booyah !

[halfitz]

@𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐅𝐈𝐓𝐙 : a dependent oc blog for roswell-rp as written by frankie.

henry ‘hal’ fitzgerald ( cis man, he / him ) is a thirty-two year old busboy at pizza planet. he has been in town since may 2022 but has lived here briefly in his early twenties. he is originally from corpus christi, texas and is the younger brother of the westies leader, lara fitzgerald. currently, he resides in tripp’s trailer park.

intro. connections. musings.

[halfitz]

lara.

            “Oh, don’t want to hurt baby brother’s feelings,” she said through a smile upon hearing Henry’s statement.. he was tired. Lara wondered if he was even aware of how lucky he was to not have to worry about a thing and how him leaving in a trailer park was simply because he wanted to, not because he had no other options. “And I’m tired of mom asking me that same question, Henry, so..” but she rolled her eyes, not even wanting to go into that discussion because if anything, their mother was way too worried about Henry, always trying to protect him, which Lara could understand, of course, but sometimes she thought it would have been better if it weren’t so. “Despite his accounts being closed, his money is still in bank in a trust fund and the third of it belongs to you. So, you do have money, but if you want to live in a trailer park..” waving off the whole thing, Lara couldn’t really blame him for wanting to taste a different side of life. After all, she had taste of it while in a relationship with Striker. A rich girl and a trailer boy, such a classic cliche. “If I find time..” not wanting to tell him that he was here all the time because the house was way too big for one person (she couldn’t be more happier to have her brother so close to her), but that perhaps he did miss the luxury he grew up in. “By the way, don’t hesitate to go to Striker if you need anything. I know you two are neighbors, so just keep on mind that he’s there. He’ll help you with whatever you need.” 

‎

     HAL TRIES TO HOLD BACK HIS BITE but emotions often run too high too fast for him, something he’s admittedly been having trouble reigning in for a while now, resulting in uncomfortable conversations he frequently has to keep apologizing for. this would be one of those times. “yeah, and you just have your life so together, don’t you?” he knows she doesn’t, none of them do, and even if she does, it’s not her fault that she’s always been far more poised and resourceful and intelligent than he could ever hope to be. ideally, it’s something he could at least try to model himself after, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t despise her even just a little bit that he can’t. “god, you’re such a bitch. i mean, you’d have to be, right? you’re a friggin’ lawyer.” it’s by no means malignant, a comment that he will later forget he’d ever made. he places the can on the coffee table and his feet propped up next to it. “what, you don’t wanna make time for me? i’m wounded, truly,” he adds, placing a sincere hand over his heart. he smirks upon the mention of striker. “so what’s up with you two, huh? seems like ya’ll been hangin’ out a lot again.”

[halfitz]

starter for @strikercannon​​ tripp’s trailer park, late evening.

     HE’S BEEN TRYING TO JIMMY THE WINDOW OPEN for all of five minutes now, fully believing that he was breaking into his own house as he’d left the keys inside, when it finally opens, but not from his own doing. the momentary shock of thinking that someone had been sitting in his own home causes him to lose balance from the metal bin he’d been standing on to reach the window and falls, rather ungracefully, onto the grass with a metallic crash.

[halfitz]

bronagh.

when: aug 22nd - 11:57am where: nebula eatery who: open ( @roswellstarters​ )

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.

“I’m sorry,” Bronagh said instantly, voice caught between defensiveness and despair, “I’ll go in a second, he’s just really hot.”

     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.”

[halfitz]

anton.

Detergents and softeners float up and swirl into an assonant dance of clashing perfumes, but it does little to overpower the sharpness of that familiar, tangy stink. In fact, that tangy stink is overpowering the laundromat’s usual scents, and Anton soon finds himself observing its source. 

His brows crease when the chuckling crests into a bellyaching cackle; as amused as he might have been were he hanging with a friend, there’s something boastful about the guy’s state. It spells out a warning.

Still, Anton’s will bends a little too often to mischief’s temptation; the fact that the owner of the shoe is the one to obliviously suggest that he pawn it off is a little too ironic a moment to let up. Anton hoists the sneaker up so that he can let go of the laces and catch it from the bottom before it lands.

