gone to earth

𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧 |  as penned by fia for roswell-rp

TLDR;— William ‘Birdie’ Cannon is the middle brother of the Cannon three. He’s thirty-eight years old ( born January 22nd ) and currently resides in Tripp’s Trailer Park. He’s the local lonely janitor, keeping folks at a distance with the help of his trusty caution: wet floor sign.

as he waited for his younger brother to clean up , striker resembled an elderly woman enjoying her monthly perm and purple rinse ; fingertips tugged the corners of the ragged towel further around his shoulders to offer a lick more decency ( not like birdie hadn’t seen it all before on the nights where the eldest ‘ forgot ‘ to put a sock on the only door handle ) . as much as it was a pain , as much as the middle sibling rolled his eyes and cursed his brown-tipped fingers , it was a small price to pay — the alternative , back in tennessee , would have been the cruel back hand of their father , the sting of a whip or the unending darkness of an under stairs cupboard . 

“ well how long’ve i gots to sit here ?? got stuffs t’ do , “ that ‘ stuff ‘ was likely browsing his collection of seedy magazines and slinging hay bales . an overactive mind , sitting still for a prolonged period of time didn’t quite sit comfortably with striker cannon . “ an’ one day your pretty little strawberry blonde will start goin’ white and you’ll ‘ave to sit here an’ have piss-stinkin’ dye smothered all over y’ . when that day comes — and it’ll come , bubs , it’ll come real soon — i ain’t gon’ do it !! “ 

Striker’s griping is an apt accompaniment to Birdie’s tidying up, as habitual as is this routine regime, made strict by the eldest Cannon’s self conscious hyper-awareness of the grey growing in lieu of brown. “Fifteen minutes at least,” Birdie recites, memory serving well no thanks to this being a reminder as repetitive as the dye job itself, “twenny, if y’can stomach it.”

He’d thought he’d known his demons well enough to see them coming, yet here he stumbles, his breath a strained whistle needling in his throat, vision mottled with static and black, chainsaw abandoned to the foliage of Frazier Woods. His brother’s off on the tractor, and Birdie’s running from some firecrackers.

That’s all it had been: Some kids had set off firecrackers and Birdie had taken off like the robins and sparrows spooked from their nests.

Alara gathered herself and released her hold on him with an instant apology. Instinct had her reaching out for the closest thing to keep her upright but she hadn’t meant to grab him as roughly as she had, instantly turning bright red when she stepped back away. The aftermath, stain covered chest, was the last thing she needed but somehow made sense for her life. Bad things happened in threes and with having locked herself out of her car yesterday, she wasn’t eager to see what the third thing was. “One more.” She muttered to herself as she tossed the rest of her coffee in the garbage can now that she had a grudge against the dark liquid despite knowing she’d have to go buy another soon after the adrenaline of this interaction wore off and she was reminded of her tiredness. 

“A musty shirt? You’re really selling the idea to me.” The choice was simple even though she wasn’t eager to go with that idea at all. “There’s some people who work here like at the clothing stores? I’m half convinced they’re going to try and make me buy and entire shirt.” She could likely find a cheap one but since she was meant to be saving up rather than spending, she was not pleased. “Any place you recommend that I try first?”

Birdie’s cheeks colour with shame. A musty shirt is the best he can offer, one he himself would’ve snatched up and thought generous were he in Alara’s place. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that there are those who’re keener on fast fashion because they can actually afford it, even while he works as a spectre among them, see-through, forgotten.

“‘Pologies,” Birdie mumbles, embarrassment dampening an already heavy tone. It dawns on him now how inviting the other back to the staff’s private locker room mightn’t have been the best idea. Getting caught in a scenario such as that would’ve put Birdie out of a job, he’s sure. So he’s thankful for her misunderstanding, and lets a sigh slip from his nose before he mutters, “I ain’t an expert, but I reckon that one there might have somethin’, ah... cheap.” He points the rounded end of his mop handle towards a spot whose windows are plastered with LIQUIDATION and 70% OFF signs.

