Living in South Side has given many gifts to the members of the Gallagher family. Black eyes. Moral ambiguity. And keen sense of hearing. In the hood, perhaps nothing is so important as that sense of hearing. It catches many things. Guys sneaking up in dark alleys and Frank crawling into the bedroom to steal cash and little brothers breaking into the bathroom during a make out session and- - fucking thieves opening the front gate. Son of a bitch.

Without a light, without anything to guide him, Lip jumps from his bunk, rubbing his eyes as his feet reach the floor. The bat finds his hand. His feet land firmly, familiarly on the steps, one right after the other. Quick, light feet. No need to wake the whole house. School tomorrow. Adrenaline pulses in his veins and he allows himself to imagine flickering images of carnage and glory. No thieves in this house. Not tonight, fuckers.

When he finally manages to push the front door open, his shoes hit the loose floorboard, forcing a cringe from his body at the sound. He always forgets that one. But it doesn't matter. The adrenaline in him recedes the moment he catches the image. The body-a shadow, in black and hood- takes slow, cautious steps. It's almost funny, really. A small figure creeping toward the broken home in the sagging darkness. If this is a thief, it is an inexperienced one. Lip leans against the doorframe, screen cracked. His fingers itch for a cigarette; the air catches around his bare arms. Damn tank tops. He should listen when Fiona tells him to bundle in the winter nights.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

The words drag out casually, with that hidden smile that always lingers in Lip's patronizing tone. The figure leaps, managing to control the fear, harnessing it into the loudest whisper Lip's ever had the pleasure of hearing.

"Good God! What-"

Falling back, the hood reveals a girl. A young woman, actually, probably about Lip's age. Pretty enough features, scared shitless, obviously. Dark eyes. Features flushed pink from the cold. Beautiful. Lip doesn't think much of it. Fiona's moderately attractive and she can still kick some ass when she puts her mind to it. His grip tightens around the bat even as his fighting spirit diminishes. It's all precaution, really.

"Who the fuck are you and what are you doing here at three in the morning?" He asks, his tone level.

Everything just comes out bored; Lip isn't afraid of her. The best he can do is send this...whatever this woman is trying to be... home before she hurts herself. Stupid kid. The girl struggles to catch up with her racing breath that seems to run away from the shock of Lip's appearance. She gulps hard; Lip can hear it from the top of the steps. Leaning forward on her hips, she reaches out a hand from behind her back and gestures through panting breaths.

"Well, the truth is a little more complicated-" She begins.

She tries to flash him one of those suburban sisterhood smiles. You know. The one that tries to tell you everything is fine when they just turned you into the teacher for calling her a bitch. Lip cuts her off. There is a caustic edge to his tease.

"You seem to forget that I've got a bat and all you've got is a sweatshirt," he preens.

Bright eyes stare out into the distance, at the cop's house next door, for a brief moment. Then, she lets out one long, languished breath as she pulls a basket from behind her back. Her eyebrows raise once, and she flashes him a look that clearly says, "I hate myself right now." There is a tinge of shame, a tinge of self-deprecation, and, mostly, just plain embarrassment. She shrugs her shoulders once a basket hits the ground. Lip recognizes it. It's one of those food baskets that the Catholic schools stuff every winter for the underprivileged families of Southside. Her hands find their way into her pockets, and a bitter joke escapes her lips.

"Robin hooding," she explains.

What Lip wouldn't do for a cigarette right now. He turns acidic.

"We don't want your fucking charity," he spits

The girl nods. And then she flashes Lip a look, as if to say, "now, you're smarter than that." There's a reason she's here in the dead of night when the entire neighborhood is sleeping.

"I know. Why else do you think I came at three in the morning, Lip Gallagher?"

Everything stops right there. He runs down a list of people he's pissed off, people Frank pissed off, girls he's slept with, social workers, shit…. He furrows his brow and starts lining up the pieces. Who could she be? As he stares her down, the air crackles with something more intense, more tangible than anything in the moments that came before. She has his attention now. There is something vaguely familiar about that face, he acknowledges to himself.

"You-?" He accuses, pointing at her as though he knows who she is, when in fact he has no Earthly clue.

She nods, a laugh breathing on her lips as she continues to lay it on thick.

"You were very popular on Facebook during your little SAT stunt."

Against all of his will and better judgement, Lip's chest buffs at the sound of that. He smirks.

"Was I?"

She nods and takes a few slinky, cautious steps in his direction. Lip is graced with one of those Miss Georgia winning smiles.

"The talk of the prep school," she compliments.

The girl's smile is met with one of Lip's own. He tries to match hers, to lay it on just as thick as she does. It is then that he recognizes the gold crest on her black sweatshirt. A school crest for Saint something or other.

"I'm still not letting you leave that basket on my porch," he says, leveling with her.

The girl resists the urge to stomp. She's made it through South Side to leave this for them. The least he can do is take it.

"Why not?" She asks.

Lip shrugs. It's the most obvious thing in the world, isn't it? Gallaghers don't take charity. No therapy, no charity. He doesn't give her his full attention, instead choosing to look out across the street to the same busted houses that have stood there for twenty years.

"Because it's charity," he responds, simply.

