The Alibi buzzed with the usual nighttime rhythm—cheap beer foaming over pint glasses, the jukebox grinding out old rock, and half the neighborhood already two drinks past sober. MJ leaned against the bar, his hoodie half-zipped, the edge of Tito's cash still folded neatly in his pocket.
Kev wiped the counter with a rag that was probably dirtier than the wood itself. "You settling back in alright, man? Or is it all déjà vu with a hangover?"
MJ smirked and took a pull from his beer. "Both. Streets ain't changed much. Just me that got older."
Veronica popped up beside Kev, one eyebrow arched. "Older and still dumb enough to boost a car on your second day out. You want the cops sending you a welcome-home basket?"
MJ chuckled. "Relax, V. Tito keeps his mouth shut. Always has."
"Mm-hm." She folded her arms, but her grin betrayed her. "Well, at least you came back with balls."
Before MJ could fire back, the door banged open. Lip and Ian slipped in, both trying to look casual and failing. Lip's shirt was wrinkled, and Ian's hair stuck up like he'd been running a mile.
"Speak of the devil," MJ muttered.
Kev raised a brow. "You two even old enough to be in here?"
"Don't worry about it," Lip shot back, sliding onto a stool. "MJ, we need to talk."
"Sounds serious," MJ said. "What's up?"
Lip leaned in, lowering his voice like anyone cared. "That car flip? Word got around already. A couple of guys were asking about you."
"Who?" MJ asked, his smirk gone.
"A couple of Mickey's cousins, maybe? I don't know. Point is, people notice fast when a car goes missing, especially if it ain't your first."
Ian looked uneasy. "Lip thinks you're moving too loudly."
MJ sipped his beer, then set it down slowly. "And what do you think?"
Ian hesitated. "I think… You just got out. Don't make it easy for them to send you back."
Lip shrugged. "He won't listen anyway."
MJ smirked again, but his eyes stayed hard. "I'm listening. Doesn't mean I'm scared."
From the pool table, Mickey Milkovich himself barked out a laugh. "Ain't that the truth. MJ back two minutes and already stealing like the old days."
Everyone's eyes flicked his way. Mickey leaned on his cue stick, that shark grin plastered across his face. "Don't worry, I ain't snitching. Just saying—don't step on my family's toes."
MJ turned fully toward him, voice calm but sharp. "Then tell your family to keep outta my way, and we'll be fine."
The room stiffened for a beat, but Mickey only smirked wider. "Welcome back, South Side style." He went back to his game, leaving the tension hanging in the smoke-thick air.
Veronica blew out a low whistle. "Yeah. Totally seamless reintegration, MJ."
MJ drained the rest of his beer, slapped the glass on the counter, and stood. "I'll catch y'all later. Gotta check on Fiona before she murders somebody with a stack of overdue bills."
The Gallagher house was buzzing the way it always did at night—music thumping from upstairs, Debbie yelling at Carl, Liam crying because somebody ate the last cookie. MJ stepped through the door and was hit by the mix of noise, warmth, and chaos like it was a living thing.
Fiona sat at the kitchen table with papers spread everywhere. Her eyes flicked up when she saw him. "Where the hell have you been?"
"Out," MJ said, sliding into a chair across from her. "Brought something for you." He pulled out a folded wad of cash and set it on the table.
Fiona blinked. "What's this?"
"Rent. Bills. Whatever hole you're trying to plug."
Her brows knit tight. "MJ… I don't want your dirty money."
"It's green, ain't it?" he said. "Covers the same as clean."
She stared at him, torn between pride and frustration. "You can't just come back and throw cash around like you're Robin Hood. That's not how this works."
MJ leaned back, shrugging. "Then consider it an investment. In you. In the kids. You don't take it, I'll just blow it at the Alibi."
Fiona groaned, rubbing her forehead. "God, you're impossible."
From the living room, Carl shouted, "Hey, MJ! Teach me how to steal a car!"
"Carl!" Fiona snapped.
MJ chuckled under his breath. "See? Kid's got ambition."
Debbie appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. "Don't encourage him. He's already grounded."
"Again?" MJ asked.
"Always," Debbie muttered.
Fiona scooped up the cash, more out of necessity than choice. "Fine. But if the cops come knocking—"
"They won't," MJ cut in smoothly. "Promise."
She gave him one last glare before shoving the money into an envelope and burying it under the pile of bills.
Later that night, MJ crashed on the Gallagher couch despite his earlier jab about too many ass prints. The TV flickered low with some late-night infomercial, and the house finally settled into its uneven version of quiet.
Lip padded downstairs, rubbing his eyes. "You awake?"
"Yeah." MJ sat up a little.
Lip dropped onto the chair opposite him. "Look, I get it. You're trying to help. But you can't keep running the same plays. Fiona's already drowning, and if you bring heat down on this house…" He trailed off, shaking his head.
MJ studied him. Lip wasn't a kid anymore. He was sharp, shoulders heavier with responsibility.
"You sound just like her," MJ said finally.
"Good," Lip shot back. "Somebody has to."
Silence stretched, broken only by the buzz of the TV. Then MJ leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I ain't planning on getting caught. But I'm not about to sit around broke either. I'll find a balance. Don't worry."
Lip snorted. "Worrying is the only thing I'm good at."
Despite himself, MJ grinned. "You're good at hustling, too. Don't forget that."
Lip smirked faintly. "Yeah. Guess I got that part from you."
They sat in the glow of the TV until sleep pulled at them both, the quiet promise of tomorrow's chaos hanging just out of reach.
By morning, the South Side would be buzzing again—another scheme, another fight, another chance for MJ to prove he could live free without losing himself.
But for now, the couch creaked, the house breathed, and MJ let himself rest in the eye of the storm.