LOCATION: shocktober fest! AVAILABILITY: open, @roswellstarters·

 “FUCKIN’  HELL,  MAN.”  gael  complains  as  someone  bumps  into  his  shoulder  for  what  felt  like  the  tenth  time  in  the  last  half  hour  or  so.  all  the  yelling,  running,  food  spilling  and  crazed  kids  high  on  sugar  had  been  putting  him  on  the  worst  mood  of  his  life.  but  he  still  wanted  to  enjoy  some  goddamn  corndogs  at  the  damn  festival.  “if  someone  almost  spill  their  drink  on  me  one  more  time,  i  might  be  inclined  to  turn  this  into  a  real  horror  fest.”

it was startling enough to kill some of her high, the trill in her chest blasting away whatever acute calm she’d managed and her lips curl in annoyance while she massages the spot over her heart, as if that might slow its pace. “nope. and neither is your sign.” she doesn’t ask before dragging it about a foot forward, loudly centering it in the aisle, though there’s a good chance she wouldn’t have seen it there either. frankly, she didn’t realize they bothered cleaning these floors, or that birdie was the one to do it. she briefly wonders if she’s ever seen him outside the wild pony. “you gotta be a little louder. take up a little more space,” flows some unsolicited advice that instantly conjures thoughts of his brother, whom she regularly pleads for the opposite. ‘sit down and shut up.’ while obviously brothers, the two couldn’t be more different. “what if we bedazzled your sign.” 

Should one be asked to describe William Cannon in a word, ‘loud’ would be the last to come to mind. In fact, it’s easier to conclude that he’s quiet, reserved, shut off from the civilised folk alongside his brothers, far rowdier than he. He quirks a brow at Victoria. If anything, Birdie’s been taught by his father’s firm backhand to take up less space. Were it up to Stephen Cannon, the only space Birdie would be taking up would be an unmarked grave behind their childhood trailer, back in Tennessee.

“What in God’s good name is bedazzlin’?” he asks. Not that he has any intent of humouring Victoria.

whether they avoided each other or not , it was easier said than done dodging the cannons . the moore siblings , when their trailer was filled with the entire brood , were situated only a few doors from the home or the trio of boys ; whether they were stealing fuel from each other or knocking asking for spare milk , their paths crossed — willingly or unwillingly . 

it would have been easier to walk straight past the carnage at the mall that day but , like a bad stain or a lingering odour , it was near impossible to shake sparrow moore . they had stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette before entering the sheltered building ( something birdie would no doubt need to pick up before his shift ended ) and was now trudging through the winding corridors , window-shopping for items easy to drop into their bag ‘ accidentally ‘ . with christmas only a few months away , the act of lifting gifts had to start early . 

“ that looks like a real mess , cannon , “ a crooked smirk weighted their features as they approached the middle brother . sardonically , they added ; “ it’s not like your family to make a mess . “

There’s little in the way of secrecy when it comes to Sparrow’s abhorrence at the Cannon three. While Birdie might not understand the extent of it– nor the specificities of its source –he knows well enough to keep himself out of their way: There’s enough revulsion to be endured in the eyes of his peers when they spot him coming along, wheeling his lonely janitor’s cart down the vastness of Roswell Mall.

“well, not right now, but when ya go outside- i’m tellin’ ya, it’s a totally different world out there.” he’s not used to people not flirting back when he flirts with them - but being always optimistic, that doesn’t stop him from pushing on, because he’s always liked to think that his cheerful disposition, at least when sober, wins him plenty of brownie points from most people. “would it help my case if i said that i was distracted by you, or should i think of something else to say?” he was pretty sure that he should think of something else to say, but hey - wes has always been a firm believer in shooting your shot. “how about if i say that i just wanted an excuse to talk to you, does that help my case?”

Birdie’s a mess of scars and callouses, inside and out: Hard labour stains his palms, scar tissue glistens a silvery hue on skin and soul. He knows what to do with pain. He knows where to put it, when to inflict so as to have it inflicted upon him in turn; he’s known since the first time he’d felt the back of his father’s hand. 

What Birdie doesn’t know how to handle is affection. Even that of more frivolous hues paints a picture beyond the middle Cannon’s understanding, and he frowns at Wes as he would a complicated math problem. Cold slick coats the back of his neck even as his cheeks burn. It’s far from the echoing throb of Stephen Cannon’s open palmed slaps, but it still somehow stings the same.

