burn the postcards

𝘉𝘙𝘖𝘕𝘈𝘎𝘏 𝘏𝘌𝘕𝘙𝘐𝘌𝘛𝘛𝘈 𝘖 '𝘙𝘖𝘜𝘙𝘒𝘌 - she/they - 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜

as penned by fia for roswell-rp

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TLDR;— bronagh o'rourke is a twenty-four year old full time mother, currently residing in lunar crescent with her five month old son, callum, and her mom, ava dabrowski. they are bisexual, use she/they pronouns and were born on the 17th of february.

the sound of babies crying wasn’t one of alarm for juniper anymore . being a fairly new mom herself , it seemed to the the soundtrack to life at the moment . gaze flickers up from her cell phone screen , hearing how frantic the little cries seem and the apology that follows from the woman’s lips . ❝ don’t ever apologize for that . here , have a seat . peel some layers off him . ❞ the brunette bends and reaches , pulling the tiny hat from the floor and dusting it off with her palm before laying it out on her table , the chair opposite her cleaned free of her bag which was occupying it . ❝ i swear babies have sensors and cry even harder when they know you’re frazzled . don’t worry about bothering people around you , they can get over themselves . whip ya ‘ titty out if you need . do your thing . ❞

✻ ✻ ✻

The other sounds far more experienced that Bronagh thinks they’ll ever be, but it’s nice to have the solidity of reassurance. Especially from a stranger. Dashing into Nebula feels a little less humiliating now; Bronagh offers her thanks in the shape of an exhausted smile. One that splits into a laugh at the other’s choice of phrase.

“Jesus,” they chuckle, doing just as Juniper had suggested. It takes some careful manoeuvring, especially with Callum squirming so, but Bron manages to coax him into feeding (and quietening down). “Wish more people would be blunt like that. I’m... very tired of folks asking if I need to step into the restroom with him for a little bit, y’know?”

Having yet to touch her salad and water, Mia had been piecing together outfit ideas for a brand event she’d been invited to when, suddenly, the sound of a baby crying filled the place. To find a distraught mother and her aching bundle on the other end, the mother of two was innately on her feet, stepping in to retrieve the fallen hat. “No, no, please, don’t ⁠— ” she soothes in a hush, shaking her head to let her know there was no need to apologize. It was a scene she’d been a part of years before, except she had been lucky to have a husband at the time to share the fumbles with. “Here,” she guides the other to her own seat, giving it up for better use, and Maristella starts going through her bag, sweeping a concerned glance over the pair for reassurance. “He’s overheating?” Long had passed since she owned a diaper bag, but she always carried a small pack of alcohol-free baby wipes in her purse. Sure, asking the other for hers was an option, but the flight attendant didn’t want to stress them more. So once she pulled out a wipe, she dipped it in her untouched water and squeezed out the excess to hand it to Bron, “Here, use this.”

✻ ✻ ✻

“A little,” Bronagh admits as she takes a seat. It’s a relief to at least have Callum in her lap, so that they can relax their throbbing arms. Callum’s calmed down a little, too, enough to have stopped squirming and shoving at his mother’s collarbone, back arching away from the heat of their body as his own grows borderline feverish. 

“Oh, thank you.”

Bron takes the wipe and carefully works it over her boy’s skin. She takes extra care to soothe the back of his neck, his lower back and the crown of his head, hushing him softly. In the end, Callum blinks up both at his mother and at Maristella with wide, watery eyes. But he’s stopped crying; Bronagh can breathe again.

Massoud wasn’t great with children, that wasn’t to say they didn’t wish to be, there just had never been that many children around since he turned fifteen. They’d taken care of some when they were really young, friends of the family, kids whose names and faces they had long forgotten. At the cries of a desperate mother however, Massoud’s whole body worked on impulsivity, sure, it was lazy and meek, but it was action regardless. He kicked some idiot off a bench, and started walking towards her, holding out an umbrella to shield her and her child from the sun. “There’s a free bench right over here,” he said, as he one-handedly took the bag from his shoulder and handed her a water bottle. Funnily enough, the things he carried with him for drug-related reasons, kind of came in handy for kids too. They had a piece of cloth - Japanese brand, perfect for heat - and threw some water over it. All one handed, he should get a prize for this. And handed that to her too once she sat down. “Ait, must’ve overheated a bit in the car, right, no worries, plenty of good folks around these parts.” That was a lie, people were idiots.