“That’s a dope ass idea, man. You come up with stuff like that on the regular?”

    HE TAPS HIS FINGER AGAINST HIS TEMPLE, like his head contains a universe of precious, infinite knowledge within it ( many people would beg to differ, but this unassuming stranger doesn’t need to know that ) and says, “oh, this noggin’s gonna take me places,” with a thick texan drawl, grins stupidly at the man as if there’s an inside joke there somewhere. “i had this idea once, for glow-in-the-dark toilet paper. you know, ‘cause sometimes you need to take a shit in the middle of the night after havin’ a bad taco or two and you don’t wanna turn the lights on ‘cause it’s too bright, but then it’s too dark. well...” he huffs, shaking his head. “wouldn’t you know it! turns out some schmuck’s had the same idea and is already sellin’ the damn thing!” he laughs, the boisterous sound catching the attention of some annoyed customers. “same thing happened with doggie goggles. or doggles, as i like to call 'em. we used to get horrible sandstorms back in texas, see. and this one time, i was walkin’ my uncle’s dog, bianca — fuckin’ stupid name for a mutt, if you ask me — poor thing, i had carry her all the way home, sand in both our eyes. least i got a pair of shades handy with me. bianca didn’t.”

[halfitz]

lara.

         It was not exactly a surprise to Lara to find her younger brother laying on her couch, going through all of those streaming platforms she was paying, yet never had time to watch. “Hey-,” she replied back only to be cut off by the bag of chips falling onto the floor. But of course. Henry was lucky it wasn’t red wine in question, but then again, she loved him too much to stay angry at him for a long time. “Ooops your ass, clean that up,” yet the voice she used was playful. It made her happy to see her younger brother not just at her home, but in Roswell as well. It was different with him by her side; she wasn’t alone. 

         “I don’t understand why won’t you buy yourself a house in Moonbeam Gardens, Hal. You’ve got the money.” The Fitzgeralds were a wealthy family, both children raised in wealth and prosperity, but unlike of Lara, Henry wanted to be.. independent. In a way, Lara did understand him, but even more so, she was rather confused with his decisions. Why not use family’s money and be comfortable? “How’s the trailer park even?” But she knew because there was no chance her brother would be alone there; four Westies had to move there, just to have the younger Fitzgerald on their eye. 

‎

     THE BOYISH SMILE HE’D FLASHED SHEEPISHLY AT HIS SISTER is quick to fade when lara brings up his housing situation. he schools his features into something more sullen, blue eyes darting across the room towards lara. “you know...” he starts, pushing himself off of the comfortable position he’d been lying in for the past hour or so, then grabs a few pieces of kleenex to scoop up the mess with. “i’m getting pretty fuckin’ tired of ya’ll bringin’ that shit up everytime i come ‘round here or when ma calls.” and he tosses the crumpled up napkins on the coffee table — there’s still a light smattering of cheese dust on the carpet but that’s for the ants to feast upon. he leaves lara in the living room to go grab himself a nice, cool refreshment from the fridge. the last can of lara's expensive ginger ale that tastes like ass. “i don’t have that kind of money. you have that kind of money. ma has that kind of money. pa’s still got a fortune in the bank, i’m pretty sure."

he returns to the living room and plops down on the sofa, careful to balance the drink in his hand and avoid making another mess. sure, he’s trying to piss his sister off in retaliation, but he doesn’t want to die, not tonight. “the park? the park’s fine. really... fuckin’ swell.” it’s far from the luxury he was used to growing up, but at least it’s his. for a monthly fee. “you know, you should come over. i’m here all the time and you’ve been down there like, what, once? and you barely even crossed the door.”

[halfitz]

starter for @laraxfitzgerald​​ lara’s home, evening.

     IT’S BECOME A HABIT OF HIS, showing up at his sister’s house when she’s not home with the spare key he’d been entrusted with ( because otherwise, he’d probably just break in ) and doing the whole goldilocks routine. it would’ve been easier to just live with her instead of the dump he currently calls home, but that trailer is a symbol — of independence, he wants to say, though his mother would argue it’s ‘irresponsibility’. because at the end of the day, when his food runs out or he forgets to pay his electricity bills, he has lara as a fail-safe, and a very convenient one at that.

so when his sister finally gets home from work, she’s met with the usual treat of hal sprawled across her couch, the tv remote dangling in his hand, and a snack sitting on his chest. “ayee, welcome home, sis!” he greets her with a flailing of the arms, the sudden movement causing the bag of chips to fall off the couch and spill into the carpet. “oh, oops.” 

