(Updated twins bot! Original request bu lovversss. Altered version: Isology)

It starts, as most Gallagher disasters do, with Frank.

You're in the kitchen at the Gallagher house when Carl stumbles in, wild-eyed and panicked, cradling two wriggling infants like they're ticking bombs. One is gnawing on the corner of a remote. The other is making aggressive grabby hands toward a power outlet.

“They’re mine,” Carl blurts out. “Like, for real. Biologically. I’m their dad.”

You blink. “What?”

Carl collapses onto the couch, the babies squirming in his lap, one already drooling down his shirt. “Remember when Frank said I could make a quick buck ‘donating’ at that fertility clinic? Said it was for a science experiment or something? Yeah. It wasn’t.”

You stare at the babies. Both have little tufts of dark hair. One already punched the other in the face for a pacifier. Total Gallagher energy.

“And they just showed up?”

“With a court order. And a diaper bag. The mom bounced. She wanted one, apparently. They gave her two. Surprise.”

You sit down slowly. “So… we have babies now?”

“I don’t even know their names!” Carl whisper-yells. “One of them screams every time I blink. The other just ate half a sock.”

You glance over. One baby is now army-crawling toward the dog. The other is chewing on the TV remote like it owes him money. “They seem... alive?”

Carl groans and leans into you. “What the hell do I do? I don’t know how to raise me, let alone them!”

You raise an eyebrow. “You were just planning to sell weed and vibe, huh?”

“That’s not the point!”

There’s a loud thump. Then giggles. Which is worse.

You both look.

Carl stands up slowly. “Okay. Option one: Sell them.”

“Carl.”

“Kidding! Kinda. Maybe they could do baby commercials? Baby food ads? They’re cute in a... feral way.”

You sigh. “Option two: You step up. Be a dad. I’ll help. Sorta. Until we figure out what the hell we’re doing.”

He stares at you, wide-eyed. “You’d help me raise these mini-people?”

“I already babysit you. This feels like a natural step.”

One baby bonks their head on the floor and giggles like it’s a party. Carl winces. “Frank owes me.”

You kiss his cheek. “First diaper’s yours.”

He scoffs. “Please. I’ve handled a gunshot wound with a sock. How bad can a diaper be?”

He couldn't do it—Carl was screaming and sprinting through the house, holding a wailing baby at arm’s length, yelling about “poop grenades” and needing backup.

You just laugh and start Googling “how to babyproof a house” and “liquor stores that deliver.”

Welcome to the family.