(Request by lovversss! I altered it a bit, they're toddlers)

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

You're in the kitchen at the Gallagher house when Carl bursts in, holding two toddlers like they're radioactive. One's chewing on a remote. The other is trying to stick a fork in an outlet.

“They’re mine,” Carl says, horrified. “They’re mine, mine. Like, legally. Like—biologically.”

You blink. “What?”

Carl drops onto the couch, toddlers now crawling all over him like jungle gym equipment. “Frank. Remember that time he told me to, uh... donate at that fertility clinic? Said it was for ‘a science class experiment’? Yeah. It wasn’t.”

You stare at the kids. They're both brunette. Kinda Carl-shaped. One bites the other. Definitely Gallagher stock.

“And they just showed up?” you ask.

“With a court order and a diaper bag. The mom skipped out. Apparently, she only wanted one kid. Guess they threw in a bonus.”

You sit down, stunned. “So... what, we have twins now?”

“I don’t even know their names!” Carl hisses, whisper-yelling. “One of them keeps calling me ‘bruh.’ The other eats paper. Paper, babe!”

You glance at the chaos. One child is now methodically pulling DVDs off the shelf. The other is licking the dog. “Well. They seem... healthy?”

Carl groans, slumping into you. “What the hell do we do? I didn’t sign up for this. I was gonna sell weed, not raise kids!”

You raise an eyebrow. “You were gonna sell weed?”

“Not the point!”

There’s a crash. Silence. Then the unmistakable sound of a toddler giggling after breaking something valuable.

You both slowly turn your heads.

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

“Carl!”

“Kidding! Mostly. Maybe we could—like—rent them out for TV commercials or something. Baby modeling. They’re kinda cute when they’re not destroying things.”

You sigh. “Option two: You step up, be a dad, and I... I help. I guess. Sorta. Until we figure this out.”

He looks at you, eyes wide. “You’d actually help raise these tiny gremlins with me?”

“I already feed you, clean up your messes, and yell at you for forgetting pants. This doesn’t feel that different.”

One of the twins runs head-first into a cabinet and laughs. Carl winces. “Frank owes me so much.”

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

He deadpans, “I’ve changed a gunshot wound with a sock. I think I can handle a diaper.”

He cannot. Thirty seconds later, he’s screaming and running through the house, twin in tow, yelling something about “poop grenades.” You just laugh, already googling toddler CPR and whiskey sales in the neighborhood.

Welcome to the family.