Chest tight, Birdie drops his gaze to his mop. It’s been forming a puddle where he’s left it sitting a few inches from his scuffed up boot. He sidesteps the bubbly liquid and sweeps at it, dragging that cleanliness across to where Wes has stained his handiwork. “That’s some odd reasonin’,” he ends up mumbling. After all, why would anybody ever want to talk to him, let alone flirt?

gunner’s gaze darted back over his shoulder quickly when he came to a stop directly in front of the other male, clearing his throat before he tugged on the brim of his baseball hat, bringing it down lower, as if it was going to hide his features. “sorry, i know, i’m making a mess,” he starts, a faint red hue coming over his cheeks at the admission. the start of the football season meant he’d had a few interviewers calling and asking how new mexico’s team was looking for the coming season - and while there was a time in his life where he was used to less respectable paparazzi hounding him, he was trying to ease back into the public part of his career. and while the person he saw outside was only a sports reporter looking for a comment, there’d been a brief stint of panic as soon as he’d recognized them, and he’d darted into the mall without a second thought, and now he had to pay the consequences. “c’d’you think of a quite store or somethin’ out of the way i could go to, uh, lay low? just for a half hour or somethin’.” 

If there was one thing Asha loved more than most things it was Halloween. The season leading to it, and the full delight of the spirit in it all. Half assed costumes to the ones that people went all out for. Costume ideas had swam in her head for months, having one three quarters of the way done by the end of June, before diverting to a new idea, and deciding to do both, if not another if new ones came to her head with enough time.

The trip to the mall served the purpose of a gathering of final costume pieces, as well as her last few bucks on candy and some cheap decorations to stick up around the apartment, or at least her bedroom if they were vetoed by her roommates.

The slick of the floor was unexpected as she’d had her nose down, staring into the screen of her phone as she walked, sending the very urgent photo of the jack-o-lantern lights she’d picked up for pre-arrival voting. “Shit,” she’d whispered to herself as she caught her balance, before stepping carefully back, her gaze shifting to try to judge if she could tell where the shine started and ended to go around carefully. Too long trying to decide before her eyes finally moved to the man in front of her, staring daggers into her. “Oh, uh,” she stammered. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention,” she stated obviously, as if that wasn’t the crux of the situation.

It was only an extra second before she really processed the costume and fake blood. “Oh, cool,” she said, smiling at it. “They let you dress up here? I’ve been told a ‘tasteful Halloween’ shirt at my job. Sucks.” She shrugged. “You know, you could really take the bite,” she pointed at her own neck, “up a bit with some latex make-up if you wanted. Really sell the horror of it.”

While the impassive expression freezing his features into that stern look might not betray it, Birdie's tickled by that panic stricken slip. All he does is adjust his stance: Weight shifts onto his other foot, one hand releases the mop handle to dig deep into his jumpsuit pocket. Best keep the other from spotting how nervous he is, frustration aside. He can feel a thin layer of perspiration slicking across his palm. Birdie rubs his fingertips together. He exhales slowly, the shuddering breath inaudible, thankfully.

“More twisted my arm rather’n given me permission,” the middle Cannon mutters. He has to clear his throat to further clarify, “dressin’ up ain’t all that fun. Not for me, anyhow.”

         𝗢𝗙  𝗖𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗦𝗘  𝗜𝗧  𝗪𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗗  𝗕𝗘  𝗠𝗘𝗜  𝗪𝗛𝗢  𝗪𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗗  𝗚𝗢  𝗙𝗘𝗘𝗧  𝗙𝗜𝗥𝗦𝗧  𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗢  𝗧𝗛𝗘  𝗪𝗘𝗧  𝗙𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗥  ,  but  the  sign  was  right  there  !  it  didn’t  matter  ,  not  when  it  was  her  .  long  before  being  able  to  stand  on  her  own  two  feet  ,  had  the  woman  exhibit  a  fairly  clumsy  behavor  ,  it  was  embarrassing  every  time  ,  this  wasn’t  different  .  thankfully  ,  though  ,  she  was  wearing  sneakers  ,  even  though  they  did  little  to  help  her  ,  because  she  needed  to  grab  a  hold  of  the  first  thing  she  saw  in  order  to  regain  her  balance  .  and  that’s  why  she  was  considered  clumsy  —  among  other  things  .  at  least  that  day  she  wasn’t  with  the  twins  ,  the  disaster  might  have  been  greater  otherwise  .

