The basement smelled like damp wood and rust. The single bulb overhead flickered every now and then, casting shadows against the cracked concrete walls. Francis shoved Frank down onto the old chair in the middle of the room, the scrape of metal legs grinding against the floor.
Frank laughed—actually laughed—as blood dribbled down his lip. "Well, isn't this cozy. What is this, Junior? Daddy-son bonding? You finally get the talk about birds and bees you missed out on?"
Francis didn't answer. He bent down, dragging the heavy length of chain from the corner. The links clinked and rattled, each sound bouncing around the walls like nails on glass.
Frank eyed it and let out a whistle. "Oh-ho. Kinky. Didn't know you swung that way. I should've brought wine."
"Shut up," Francis muttered, pulling the chain around Frank's chest, locking his arms tight against the chair back. The iron scraped over fabric, biting into the wood. He wrapped fast, mechanical, his face set.
Frank winced when the chain tightened against his ribs, but the grin never left. "What's next? Whips? Waterboarding? Or you gonna read me one of Fiona's passive-aggressive speeches till I bleed out my ears?"
Francis pulled the chain down, looping it around Frank's legs, padlocking it to the chair's base. The metal clinked heavy, final. He straightened, chest rising with sharp breaths, staring down at the man slouched in front of him.
"I bought these months ago," Francis said finally, voice low. "Planned to drag you down here, lock you up till you sobered. Thought it'd be the only way to save you."
Frank tilted his head, smirk twisting. "Sweet Jesus, you actually rehearsed this? Like one of those rehab commercials? 'Hi, I'm Francis, and this is my addict father, Frank. He likes whiskey, pain pills, and ruining children's lives.'"
Francis's jaw tightened. "I gave you credit. Thought maybe you didn't need it. That maybe if I just… held off, you'd figure out something on your own." He glanced at the blood drying on Frank's chin, the wild shine in his eyes. "Guess I was wrong."
Frank spat blood at the floor, missing Francis's boots by an inch. "Wrong doesn't even cover it. You think a couple rusty chains and a basement lamp are gonna fix me? Newsflash, son—there's no fixing Frank Gallagher. Whole South Side could've told you that for free."
Francis leaned down, eyes level with him. "Then maybe you just rot here."
Frank blinked, then burst out laughing. It was ugly, raw. "Rot? In this shithole? Please. I've passed out in alleys warmer than this." His grin widened, blood streaking his teeth. "What're you gonna do, feed me bread crusts? Read me Bible verses? I'll outlive you out of spite."
Francis stared, silent, his fists clenched at his sides. The bulb above them flickered again, shadows stretching across Frank's face.
"You went after Ian," Francis finally said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut sharp through the basement air.
Frank rolled his eyes. "Oh, boo-hoo. Little army brat got a love tap. Kid's tougher than he looks. He'll be fine. Slap some ice on it."
"You don't touch him again."
Frank smirked, leaning as far forward as the chains allowed. "Or what? You gonna chain me tighter? Kill me? Bury me under the floorboards? Trust me, Junior, they'd thank you for it."
For a moment, Francis almost said nothing. He just stood there, chest heavy, staring at this wreck of a man—this father he hated and pitied in the same breath.
Then he turned away, dragging a chair from the corner. He set it across from Frank, sat down, and lit another cigarette. Smoke curled in the dim light, gray and heavy.
They sat there like that for a while. Frank humming under his breath, tapping his foot against the concrete, chains rattling faintly. Francis just smoked, his gaze never leaving him.
"You think you're better than me," Frank said after a while, breaking the silence. His tone was lazy, amused. "You think because you wear clean shirts and play businessman at Kev's little watering hole, you're some kind of savior."
Francis didn't answer.
Frank chuckled, low. "You're still a Gallagher. Doesn't matter how many bars you buy or speeches you give. Sooner or later, you'll end up drunk in a ditch with your pants around your ankles. It's in the blood. Our legacy."
Francis leaned forward, flicking ash onto the floor. His voice was calm, steady. "Maybe. But I'm not you."
Frank's grin faltered for the first time. Just a flicker. Then it was back, wider, nastier. "Keep telling yourself that, Junior. That's what your sister used to say too. Look at her now—still shackled to this dump, still cleaning up after your sorry asses. She ain't getting out. Neither are you."
Francis's jaw worked, but he didn't rise to it. He sat back, exhaling smoke slow. "Then I'll chain myself up next to you."
That actually made Frank laugh again, wheezing through the blood in his throat. "Christ. You sound just like my college professor." He coughed, spit red. "She thought she could save me too."
Francis didn't answer. He just stubbed the cigarette out on the concrete, stood, and walked toward the stairs.
"Where you going?" Frank called after him, his voice echoing up the steps. "Don't leave me hanging down here. Least bring me a drink. Or a smoke. Come on, kid. I'm dying of thirst."
Francis paused halfway up, his hand gripping the railing. He didn't look back. "You'll sober up."
Frank barked a laugh, rattling the chains against the chair. "Sober up? Me? You're outta your goddamn mind!" His voice rose, wild and mocking. "I'll be sober when I'm in the ground! Till then, it's booze, pills, and the sweet kiss of chaos, baby!"
The basement door slammed shut, muffling the sound.
Francis stood on the other side, hand still on the knob, his chest heaving. He could still hear Frank laughing through the floorboards, the sound crawling up the stairs like smoke.
Upstairs, the house was quieter. The kids were huddled in the living room, Fiona perched on the couch arm with a cold pack pressed against Ian's nose. Lip looked up when Francis came in, his eyes sharp.
"You kill him?" Lip asked.
Francis shook his head, voice flat. "No. But he's not going anywhere."
Fiona's gaze lingered on him, heavy with questions she didn't ask. Ian shifted, wincing against the cold pack, his voice muffled. "Good. Leave him down there."
Francis didn't answer. He just walked past them, the echo of his father's laughter still ringing in his ears.