read full story inpatreon
belamy20
Shane's face stayed blank. He didn't say yes. He didn't kick Frank out again either.
But Frank knew silence meant approval. The deal was done.
"Heh heh—" Frank chuckled twice, ignoring the pain in his face as he took a long, satisfied swig from his bottle.
The living room went quiet again.
After all the adrenaline and screaming, all that was left was bone-deep exhaustion. Nobody spoke.
Fiona collapsed onto the other couch, eyes closed.
Lip slid down the wall to the floor, clutching the laptop bag like a security blanket, staring into nothing.
Shane pulled Karen down with him onto the carpet beside Fiona's couch, backs against the cushions.
Karen nestled her head into the crook of his neck and took a deep breath of his scent.
Shane glanced over at Debbie, whose head was bobbing like a sleepy chick. "Debbie, Carl—go upstairs and get some sleep. It's over."
The two kids looked around, then scampered up the stairs without a word.
Now the rest of them just sat or lay there, letting time drag by in the heavy silence.
...
No one knew how long it had been.
Click.
The front door lock turned. The door swung open.
It was Ian, back from his night shift.
His face was still flushed, like he'd just had a quick goodbye fuck with Kash.
Ian dropped his backpack by the table and stepped into the living room. He froze at the sight.
Everyone was sprawled out in weird positions, looking wrecked. Frank was snoring under a blanket on the floor.
Ian scanned the room, confused as hell. "Did I... miss World War Three?"
Karen lifted her head from Shane's chest and checked the clock on the wall.
It was 6:15 a.m.
She patted the back of Shane's hand. "Walk me home. My parents are about to get up."
Shane nodded and helped her to her feet.
He shrugged off the riding jacket, threw on his usual one, and followed her out the door.
The South Side streets were wrapped in thin morning fog, cold and empty.
Neither of them said much on the way. They just held each other's arms tight.
At Karen's front door, Shane stopped. He turned her face gently and studied the gauze on her forehead, brows furrowed.
"Maybe I should skip breakfast and take you to the hospital right now. I'll drive."
Karen gave him a tired smile—weak, but full of that needy, satisfied glow she only got around him.
"Nah, you need rest. I do too."
She rubbed her temples lightly.
"Stealing a car, crashing shit, burning it... We went full psycho last night, huh? My head's still buzzing."
She tilted her face up to him. "Wait till noon. You sleep, then come get me."
Shane tried one more time. "Concussion's no joke. You need a doctor to check it."
Karen covered his mouth, her tone turning serious. "I'm fine. No double vision, no ringing ears, no puking. Just a cut and a little dizzy. Probably just smacked the wheel."
Her fingers traced his cheek. "Don't make that face. Go sleep. I'll wait for you at noon."
Shane held her stubborn gaze for a second, then nodded.
He leaned down and kissed her gently on the uninjured side of her face.
Karen stepped to the door, cracked it open, and slipped one foot inside. But she turned back.
She looked at him without speaking, just mouthed the words: I'll wait for you. Then the door clicked shut.
Shane stood there for a few seconds, staring at the closed door, before turning to head back.
But in the short time he was gone, back at the Gallagher house...
Ian, still piecing it together, had walked straight over to Lip on the floor the second Shane left. "What the hell happened? What did you guys do last night? How'd Karen get hurt? And why is Frank back?"
Lip hugged the laptop tighter and waved him off, too drained to explain.
His brain was still looping on the surreal relief of getting the computer back—and the terror of almost losing everything.
Fiona stayed slumped on the couch, eyes shut, voice hoarse. "We went... to get the laptop. Karen and Frank showed up too. They helped. Karen crashed into something and got hurt..."
She rambled on, half-asleep, the story coming out jumbled and fading.
"Get the laptop? Crash into something? Helped?"
Ian looked even more lost and started to press for details.
Click.
The front door opened again. Shane was back.
The living room went dead silent.
Shane walked straight in, eyes sweeping over everyone—sitting, lying, whatever. His face gave nothing away.
"Alright," he finally said. "Everybody get some sleep now."
He looked at Fiona.
"Fiona, call Carl and Debbie's teachers later. Make up some excuse—they're not going to school today. They were up too late."
Then he turned to Ian and Lip.
"Noon. Right here. Family meeting."
He jerked his chin at Frank snoring on the floor.
"Make sure that old bastard's there too. Anyone who skips eats somewhere else from now on."
He didn't wait to see their faces. He turned and headed for the basement.
Bang.
The door shut.
In the living room, Fiona, Lip, and Ian exchanged looks—pure confusion in every pair of eyes.
"Family meeting." "Everyone has to show." "Never eat here again." The words hung heavy, carrying a seriousness and judgment they'd never felt before.
Only Frank, still passed out on the floor, muttered in his sleep: "Permits... gotta talk to Old Billy. That fucker loves his bourbon..."
...
Down in the basement bedroom, Shane didn't bother with the light. He just dropped onto the bed.
He stared up at the ceiling in the dark.
In the blackness, it turned into a movie screen, playing back every moment since he'd crossed over:
The shock of waking up. The rush when he found the app. The frustration staring at the Gallagher mess. Planning the breakfast stall. Building the courses. Training Kevin—
He'd thought having the cheat code and future knowledge would make lifting these NPC family members out of the mud—and straight to the top—easy as hell.
Game over.
Deep down, that's what he'd believed.
But he'd been dead wrong.
This wasn't a game. Wasn't a TV show. This was real life—messy, unpredictable chaos.
Nobody here followed a script.
Lip wasn't just the South Side genius who always blew his chances with his little schemes. He'd blush at a new laptop, code his ass off for Shane, then panic and fuck everything up out of ego and fear—only to go white as a sheet when it all came crashing down.
Fiona wasn't the long-suffering big sister archetype, forever dragged down by the family. She'd light up counting cash, try to keep up with store plans, cry her eyes out when she screwed up—and then trust Shane completely, hiding in the van and following orders that went against every instinct.
Carl and Debbie—they got scared. They depended on him. They'd gone upstairs like good kids when told.
Ian—okay, Ian was still mostly a blank slate. For now, he was the one Shane worried about least.
And Frank... he wasn't just the cartoonish deadbeat dad symbol.
He was alive. He'd sell fatherly love, dignity, morals—whatever—for survival, priced to move.
Cleverer. Dirtier. More real.
Faces floated in the dark, warm and breathing, full of their own wants, fears, and wild choices.
The last one lingered on Karen's bloody gauze... and her silent I'll wait for you.
They weren't going to follow any script.
Exhaustion hit him hard—not just physical.
He'd wanted to build the perfect Gallagher family.
Now that sounded ridiculous.
Until he had real power, tweaking the "plot" he knew could backfire and drag them all into the abyss.
Smarter move: go with the flow. Let the key story beats play out until he was strong enough.
At least those were rivers he knew the depth of. He could set nets on the bank instead of diving in blind.
The family was already changing because of him. If a few original plot points still happened... fine.
Shane decided to focus on what he could actually control:
His business. His money. His influence. That was the foundation. The leverage for everything else.
The little embarrassing, gross stuff from the show? Whatever. Energy was limited. Save the blade for the throat.
Ian getting jumped over Mandy. Tony drooling after Fiona. Let it ride.
But the big ones—the critical shit like Aunt Ginger's welfare checks, especially her house—he had to lock that down early. Get a will in place. Make sure it stayed in their hands.
His eyelids grew heavier.
Finally, he drifted off.