✻ ✻ ✻

They appear as though out of nowhere, with everything Bronagh might ever need for such a disturbance. Mary Poppins, she thinks stupidly, brain stuttering to catch up with the flutter of relief that whirls around them like an autumn breeze picking up dead leaves for a dance.

It’s all rather sudden, but Bronagh can’t find anything to complain about. Not when Callum’s finally in proper shade, with proper air-con, and there’s a damp cloth right there to help cool him quicker. “Than-thank you,” they finally manage. Callum seems to lean right into the cloth as his mother swipes it gently over the back of his neck. She looks up at Massoud, offers a tired chuckle. “Right, yeah. Well, you’re definitely one of them, so. Thanks– again. Can... Can I get you something? Just. As– as a proper thank you for all of this?”

Merricat had been on her way back to work after an early lunch break when she saw the woman with her child, and the tiny hat hitting the ground. A small smile appeared on her face, one of longing. She had never seen herself as motherly, and hadn’t given the possibility a thought until a couple years before, perhaps motivated by their parents’ constant question about where their life was headed, if they would ever find someone, if they would ever have a child, if they would ever settle into a career. Lately, as she waited to hear from the adoption agency, Merricat found herself delighted by children - even when they were being little demons. 

When the woman moved away from the hat, still desperately trying to calm the child down, Merricat quickly walked closer and got it, though the woman was so distracted she barely took notice of it and kept walking, always focused on the baby. Merricat followed a few steps behind. “No need to panic.” She said, gesturing to the hat. “You dropped this before, and I just wanted to give it to you so you don’t have to look for it. How old is your baby?” 

✻ ✻ ✻

For a split second, Bronagh’s utterly distracted. Their lashes flutter in a flurry of startled blinks, cheeks warming when they realise that she’s been staring, if only for a breath’s worth. She clears her throat, and takes the hat back. “Thank you,” Bronagh says. They decide against putting it back on Callum’s head, and instead dump it unceremoniously in the stroller. 

“Oh, he’s about–” Callum squirms, pudgy fingers tight as a vice when they wrap around a few strands of his mother’s hair and yank. Bronagh’s head jerks a little, and she winces. The hand that isn’t supporting her son against her chest comes up to try and pry Callum’s fingers off of her. “Five months, just shy of six.”

there was a hint of recognition , a swell of deja vu — ender could have sworn she had seen those features before , nestled deep in the black-and-white photographs of year books and ID photos . it was almost jarring , how much people could change in a matter of years ; by now she expected herself to be as famous as the kardashians , running with the big shots and earning millions by sitting , naked , at the poolside . instead she pierced for a living , a profession she enjoyed , although that had never truly been her dream , and neither had sipping drinking mediocre ( yet overpriced ) coffee with the locals that gave roswell a bad name . a failure ?? well , she wouldn’t go so far as branding herself as that , but if she wasn’t the proud owner of a green crushed-velvet couch by the end of the year , she would scream . 

a palm raised . “ sorry , i don’t know anything about babies . that’s a lapse in my knowledge , “ an extensive one , subsidised by bookstore trips and encyclopaedia reads , “ i’m the baby of the family , so i’m used to being the one coddled and taken care of . go ahead . if anyone gives you a dirty look , you know i’ll deal with them for you , “ being the regina george of roswell ( at least , in her eyes ) meant that she could ward off the unsavouries , that she could protect bronagh from the judging gazes and below-breath mutters . thanks weren’t needed for common decency , and so the girl’s nose scrunched with a wave of her hand in dismissal ; anybody in their right mind would have done the same . after a moment , she spoke , “ i think i know you from somewhere . did you study here ?? “ 

✻ ✻ ✻

Bronagh has to bite back another apology and a fresh bout of overcompensation for her prior little– what? Snap? She hadn’t exactly done that, simply... panicked. Again. They’re getting tired of doing that. “Sorry,” Bron settles on, but even that sounds like another scratch in the record, needle bumping and bouncing back until the apology’s left stuck on repeat. She lets out a sigh.

Dust settles; idle chit-chat and the soft clink of cups being set down wafts back into the coffee-scented air. Callum fusses, though quietly, at a volume that melts into the rest of the atmosphere and lets Bronagh breathe. And in that breath, there’s enough space for something to nudge at a long-lost memory, one tucked away and all but forgotten, were it not for the prompt of Ender’s voice. As she listens, Bronagh can feel their brows drawing together, only to jump up when Ender raises the very question that had been forming on their tongue.

