The house was quiet. Too quiet for the Gallagher place.
Frank Jr. was up before the sun had fully climbed over the rooftops, standing in the cramped kitchen with a pan in one hand and a spatula in the other. The smell of sizzling bacon filled the air, cutting through the usual faint scent of beer and cigarette smoke that lingered in the walls.
The counters were cluttered but functional—old cereal boxes shoved to one side, a chipped coffee mug drying by the sink. He moved like he knew his way around, flipping eggs with practiced ease, sliding toast from the pan onto a chipped plate.
It felt… weirdly natural.
He didn't remember doing much cooking before. At least, not in his other life. But here, in this body, muscle memory whispered at him. He knew where the knives were, which burner stuck a little before heating up, how to jiggle the toaster's cord to make it work.
The floorboards creaked from upstairs.
Fiona's voice called down, groggy. "Who the hell's up this early?"
He smirked to himself, stacking pancakes on a plate.
A few seconds later, she appeared in the doorway, hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing an oversized T-shirt that probably doubled as sleepwear. Her eyes darted immediately to the stove.
"What the—?" She rushed over like she was expecting the kitchen to be on fire, checking the burners, the counters, the food.
"Relax," he said, flipping another pancake. "Everything's fine."
She gave him a look, then glanced back at the neatly lined-up plates on the counter. "When the hell did you start cooking?"
"For as long as I can remember," he said casually. "Just never bothered much with it."
She folded her arms, still skeptical. "And today you just… decided to?"
He slid the pancake onto the stack, turned off the burner, and finally looked at her. "I'm here now. I'm gonna take responsibility for the family."
Her brows furrowed. "Since when?"
"Since now," he said simply, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "You've been carrying all this on your own for too long. You deserve a break, Fi."
She blinked at him like she was trying to read a hidden joke. "You're serious?"
"As a heart attack." He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "I'll get a job. I'll help with the bills. You can focus on yourself for once instead of everyone else."
Fiona scoffed, but there wasn't much fight in it. "You don't just wake up one morning and decide to be a different person."
"Maybe not," he said. "But sometimes you get a second chance, and you either take it or you waste it."
She studied him for a long moment, then shook her head with a faint, disbelieving smile. "Alright, Frank Jr. We'll see."
"Yeah, we will." He pushed off the counter, moving toward the coffee pot. "Now, do me a favor—help me wake everyone up. Breakfast's ready, and it's time for some new rules in this house."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Rules?"
"Yeah," he said, pouring coffee into two mismatched mugs. "You'll see."
---
It took a little effort—mostly yelling from Fiona at the bottom of the stairs—but eventually, the Gallagher morning shuffle began.
Carl stumbled down first, shirt half-tucked, hair sticking out like he'd been in a fight with the pillow. He froze when he saw the table. "Whoa. Who died?"
"No one," Frank Jr. said, setting a plate in front of him. "Eat."
Debbie came next, clutching Liam on her hip, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the food. "You made breakfast?"
"Yep."
"For all of us?"
He smirked. "No, just for me. Yours is poisoned."
She rolled her eyes but grinned, sliding into a chair and setting Liam in his baby seat.
Lip wandered in half-awake, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. "Smells good. What's the catch?"
"No catch," Frank Jr. said. "Just sit down."
By the time Fiona came back from banging on Ian's door, the table was full—Kev and V had popped in from next door, too, Kev already reaching for bacon before anyone could stop him.
"You're just in time," Frank Jr. said as Fiona took a seat.
He waited until everyone had a plate, until forks were moving and conversation was a low hum of chewing and half-asleep mutters. Then he cleared his throat.
"Alright, listen up. Things are gonna change around here."
That earned him a few suspicious looks. Lip leaned back in his chair, eyeing him like he was testing how serious this was. Fiona raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything.
Frank Jr. let the room breathe for a moment, the only sound the scrape of forks against plates.
"First thing," he said, leaning forward a little. "The squirrel fund? It's gone."
Fiona froze mid-bite. "Excuse me?"
"I'm serious," he said, holding her gaze. "No more hiding coffee cans full of cash for bills. I'm handling them from now on. You guys focus on your lives, not keeping the lights on. I'll make sure they stay on."
"You?" Lip said, smirking. "And where's this sudden income coming from?"
"I'll work. Multiple jobs if I have to." His tone didn't rise, didn't bend. "Point is, that stress? That's mine now."
Fiona's jaw tightened. "It's not that simple."
"It is," he said. "You've been running yourself into the ground for years. You get a break. You need one, Fi."
She didn't answer right away, just glanced down at her plate.
"Second," he went on, looking around the table, "school. That's your job, all of you." His eyes landed on Lip first. "You're smart—probably the smartest in this room—but that doesn't mean you can coast. No skipping, no blowing it off."
Lip shrugged like he was trying to play it cool, but there was a flicker in his eyes.
"Ian," Frank Jr. continued, turning to him, "same deal. Whatever's going on in your life, handle it, but don't let it trash your grades. Debbie, Carl—you're kids. Act like it. No more trying to keep the family afloat. Just focus on your books."
Debbie looked almost relieved. Carl just frowned like he wasn't sure if school counted as real work.
"And this house—" Frank Jr. tapped the table with his knuckles, "—is a No Frank Zone."
Everyone looked up at that.
"No Frank?" Fiona asked, skeptical.
"No Frank Sr.," he said. "Not unless he's sober. You all know what happens when he's here drunk. Not happening anymore."
Carl grinned. "Does that mean we can throw him out if he's wasted?"
"Yes," Frank Jr. said without hesitation.
Fiona laughed under her breath, shaking her head.
"And speaking of sober…" His eyes went back to Lip. "You need to stop drinking."
Lip's smirk faded. "What?"
"You heard me. You and I—we're a lot more like Frank than you think. And trust me, you don't want to find out the hard way how far down that road goes."
Lip didn't say anything. Just stared back, jaw working.
Frank Jr. didn't push it. He let the words hang, let the meaning sink in.
The table went quiet for a beat, the weight of what he'd said settling in among them.
Then Carl broke it with his usual lack of filter. "So… can I have more bacon or what?"
The tension cracked, just a little. Fiona let out a small laugh, and Frank Jr. leaned back in his chair, satisfied enough for now.
He wasn't expecting them all to buy in right away. But the rules were on the table, and that was a start.