A/N
I will be using Francis now instead of Frank jr.
And also suggest a LI for him.
____
The night had died down outside the Alibi. Fiona leaned against the brick wall back at home, arms folded tight across her chest. Francis sat on the step just below her, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The muffled sound of laughter and clinking glasses slipped through the door, but out here it was quieter. Just them.
For a while, she didn't say anything. Just stared at the streetlight across the way, her breath curling in the chill. Francis smoked slow, eyes fixed on nothing.
Finally, Fiona broke it.
"You know… when you first said you were gonna take over the family, I thought you were full of shit."
Francis glanced up at her, eyebrow cocked. "Gee, thanks."
She gave a half-smile, shaking her head. "Don't act surprised. You can't blame me. You've got the same face. Same smirk. Same streak of trouble as Dad. All I could see was Frank 2.0 with a shinier coat."
Francis exhaled smoke, let it drift. "And now?"
"Now…" She looked down at him, eyes softening. "Now I see you behind that bar, making sure bills get paid, giving me a shot at something better, keeping the kids steady… and I think maybe people can change. Maybe even a Gallagher."
He smirked. "Maybe even Frank?"
Fiona gave a short laugh. "Let's not get crazy."
Francis chuckled low, shaking his head. "Yeah, hardly."
Their laughter blended for a second, easy and unguarded. But it didn't last. The sound of footsteps on gravel pulled their attention.
From the corner of the block, Frank Gallagher stumbled into view. His coat was gone, shirt half-ripped, his face smeared with blood. His lip was split, nose crooked, one eye swelling shut. He didn't look drunk. He looked… wrecked.
"Jesus Christ," Fiona muttered, straightening up.
Francis shot to his feet, flicking the cigarette away. "What the hell happened to him?"
Frank didn't answer. Didn't even look at them. He pushed past like they weren't there, staggering toward the house.
"Hey—hold up!" Francis grabbed for him, but Frank shoved his shoulder off and kept going. By the time Francis lunged forward again, Frank had already thrown the door open and walked inside.
"Shit," Francis hissed, breaking into a run. Fiona followed close behind, her stomach twisting.
Inside, the house was lit warm, alive. The kids were all gathered in the living room, laughter bouncing off the walls. Debbie and Carl were sitting cross-legged on the floor with Liam on Debbie's lap. Lip was leaning on the couch arm. Ian sat in the middle, head tipped back, laughing at something Steve had just said.
It all stopped the moment Frank stepped in.
His bloody face caught every eye. The laughter died in an instant. He didn't pause—just marched forward with that wobbling stride, his eyes fixed on Ian.
And before anyone could move, he leaned down and slammed his forehead into Ian's face.
The crack was sharp. Ian yelped, clutching his nose as blood spilled fast between his fingers.
The whole room exploded. Debbie screamed. Carl jumped up. Lip cursed. Fiona bolted to Ian, grabbing tissues from the table.
But Frank wasn't finished. His voice came out ragged, almost sing-song. "Mr. Jackson said to pass it to you."
Ian pushed up, fury on his face, ready to swing back—when Steve stepped in first. His fist shot forward, knuckles cracking across Frank's jaw. Frank reeled back against the wall, spitting blood.
"You son of a bitch!" Steve snarled, cocking back for another hit.
"Stop!" Francis roared, stepping between them. His arm shot out, grabbing Steve's chest and shoving him back. His voice was sharp, cutting through the chaos. "You don't get to hit him."
Steve blinked at him, still seething. "He just—"
"I said no." Francis didn't look at him. His eyes were locked on Frank.
The old man leaned against the wall, blood running down his chin, breathing hard but grinning through it. "What's the matter, Junior? Can't stomach a little family love tap?"
Something snapped in Francis's chest. His fist came up, fast and hard, cracking into Frank's face with a sound that silenced the whole room.
Frank dropped to the floor like a sack of bricks.
Fiona gasped, pressing tissues against Ian's nose as he winced. "What the hell, Francis?"
But Francis wasn't listening. He grabbed Frank by the collar, yanked him up, and dragged him across the floor like dead weight. Frank groaned, arms limp, still smirking through the blood.
Francis hauled him down the stairs, step by step, until they vanished into the basement. The heavy door slammed behind them.
Upstairs, the kids sat frozen. Debbie clutched Liam tighter, eyes wide. Carl's fists were clenched like he wanted to fight too. Lip just rubbed his face, muttering curses under his breath.
Ian groaned again, his voice muffled through the tissues. "God, it stings."
"Hold still," Fiona said, kneeling close. She tilted his chin, pressing gently against the bridge of his nose. "You're lucky it's not broken worse. Just breathe. In and out."
Ian gave her a shaky nod, blood seeping through the tissue. Steve hovered behind them, restless, his jaw tight.
Fiona shot him a look. "You're not helping. Sit down."
Steve hesitated, then dropped onto the couch, running his hands through his hair. The tension in the room was thick, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Downstairs, the faint echo of Francis's voice rose and fell, sharp words they couldn't make out. Frank's laugh floated back up the stairs, low and guttural.
Fiona shut her eyes for a second, steadying herself. She looked around at the kids—all of them rattled, all of them watching her. She forced her voice calm. "He's fine. Francis has him. Just focus on Ian."
Debbie's lip trembled, but she nodded. Ian muttered, "We should've just thrown him out years ago."
Fiona swallowed hard, pressing the last tissue against Ian's nose. She wanted to say something comforting, something steady. But the truth was, she wasn't sure what came next. Not with Frank. Not with Francis dragging him downstairs.
All she could do was keep her hands steady, keep the kids calm, and pray that her brother knew what he was doing.