She takes to manoeuvring Callum so that he’s settled in the crook of her arm, and gently guides him to feed. “Yes, I– Oh, wow,” Bron laughs— quiet, so as not to disturb her son. Her fingers bounce off her brow in an of course gesture, just before they drift down to brush, feather soft, over Callum’s head. “En– Ender? Ender Baptista?”

Rollo’s face turned a bit warmer, they were not’ familiar with what it took to raise a baby, but they didn’t need more than a no from Bron to know what she meant. “Delicious juice it is,” they said, and went inside to order, returning a few minutes later with an orange juice and a coffee. “How is the little one?” They asked, leaning down to cheerfully wave at the little baby.

✻ ✻ ✻

“Thank you— I’ll pay you back,” Bron promises, accepting the juice and reaching to unscrew it.

Callum greets Rollo with excited little kicks and a gummy smile. He squirms, and squeals out a sound that startles a sputtering laugh out of Bronagh. “He’s got more energy than the both of us combined, looks like,” they muse through a smile, eyes rolling, albeit with affection. “So... Didn’t get much sleep last night, you said?”

ollie knew that asking such a question was their own version of taking a risk. but wasn’t that what they did at all times? wasn’t that what shaped their entire existence up until this point? twenty-nine years on this earth and ollie hardly ever followed any linear moves when it came to living, though they highly doubted that spending two whole dollars on a pre-owned iron maiden album was really something that could be considered out of the box.

“it’s not something i put on when i’m angry, no. more like…” they paused, arms hugging the album to their chest as eyes rolled up to stare at the ceiling. they were trying to put their thoughts into words, but even olympia knew that they were the type to talk themselves both into and out of a hole all in one go.

”i listen to them when i want to feel nostalgic, i guess. my mom played them a lot growing up, especially on hot summer nights when we couldn’t sleep and the only thing to do was build an illegal bonfire in our backyard, y’know? i guess some people would consider it angry, but i consider it to be fond, i guess. does that even make any sense? i feel like that doesn’t make any sense.”

✻ ✻ ✻

While others find the comfort of nostalgia in sounds, Bron finds hers in smells. The specifically delicate blend of sandalwood and birch brings them back to Ireland, to the house her father renovated just before their last summer visit. The structure sits, to this day, on the fringes of a vast forest. Bron’s window opens out to the sprawling green: Moss on tall, thick tree trunks and damp trails tucked beneath a bed of fallen leaves. There’s always a safe lull to find in the shudder of rustling leaves as the wind whistles through twisting branches.

Bronagh wishes they could put that memory into a song.

As Ollie speaks, she smiles wide, then wider still.

     A WAILING CHILD IS THE LAST THING HAL NEEDS RIGHT NOW. and sure, he probably shouldn’t have been drinking himself to oblivion the night before without expecting consequences, but he’s also of the belief that people shouldn’t be taking their children to places they don’t want to be ( he might even go as far as to say that people just shouldn’t have children, period, but one hot take at a time ) and normally he’d just let them be, but today isn’t a particularly normal day.

putting his cigarette out, it’s with a heavy sigh that he stomps over towards what now appears to be quite a young mother and her son that looks like he’d been plucked out of a baby catalogue from the 50s and peers at the pair through the dark-tinted sunglasses hanging low on the bridge of his nose. “ma’am, would it be at all possible to turn the volume down on your… your…” and he trails off, makes a lazy gesture at the boy, red and puffy from all the crying, with the sweating can of diet coke in his hand. at the mention of his being hot, hal frowns and adds, “well, give him some ice, then.”

✻ ✻ ✻

“Can’t quite find the dial on this one, and it’s not for a lack of trying. Trust me,” the tail-end of her retort slips free in an exhausted sigh as their eyes scan over the hangover on legs before her. Aside from a slight tinge of empathy, a mouthful of guilt that gets stuck halfway down their throat and a crackle of irritation, there’s something else to the encounter: A strange, dissonant echo of panic. 

Bronagh‘s brows pinch. She scans the stranger once again, but nothing about him judders into place. All that’s left is doubt and a sickening tightness in their chest. Their hand finds the back of Callum’s hot head, protective. “He’s too young,” Bron explains, “I’d feed him, but there isn’t anywhere to sit. So.”

