Alone Together (Gallavich)

one

ian

Days like this are incredible.

I love my big family. My siblings are my best friends, even when I want to rip their heads off (which happens more times than not). The chaos and noise; even finding Frank on the front porch with vomit on the snow next to him and a half empty bottle in his hand - it's what makes the Gallaghers the Gallaghers.

But there's something about days like this when I am grateful that they've found their own things to be invested in - days like this when I can walk home from work at the convenience store in the white flurries of snow in peace (well, the most peace anyone in the southside of Chicago could encounter), knowing that I'll come through the front door of our house and be greeted by silence and time to think, rather than a bombardment of screaming and running around.

Once I get inside, I make it a point to stand with my back to the door, taking the rare quiet all in before I relax. Fiona's probably out with some guy, just as Lip's probably out with some girl. Debbie was supposed to be taking Liam to get groceries once she got out of school and Carl was always off blowing something up. Frank's never home when the sun's up, and Monica... well, I haven't seen her in general for a few years. Just to be sure, I call out to anyone who could have changed their plans and came home at some point.

"Anyone home?"

No response. Perfect.

I smirk a little as I head over to the kitchen to grab a snack, taking off my hat, scarf, gloves and jacket, leaving them to hang over the couch for now. Opening the fridge, I grab a beer and place it on the counter behind me while I keep looking for something to hold me over until dinner or maybe even the rest of the night, depending on when, or if, everyone plans on getting back home for the night to indulge the possibility of dinner.

Eventually I decide on a sandwich, which probably isn't the greatest thing I could have chosen but honestly, it's the Gallagher house... what else do you expect? The sound of sirens hovers around the neighborhood as usual, getting closer to my block by the second. For some reason it's comforting to know that another person in this city is adding to the dark legacy of it, that they haven't forgotten where they were, which makes me smile just a little. I reach for the bread on top of the fridge while taking out the ham and cheese, stuffing a piece of cheese into my mouth before grabbing the beer behind me, twisting the top off and taking a swig.

Once I finish making my sandwich, I take the plate, along with my beer, into the living room with me, ready to watch what I wanna watch for once on TV, undisturbed by one of the many people who make their way in and out of this house. Just as I go to sit down, the police sirens get super close and flashing lights zip by the house, gone as fast as they appeared. Welcome to the slums of Chicago I guess. Not much else can be expected. After almost 17 years of living here, I've gotten super close to that idea. You kind of have to if you want to do anything right in this part of the city. As for the "high class" up in Wrigleyville and Lincoln Park, I don't really understand how they can even consider themselves from Chicago. If you don't fall asleep to the sound of gunshots and street fights, you shouldn't even belong to Cook County.

I sit down on the couch, putting my plate on the table in front of me along with my legs that I kick up and take another sip of my beer. Finally time to relax.

Feeling around for the remote on the couch and in between the cushions, I realize quickly that this is something I should've done before I sat and got comfy cause now I look up and am met with the sight of the remote all the way by the table next to the TV. I sigh as I take my legs down from the table and push myself off the couch, the police sirens getting close again. Before I can even make it a foot away from the couch, I'm thrown off track completely as I watch the back door swing open and slam shut just as quick, a man slipping through and bolting up the stairs in the kitchen. The police cars are back racing down the street in front of my house again, sirens wailing. Loud footsteps and muffled curses upstairs are all I can hear as I run over to the stairway in the living room, grabbing the baseball bat that's hanging on the wall as I pass by. As soon as I hear a door slam shut upstairs somewhere, I slow down and start moving much more quietly up the steps. My hands grip around the bat tighter and tighter as I reach the top of the steps and I try to steady my breathing and slow my heart before it pounds out of my chest, but whatever fucking movie is making itself a reality right now in my house is too overbearing. Half of me knows it was probably just Carl running back home before he gets caught for burning down Mr. Roberts' fence against, but the other half of me knows where I live, what kind of shit can go down in this neighborhood, and I can't help but freak out as I move closer to my bedroom door that's shut; something that it never is during the day so that the heat can circulate in the house and to the room when we're not home. I raise the bat up slightly with one hand, ready to bash the intruder right in the head, and reach towards the door knob with my other hand. I twist it slowly until the door creaks open and before I can even make my next move, a short black haired kid jumps into the doorway, grabs my wrist with the bat in it, causing it to fall to the floor beside me as I myself get tackled to the ground.

" Get the fuck o-" I scream out before a hand covers my mouth. I look up to see the face of the man straddling me and pinning me to the floor with his free hand. What the hell?

"Ian Gallagher, you better shut the fuck up before I rip your tongue out of your fucking mouth."