         putting  herself  in  a  straight  position  and  passing  a  hand  in  front  of  her  jeans  from  the  coffee  cup  she  almost  spilled  all  over  herself  and  consequently  all  over  the  freshly  clean  floor  ,  the  brunette  could  feel  the  heat  coming  up  from  her  neck  and  inevitably  tinting  her  cheeks  .  the  way  the  blond  man  looked  at  her  ,  it  was  almost  like  a  parent  reprimanding  a  child  ,  or  a  worker  reprimanding  someone  from  messing  up  what  they  were  doing  and  quite  possibly  wanting  their  death  .  mei  hardly  blamed  him  for  the  serious  look  on  his  face  and  she  wasn’t  good  about  sustaining  such  deadly  glances  ,  diverting  from  his  glance  ,  she  looked  down  at  her  feet  for  a  beat  and  holding  her  coffee  cup  closer  to  her  .

         clearing  her  throat  ,  not  interested  in  keeping  the  silence  any  longer  ,  she  met  his  eyes  with  an  apologetic  look  of  her  own  .  ❝  i’m  so  deeply  sorry—    i’m  more  than  all  kinds  of  clumsy  and  i  wasn’t  looking  where  i  was  going  ,  kinda  wanted  to  reach  the  .  .  .❞  she  looked  at  the  window  of  the  store  she  was  about  to  get  to  and  sighed  in  disappointment  when  she  noticed  the  cute  chucky  costume  had  been  taken  out  of  the  window  and  probably  bought  .  ❝  well  ,  unimportant  now  .  i’m  still  really  sorry  ,  and  are  you  supposed  to  be  a  vampire  ?❞

While irked, Birdie isn’t entirely surprised that he, his sign and his handiwork slip by unnoticed. Blue collar workers are the tinkering ghosts taken for granted, and even then they’re a step up from the lonely husks lining skid row, or Roswell’s backstreets, shivering under moth-eaten sleeping bags, if they’re lucky. Birdie always drops whatever he can spare into rattling cups. It’s a hierarchy of privilege, and Birdie’s used to his place near the bottom. It’s often trodden on, but that doesn’t take away from the resulting frustration.

At least the other’s had the good graces of apologising.

“Well, no need t’get all torn up ‘bout it,” the middle Cannon grunts out. The ‘sorry’ is nice and all, if not a little too ardent for Birdie’s otherwise coolly detached demeanour. His cheeks burn at the mention of his unwilling participation in the mall’s festivities; deep blue eyes drop to the muck the other’s smeared across, as though pointing out something equally as embarrassing in a futile attempt to drag the two of them to the same level.

Shiloh has never been particularly scared of Birdie. Admittedly, they likely should tread around the other with a bit more caution given his rap sheet, one that seems to grow lengthier on each occasion they cross paths. But, given it seems to be filled primarily with petty theft, loitering, and maybe a few minor cases of breaking and entering, Shiloh feels more inclined to give him a high-five for, “sticking it to the pigs,” than to run and cower.

Though the look Birdie flashes them, like he’s practicing posing for his damn mugshot, might make them reconsider. Might, if they weren’t so busy trying to decipher why they’re earning it in the first place. They stare back with pinched brows until their eyes finally drop to their Timberlands, dirt on the soles mixing with the water to leave a trail of grime in their wake.

“Al-right,” Shiloh says with the same tone a mildly offended person might say, ‘I get it.’ Their face scrunches into one of lighthearted indignation, one they often wear when being told off by their siblings.

“In my defense, nine times out of ten you put that thing up when the floors aren’t even wet, so consider this your ‘Boy Who Cried Wolf’ lesson learned… Now, fix your face. That is no way to be lookin’ at the person who rode their bike all the way here just to buy you a coffee.” They didn’t; they’d wanted a soft pretzel, but what Birdie doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

There’s more than a touch of skepticism in Birdie’s raised brow, though he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Rarely does he see Shiloh’s favours as charity ( despite there being little difference between their money spent and that of attempted pick-ups or provocations at the Pony ). It’s different when it comes to the youngling. Be it their trailer-park upbringing or their shared spot on the outskirts of civilised society, the unlikely pair– now joined at the hip courtesy of Striker’s trailblazing misadventures around Roswell’s riskiest spots –get it. Get each other ( Birdie knows he’s still a little ways off from fully fleshing out his understanding of gender... expression?? Identity?? All of that ). True motive unbeknownst to him, he appreciates Shiloh’s visit. Even if it has mucked up his pristine floors.