An ardent and earnest shake of her head accompanies her short:

"No, it's not."

Leaning in toward her, not stepping away from the top porch step, as though he has some great secret, Lip whispers,

"You're wearing your service committee sweatshirt."

The darkness saves them both the embarrassment of seeing her turn a satisfying shade of red. She can't believe she forgot that. Looking down and confirming what he knows to be true, she breathes in deeply before admitting:

"So I am."

She rocks on the balls of her feet as the awkward turn of this conversation settles them into a lull of words. Lip gives her a look from under his eyelashes and points down the road, wishing for the love of God that he had a cigarette right now.

"Any chance you turn around and walk the other direction?" He asks, knowing the answers.

A head shake and a half smile. That's what he gets.

"'Fraid not," she clucks."

He takes a step down toward her. Fiona would kill him if she finds out he let her leave that shit on their porch. Worse still, he would never forgive himself if he took it. Gallaghers don't do charity. Not from shelters, not from pretty girls.

"No one would know," he offers by way of a consolation; if she doesn't leave the basket, no one would know but the two of them. It could be their little secret.

She smirks and tilts her head toward him.

"I would know," she disagrees.

Lip doesn't buy it. Not one bit. He dismisses her defense with a flick of his wrist. He wants a cigarette and a jacket. Still, even as he freezes his ass off and feels the nicotine headache coming on, he can't help but admire this… Thing happening in this moment. She's an affluent snob standing up to a Southside kid in the middle of the night. That takes balls.

"That's bullshit," he responds.

But even as he says it, there is a smile playing across his face, an intrigue in his eyes. Finally, the truth comes out. She sucks in a breath of air and rolls her eyes, refusing to make eye contact with him. The truth is always more complicated.

"I'm not scheduled to bring baskets to any houses on this side of town. Ever. Too dangerous," she confesses.

Confusion ripples across Lip's expression. His head cocks to one side as he tries to figure out why the classic "missing white girl" archetype would wander to South Side at three in the morning when she didn't even have to. He's a smart kid, Lip. But he's not that smart.

"So that means-?" She trails off.

Her words are blunt. Direct. Uncluttered. She thinks it is best that way. Rip it off like a Band-Aid and wait for him to yell "fuck off."

"It means that we took every course together before I transferred and I just wanted to know what it felt like to have an actual conversation with you."

A shot of breath, like the breath just after a punch in the gut, bursts from Lip's body. In another world it may have sounded like a laugh. The voice of reason emerges from his mouth. His hand wanders to rub the back of his neck, pulling at the roots of his hair. He hasn't felt this inexperienced since he was thirteen. This shy, Romeo and Juliet midnight rendezvous shit is uncharted territory for him, at least from this angle.

"But you didn't even know I would-"

She cuts him off.

"I did. You wrote a poem in sophomore English about the sounds your house makes at night. The teacher made us analyze it for three days. The creaking gate was one of the things you talked about."

Silence. It drags between them like the L train on the tracks. And now that she has officially said everything she could to embarrass herself, the girl decides it is time to disappear into the night. Her head bows once. The metallic taste of defeat begins tickling her tongue. She picks up her basket in one hand and holds the other up in farewell. Her words come out as a laugh. In a moment like this, there is nothing to do but laugh.

"I'll see you later, Lip."

She is halfway down the walkway, convinced she has lost her chance, when his voice finds her again. A stroke of humor colors the genuine apology.

"Sorry about threatening to beat you to death with a bat," he calls after her.

The girl offers with a single wag of her finger over her shoulder before continuing down toward the sidewalk. She rolls her eyes and knows that a twitch in the wrong direction, if she really were a burglar, then he would have taken her teeth out with that bat.

"It's alright," she says, "You should only apologize for promises you don't plan to keep."

Lip throws a bluff out there. Most girls are too delusional. Most girls sop it up with a biscuit. He shoves his hand in his pockets.

"Maybe I could see you around sometime, then," he offers.

But this girl isn't most girls. She isn't delusional. She may have come to deliver groceries at three am, but she doesn't think that this late night conversation will cause them to burst out in Leonard Bernstein songs or anything. Throwing a glance at him behind her back, she smiles a grimace.

"No. You won't."

Lip laughs. Smart girl.

"Don't fucking leave that thing on my porch when I go inside, alright?"

He says it as he pulls the front door open, and she calls back without a second glance. The words are thick syrup, sweet and sticky and artificial.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

But sure enough, the next morning, Lip opens the door to the smell of fresh baked goods and plastic milk cartons. And, nestled between a box of Crunch-n-Munch and a can of noodles, is a pack of cigarettes covered with a sticky note:

"Lip, Your hands were twitching last night. Remembered this was your brand. The warning on the box says that this stuff will kill you. Flirting with disaster, aren't you?"

And Lip could admit to himself that, indeed, he is. Disaster is so close he can taste it in his nicotine, see it on the sunrise. But it isn't the cigarettes. It's the girl whose name he can't even remember. He smiles, picks up the smokes, and begins his walk toward her side of town. She can't be too hard to find.

Here's a little one shot I wrote ages ago! Please review. I can't wait to hear your thoughts!