Rollo left Reynolds and Rufus in the little dog park, where they could run around and play with other dogs, they knew that they had to stay within the fence, so Rollo wasn’t worried about going to get a coffee without them. He grinned when he saw Bron, waving at her. “Coffee?” they asked, walking up to join at her side. “I could use some caffeine, I slept far too little last night. How have you been?” ( @brcnagh· )

✻ ✻ ✻

The day Callum transitions to solids is the day Bronagh has vowed they’ll celebrate with red wine, coffee, something gross and greasy like a cheeseburger. There are only a few weeks left until Bron can introduce her son to the wonderful world of gooey baby-food; she’s pretty sure that they’re feeling a hint of that relief when Rollo appears, putting an instant smile on Bronagh’s face.

“Hi,” she greets them, only to sigh out a longing, “I wish. But I’ll gladly take a juice and watch you enviously.”

location: feel good records

status: open! ( @roswellstarters​ )

ollie’s fingers had to touch everything their eyes saw, body firmly planted in front of one of the displays while they searched for the right album. did they know what that entailed? absolutely not, which is why they were so adamant about looking at every little thing. truth be told their apartment couldn’t hold one more vinyl, but with an impressive mural of album covers nearly finished in their bedroom, they couldn’t stop now. pulling an old copy of iron maiden’s fear of the dark out from where it was hiding, olympia turned to the person beside them and held it out, eyebrows lifting in question. “what do we think about this? do we love it? do we hate it? is it worth the two dollars to add it to my collection? i need opinions, please.”

✻ ✻ ✻

“Oh, wow,” Bronagh murmurs, exhaling a short-lived chuckle, “Iron Maiden.”

It’s one of those rare days when Ava has insisted on some grandma-grandkid quality time with Callum, leaving Bronagh free to settle back into their skin, if only for a little while. A trip to Feel Good had been in the works for quite some time now; after picking out some new baby socks (Callum’s quick to outgrow everything and anything as of late), they’d ducked in to peruse the latest collection.

“I’m afraid you’re talking to somebody whose music taste was shaped by the fabled indie girls of the Internet.”

motherhood wasn’t something had ender had ever considered . although her heroes — the kardashians , madonna , beyoncé — all had offspring of her own , it was something she couldn’t bring herself to emulate ; instead she’d stick to their fashion , their diets , their head-held-high attitudes . she had always considered herself too selfish , too precious of her own space , time and company … but maybe the reason she was so obstructive when it came to starting a family was the very same reason she was so pessimistic about love ; she hadn’t tasted the forbidden fruit , she didn’t know how good life could be when a new soul was brought into the world by your own hand . 

juvenile screeching was enough to convince her that , no , it wasn’t simply an extension of her pessimism towards love — she really didn’t want a kid . that didn’t stop a pang of empathy in her chest , though , at the clearly overwhelmed figure desperate for sanctuary , for a single moment of peace . scooting along the couch and bundling a selection of strewn books off of the upholstery , a manicured hand tapped the space beside her . “ don’t apologise . sit . does he need a juice or anything ?? a popsicle ?? “ although nebula eatery was more the type of café to offer twenty blends of coffees and milks for extortionate prices , she was sure she would be able to have a word with her connections that worked in the place . sebastian was likely to bend the rules a little for an old friend , she was sure . “ what’s the little one’s name ?? and ignore all those people staring — if they don’t stop soon , i’ll give them something to stare at , “

✻ ✻ ✻

“No! No, thank you,” Bronagh’s quick to tame their tone, calming the jolt of panic she’d gotten caught up in and offering Ender a smile laced with an earnest apology, “he’s a little young for popsicles, that’s all. I can feed him, if— well, if it doesn’t bother you.” They could always duck into the restroom, although Nebula’s supposed to be the local hippie haven. Then again, the establishment looks more like it caters to new age spiritualists spreading light language across social media platforms. Bronagh isn’t quite sure how welcome they’d actually be to breastfeed al fresco, without the cover they’re reluctant to tuck an overheating Callum under. 

Ender’s warning reaches the table closest to them and the patrons swiftly turn away. They share a look of indignation, but it’s lost on Bronagh, who’s taken to wiping the tear streaks from Callum’s cheeks. He’s fussing, throat a little too tired to keep on screaming as he had been not moments ago. “This is Callum,” Bronagh smiles. She sits him up carefully, turns him to face Ender. He blinks large brown eyes at her, brows lifting in amazement at the sight of a new person. Bronagh offers Ender a smile much more confident than the last.

