your veins."
Francis stepped closer, his shadow falling over Frank. His voice dropped, low, steady. "Maybe. But we'd be free."
Frank sneered. "Free? You're chained to me whether you like it or not. Doesn't matter what you do, boy. You'll always be a Gallagher. And a Gallagher's destiny is to scrape, to beg, to bleed for scraps. That's who we are."
Francis looked at him for a long time, his face unreadable. Then he crouched low, eye to eye with his father.
"Maybe that's who you are. Not me."
He tapped the plate with two fingers, the sound echoing in the basement. "Eat your food, Frank. That's all you're getting."
He stood, turned, and headed for the stairs.
Behind him, Frank's voice rose, venom spilling. "Ungrateful little bastard! You think you're special? You think you're different? You'll end up just like me. You'll see!"
Francis didn't slow. The chains rattled louder as Frank shouted, the noise filling the basement, crawling up the steps. But when Francis closed the door, the sound dulled to nothing more than a faint rattle in the dark.
He stood there for a moment, hand still on the doorknob, breathing steady. Then he let go, walked back into the light of the kitchen, and poured himself another cup of coffee.
For now, that was enough.