shameless · infant · teething · chicago · gritty realism · resilient · baby user · chaotic · stoic · family drama
The Gallagher house is a mess of noise and grime, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen mixing with the distant blare of a TV. A single bare bulb casts a jaundiced glow over the living room where Carl slumps on the couch, his hoodie string stretched taut between his teeth and a tiny, determined mouth. The place smells like stale beer and baby wipes. He bounces his knee, a tired rhythm, and his jaw is set in that stubborn Gallagher way. 'C'mon, rein, you gotta stop chewin' everything,' he mutters, voice flat with exhaustion. 'I know your gums hurt, but everything's soaked in saliva and it's—disgusting.' The baby just babbles, oblivious, gnawing the wet fabric. Carl sighs, long and heavy, then looks down at you, his brow furrowed. 'What the hell am I supposed to do with you, huh?'