“They got new flavours for fall,” Birdie says. Shiloh’s one of the few people who doesn’t make his throat wring his words dry on their way up to his mouth. His breaths come easy, and his voice is steady, only ever that calm when he’s with his brothers.

if the bloodshot eyes or faint smell only thinly-masked by patchouli didn’t give her away, the big dopey smile would have. halloween decorations as far as the eye could see—the same ones the mall’s been putting up her entire life—each coated in a fine layer of dust that whatever high school kid got paid to put them up hadn’t quite bothered to wipe off. the bats are crooked and each plastic ghost’s painted-on face is familiarly wonky. victoria’s favorite is the one whose misprinted eye makes it look like he’s winking and when she finds its place this year, she snaps a quick picture (he made it farther from the bathrooms this year, which she deems a promotion, though her muddled head can’t quite figure out how to phrase that into a clever instagram caption).

instead she tucks her phone back in her pocket, backing up a step and promptly crashing into a sign that surely wasn’t there a moment ago, only narrowly avoiding the floor. “fuckin’ hell,” she slurs out as a hand splays across her chest, the other reaching out to recenter the sign. “warn a bitch. were you standing here that whole time?” 

Birdie can’t blame anyone for their vices, not when his own have him bogged down in memories best forgotten, or at least waded through a different way. He knows he’s his daddy’s son when he finds his rage at the bottom of a bottle. It’s almost ritualistic, those late-night visits to the Pony; the bar staff can sense him coming from a mile away, their Birdie radar ever sharp since the first few incidents of broken barstools and bloodied flesh. It’s almost a tribute to the man who’d painted scars on his big brother’s back. The one who’d instilled in Birdie a fear that has him in a chokehold to this day.

That chokehold keeps his voice at bay; he has to clear his throat now, feeling a rasp scrape the back of it as he adjusts. “Your eyes ain’t workin’?” he returns, albeit quietly. There’s a familiarity between them that brings them close enough for soft nips such as these.

The brunette couldn’t believe the Halloween Spirit. Never had such an holiday been celebrated until she’d arrived in the states and despite the beliefs of her grandmother, she had come to embrace it as well. Perhaps not to the extent of some people in this town. All due to lack of funds and not having enough room to store a ten foot tall inflatable skeleton. If she had money to waste and space to spare, she wouldn’t have taught twice. 

Her own costumes is where she lacked. Many of times she’d gotten a shirt with a skeleton and sprayed some of that cheap white coloured spray that likely did as much damage on her hair as it did on her lungs. And stood by her front door to wait for the kids. 

Even now, after so many years of doing it, she noted the decline in children. The fact that many houses didn’t decorate as much. She did, for the most part, but most of her decoration were child’s play beside the other homes further down her street. Maybe they avoided her corner due to lack of enthusiasm and how hidden her home was to the rest of the street. 

Her eyes scan the mall around her, watching the various decorations until she finds herself losing her footing and slipping, barely missing the ground due to the fact that she reached out and grabbed onto the first sturdy frame that she could find. 

The look on his face could have killed her right then and there, slowly releasing him and feeling the redness of her cheeks flare up. 

“I…. Well, I wasn’t looking.” That much was obvious as she cleared her throat and then peered down at the pronounced coffee stain on her shirt. “I believe that would be karma in the works.”

The solidity of that grasp– nails digging, fingers curving into skin and muscle –yanks a muffled grunt from the back of his throat. All Birdie does is tighten his grip on the handle of his beloved mop and waits to be released. Under any other circumstances, he might have politely offered a steadying arm, however begrudging, but he’s at work, and laying a hand on a woman, however helpful, could be misconstrued as anything but. So he remains as stoic as he possibly can and watches coffee splatter across the other’s front. Some droplets even plunge to mix with the bleach and pine-scented mix he uses to clean the floors. Birdie does his very best to retain a sigh.