They walked in silence for a few blocks, Fiona cutting through the neighborhood like she owned it. The streets here were the kind that had seen better days—cracked sidewalks, peeling paint on the porches, chain-link fences leaning in from years of weather. He knew them. Not from living here, but from watching every season, every angle, every fight, every laugh.
Somewhere between one block and the next, the memories of this life started to stitch themselves into him. They weren't his… not really. But they settled in like they'd always been there.
Frank Jr. Gallagher. Older twin to Fiona.
When their mom bolted, it should've been both of them picking up the slack. He could've been there, keeping the younger ones in line, sharing the weight. Instead, he'd let Fiona take it all. He'd been another mouth to feed, another problem to fix. He'd hung out with the wrong people, stayed out all night, drank too much, fought too often.
And then came the stupidest move of them all—stealing a car from some drunk guy outside a South Side bar. He didn't even get a block before the cops rolled up.
Two years.
Two years where Fiona kept the family together without him, while he sat in a cell thinking he was the unluckiest guy alive.
Now, walking beside her again, he knew better. This wasn't luck. This was something else. A second chance.
He smirked faintly to himself. Not gonna waste it this time.
Not for her. Not for the "big speech" crap. Just because he knew what happened to guys like him in this world. He'd seen it. Frank Sr. was living proof of how far you could sink. And he wasn't about to end up like that—again.
Besides… he knew this game. He'd watched it play out before. The scams, the drama, the little victories. He knew the beats of their lives better than they did. That was his edge.
They turned a corner, and the Gallagher house came into view—two stories of stubborn survival, with a porch that looked like it had been holding itself together out of spite. Even from here, he could hear voices spilling out.
The moment Fiona pushed open the front door, the place erupted.
"Welcome home!"
It was like someone had dropped a bomb made of noise and color. Streamers hung awkwardly across the ceiling. A cheap cake sat on the coffee table, half-melted frosting sliding to one side. Debbie darted forward first, her red hair bouncing as she wrapped her arms around him like she was trying to tackle him.
"You're back!" she said, grinning up at him.
He patted her head, feeling a strange warmth in his chest. "Yeah, I'm back, kid."
Carl was next, a little ball of chaos with that mischievous spark already in his eyes. "Did you stab anyone in there?" he asked immediately, way too interested.
Fiona shot him a look. "Carl."
"What? I'm just asking."
Before he could answer, Kev's voice came from the kitchen. "Yo, the man of the hour!" Kev popped out, grinning wide, a beer already in hand. Right behind him was V, carrying a tray of something that smelled like heaven and trouble at the same time.
"Look at you," V said, her eyes running over him like she was inspecting a new car. "Prison did you good."
He chuckled. "Guess so."
And then—like the universe couldn't resist making things interesting—Frank Sr. staggered in from the back door. Same greasy hair, same scruffy beard, same glazed-over eyes that somehow still found the energy to size him up.
"Holy shit," Frank Sr. said, squinting. "It's me… but prettier."
Everyone groaned in unison.
"Dad," Fiona warned, like she was already bracing for whatever was coming next.
Frank Sr. grinned, sloppy and proud. "Welcome home, boy. You and me—we're gonna have a time."
He just smirked back. "We'll see."
Little Liam was in the corner, gnawing on a teething toy like it owed him money. Debbie scooped him up and brought him over. "Here—he probably doesn't even remember you."
He took Liam carefully, holding the little guy like he was made of glass. Liam stared at him for a long moment, eyes big and curious, before letting out a small giggle.
"Guess he likes me," he said quietly.
"Don't get used to it," Fiona said, though there was a faint smile on her lips.
The living room filled fast—plates of food passed around, beers cracked open, Kev making jokes, V smacking him on the arm when they went too far. The air smelled like fried chicken, cheap beer, and cigarette smoke drifting in from the back porch where Frank Sr. had already wandered off.
Carl kept trying to get him to tell prison stories. Debbie kept asking if he was going to stay this time. Fiona kept watching him from across the room like she was trying to decide if he'd really changed or if he was just playing nice because there was cake.
And him? He just leaned back on the couch, soaking it all in.
The noise. The mess. The way everyone talked over each other.
It was exactly like he remembered from watching the show… except now he was in it.
At one point, Kev flopped down next to him, offering him a beer. "Man, it's good to have you back. House has been too quiet without you."
V, passing by, snorted. "That's not a compliment."
He grinned. "I'll take it anyway."
Fiona came over a little later, leaning against the arm of the couch. "Alright, party's over in an hour. Some of us have work in the morning."
"Yeah, yeah," Kev said, waving her off.
She looked at him then, that same sharp gaze as before. "You gonna be around tomorrow?"
He met her eyes, smirk tugging at his mouth. "Yeah. I'm not going anywhere."
Her expression softened just a fraction before she pushed off and went back toward the kitchen.
He watched her go, the noise of the party humming around him. Somewhere in the middle of it all, a thought settled in—quiet but steady.
This was his shot.
Not a perfect one. Not a clean one. But it was his.
And for the first time since waking up here, he felt like maybe he knew what to do with it.