Her eyes instantly shot up with curiosity when the other came wandering inside of the eatery. Not because of their entrance, but the sound of cries that was attached with it. Ryan stayed seated for a moment, eyes on the two as she waited to see if they’d entered the place alone or if they were meeting up with someone else. Her own gaze shifted to those that surrounded them and when no one else seemed like they were going to move an inch, Ryan stood and made their way towards them. The expression on the strangers face and the baby’s red face told her all she needed to know— and she could relate. With the heat blaring as much as it was this morning, she would want to cry too.

“—What’re you apologizin’ for?” Ryan questioned with a hint of disbelief as she stood before them. Surely, they’re not apologizing for a baby crying, were they? Especially when that’s what babies did— cry.  “There’s a couple empty seats at my table lookin’ to be taken.” And if that weren’t inviting enough, she also added: “Best seats in the place, if you ask me. You’ll be right under the AC.”

✻ ✻ ✻

Callum’s still crying, and Bronagh could easily burst into tears from the sheer relief this stranger’s provided.  “Thank you,” she breathes, wobbly and threadbare. 

It takes a little manoeuvring, but Bronagh manages to sink down and snatch up Callum’s bucket hat, and then drag the stroller over to Ryan’s table. They all but collapse into a chair, setting Callum on their knee and bouncing gently. Cries simmer down to watery fussing, and Bron carefully adjusts her son so that she can feed him. She turns her back on the other patrons for good measure, exasperated enough by their prior judgement. 

nebula eatery was like a second home to the blonde at this point, finding that being out in public without any harrowing commitments did better than stuffing herself alone into her apartment ever did. half the time it was the only way she could be with seb without having to make plans weeks in advance. but even when he wasn’t there the blonde could be found at the counter, her head often dipped down over a planner or a journal or something else that can take her mind off of things. she’s used to people coming and going, used to an uproar of sounds and the quiet lull of the slow times, but upon hearing a baby crying, her attention was immediately grabbed. 

wylie’s hazel eyes lifted just in time to see a few people sneer in the direction of a young mother and their son, her own eyebrows knitting together in concern at the thought of anyone being irritated for a situation that couldn’t be helped. but instead of joining in with them, she turned around on her chair and jumped down, feet slow as she approached the duo quietly. 

“you don’t need to apologize,” she soothed, flashing the upset baby a soft smile, as if it did anything to help. “do you need to sit down for a minute? maybe take a breather so he has a chance to cool down? i don’t think going right back outside will help him at all, and you look like you could use a break.”

✻ ✻ ✻

Callum’s bucket hat is still on the floor. Bronagh tries bending at the knees to retrieve it, but between their son’s weight and his squirming, she decides it’s best not to risk it. Not that Callum seems to care about the missing garment— he’s far too busy curling his pudgy little fingers around some of his mother’s hair and yanking.

Pain and humiliation burn a stripe down Bron’s scalp; she tries prying Callum’s hand off of her as a short blonde practically floats towards mother and child, graceful and instantaneously soothing. Were it not for the embarrassment already staining them, Bronagh’s cheeks would have bloomed with pink.

Callum’s taken to mouthing at Bronagh’s shoulder, leaving puddles of drool and salty tears on their skin and shirt. 

“Thank you,” Bronagh sighs. Their bottom lip is practically seconds away from wobbling. They follow Wylie over to where she’d been perching, opting to leave the stroller by the front door, next to another patron’s bicycle. 

“I’m Bronagh, by the way...”

In an attempt at some semblance of normalcy, Bron had thought it a decent idea to take Callum out for a stroll. Comfortably cool as it was under their mother’s roof, they still felt stifled by Ava’s near constant presence, observant and poised to spring to action whenever she thought her daughter to be struggling.

Bronagh had followed all of the guidelines, even stepped aside for Ava to pick out Callum’s outfit— a loose pair of linen overalls over a white t-shirt and a wide brimmed hat dotted with swimming ducks. But none of the precautions against the scalding heat seemed to soothe Callum enough to dissuade his ragged screeching.

“Shh, sh-sh-sh...” Bron tried consoling her son, leaning over the stroller to find their child red-faced and pinched around an agonised expression. Panic beading along the back of Bronagh’s neck, they ducked into the first place they could find: Nebula Eatery. 

She parked the stroller to one side and scooped Callum out, hoisting him against her chest. A tiny fist knocked the hat from his head. Bobbing her son, Bronagh scoured the space for a spare place to sit. She just needed to feed him; he’d cool down with the air-con and then they could dash back home, tail between their legs. But there was nowhere to sit, or so it looked, Bronagh’s panic-stricken gaze flitting far too quickly to properly register anything but the stares, the glances, some curious, others perturbed.

Someone approached them.