The Gallagher house never really knew silence. Even when it looked calm from the street—peeling paint, sagging porch, curtains hanging crooked—the inside always carried noise. Fiona's voice from the kitchen, Lip clacking at the computer upstairs, Debbie humming while she painted something she'd nailed to the wall.
That night, though, the hum broke with a hard knock on the front door.
Carl was the first to hear it. Nine years old, barefoot in the hallway, BB gun slung across his shoulder like he was some soldier home from war. He squinted at the sound, then marched over.
Another knock. Louder.
Carl swung the door open.
Two men stood there. Strangers. Both in cheap leather jackets, hair slicked back like they thought it made them look tougher. One was tall and gaunt, the other heavier, arms crossed like he was already pissed off. Their eyes swept over Carl, sizing him up, but the kid didn't flinch. He looked them up and down just as quick.
"Who you looking for?" Carl asked flat, voice steady.
The taller one smirked. "Not you, kid. Move." He tried to push past.
But before Carl could react, another voice cut through the living room.
"Answer the kid."
Mickey.
He was leaning against the wall, arms folded, cigarette dangling from his mouth, eyes narrowed in that permanent glare he carried. The kind of look that promised violence if you ignored it.
The strangers froze a second, caught off guard. Carl grinned wide, proud. Mickey had just backed him up.
The heavier one grumbled. "We're looking for Frank Gallagher."
Carl tilted his head, playing it out. "Frank?" He tapped his chin like he was thinking hard. Then shrugged. "Don't know him."
He started to swing the door shut. The taller one shoved a boot forward, stopping it. "Cut the crap, kid. We know he lives here."
Carl's grin turned wicked. "Then maybe you should check the morgue." And with that, he shoved the door closed hard. The guy cursed as his boot slipped, and the door slammed in their faces.
Inside, Carl turned to Mickey, eyes gleaming. "That was awesome."
Mickey smirked faint, smoke curling from his cigarette. "Yeah, don't get cocky, soldier. They'll be back."
From the kitchen, Fiona's voice rose sharp. "What the hell was that? Who was at the door?"
Carl shouted back, "Some losers looking for Frank."
Fiona stormed out, dish towel in her hand, glaring. "And you answered the door? Carl!"
Carl just shrugged, like it was nothing. "I told 'em I didn't know him. Problem solved."
Fiona's jaw tightened. "That's not a joke, Carl. If people are coming around asking for Frank, it means trouble. Always trouble." She turned her glare on Mickey. "And you—why are you encouraging him?"
Mickey raised both hands, still leaning on the wall. "I just told the assholes to answer the kid. Better than them barging in."
Fiona groaned, rubbing her forehead. "God, I hate him. Frank ruins everything, even when he's not here."
Lip appeared halfway down the stairs, shirt wrinkled, eyes half-dead from staring at code all day. "What's going on?"
"Frank's fan club," Mickey said dry.
Carl puffed his chest, BB gun bouncing on his shoulder. "I handled it."
Lip shook his head, muttering, "This is exactly why we need locks that actually work."
---
Outside, the two strangers stood on the porch, muttering curses.
"Little punk," the heavier one spat. "Slammed the door right in my face."
The taller one adjusted his jacket, eyes narrowing at the house. "Don't matter. He's here. He always comes back here."
They stomped down the porch steps and headed for their car parked across the street. The engine coughed to life, headlights cutting through the dim block, but they didn't leave. They just sat there, silhouettes behind the glass, watching the Gallagher house like vultures waiting for the body to twitch.
---
Inside, Fiona paced. "If they're still out there, we should call the cops."
Mickey barked a laugh. "Yeah, that'll help. Two uniforms show up, see half the shit you've got going on in here, and what? They walk away? Get real, Fiona."
Fiona shot him a glare, but she didn't argue.
Carl peeked through the blinds, whispering like he was narrating a war movie. "They're still out there. Just sitting. Waiting. Like snipers."
Debbie came down the stairs, rubbing her eyes. "What's happening?"
Carl spun, grinning. "Two dudes looking for Frank. Probably here to kill him."
Debbie's face fell. "Carl!"
Mickey smirked, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. "Kid's not wrong."
Lip sat on the couch, rubbing his temples. "We just ignore 'em. They'll figure out Frank's passed out in some alley and leave."
Fiona crossed her arms, chewing her lip. She didn't like it, any of it. Trouble sitting outside their house was the last thing they needed.
Francis walked in then, jacket slung over one shoulder, cigarette already between his lips. He looked around the room, caught the tension, and frowned. "What happened?"
Carl darted over, excitement spilling out. "Two guys came for Frank. I told 'em I didn't know him. Slammed the door. Mickey saw. It was badass."
Francis glanced at Mickey, who just shrugged. "Kid handled it."
Fiona huffed. "And now they're sitting outside. Waiting."
Francis stepped to the window, pulled the blind back with two fingers, and spotted the car across the street. The men inside smoked, their faces dim under the dashboard light.
He let the blind fall, exhaled smoke, calm as ever. "Then let 'em wait."
Fiona turned on him. "That's it? That's your plan?"
Francis shrugged. "It's Frank's mess. Not ours."
Carl grinned. "See? Even he says it's fine."
But Fiona didn't look convinced. She never did when it came to Frank.
Outside, the car stayed put. The men didn't leave, didn't blink. Just sat there in the dark, the South Side silence wrapping tight around the block, waiting for Frank to crawl home.
And inside, the Gallaghers braced themselves.
Because trouble always found its way back to their door.