[halfitz]

anton.

when: aug 20th - 03:40pm where: lunar laundromat who: open ( @roswellstarters​ )

Among the array of peculiarities that sprouted along Anton’s day-to-day life, there have been some favourites— like that time a mystical thrift store owner had pulled a supposedly lucky bucket hat from ‘the back’ and claimed that it was meant for him (he had gotten a free cupcake out of it, of that Anton’s pretty sure); and that other occasion, when, at a punk show, his synesthesia had painted snakelike shapes that lured him through a nook leading him backstage. The band had turned out to be real chill, as far as he can remember. 

He’s not surprised, then, to find something thumping in his machine, something he’s pretty sure was not included in his pile of colourful, vibrant laundry. Anton popped the gaping door open and caught a sneaker by the laces. Brows creeping up towards his bleached hairline, he shut the washing machine door and turned to the few scattered folk tending to their own chores.

“This anybody’s?”

     THE STEADY HUM OF INDUSTRIAL-GRADE WASHING MACHINES COULD PUT HIM TO SLEEP. it already had, a couple of times, much to the owner’s chagrin, but a paying customer is a paying customer, and unfortunately, the paying customer bears the last name of someone they dare not cross, no matter how much he might smell like grass - and not the freshly cut kind, either.

he blinks at the man from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the metal gang chair, takes a second to register the question he announces across the room, then draws his attention to the single shoe he’s holding like a gladiator bringing home the spoils of war. what an odd thing to ask at a laundromat, hal thinks, and he chuckles. the sound of his own laughter further amuses him, and he actually guffaws. “fuck, that’s funny, dude...” he says once he’s settled down somewhat, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes. the chairs creak under his weight as he shifts to bring his feet down, one foot suspiciously shoeless. he does not seem to notice this. “you should sell it online. nice-lookin’ shoe, too, bet you’d make a pretty dollar outta that.”

[halfitz]

richard madden & he/him / cis man ‷ watch out , henry ‘hal’ fitzgerald has crash-landed into roswell !! they look thirty-two years old and celebrate their birthday on the eighteenth of june. they are from corpus christi, texas, reside in tripp’s trailer park and are currently working as busboy at pizza planet. one thing you should know about them is he has a mallen streak at the top of his hairline that first appeared when he was sixteen and he usually likes to dye it with different colors‷

trigger warnings: death, assault, injury, (implied) homophobia.

born in corpus christi, texas to an irish mafia family eight years after his older sister, lara. 

their mother was didn't want her children to partake in the westies' activities but ultimately understood that it wasn't really up to her. hal was a mama's boy and promised he would never get involved in the mafia business. the boy kept his nose clean and his head down and for the most part, lived a pretty normal childhood.

he moved to roswell when he was 19, the same year that his father had passed away, to start out on his own without the westies' shadow looming over him. here, he lived in a small apartment with his then-boyfriend (another reason why he moved out of corpus christi).

hal was 24 when he and his boyfriend were out drinking one night and they came across some disgruntled ex-members of the westies. hal didn't know who they were, but they knew who he was and the encounter quickly escalated into a crime scene when hal's boyfriend was shot to his death and hal suffering from severe head trauma that had landed him in the hospital.

recovery was a steep hill to climb — he had to grapple with the loss of someone he loved (who, as far as his family was concerned, was only a very close friend and so his grief was something he kept largely to himself) while also dealing with the lasting effects of a brain injury as a result of prejudiced actions. fearing for his life, his mother brought him back to texas where he would live with her for the next several years.

hal's involvement with the westies started ironically at the urging of his mother. she believed that if he was in the gang, he would have people close to him to protect him. hal couldn't hold down a job for more than a few weeks, so with the westies, he had something to do while earning a small income for himself, enough to rent out a small apartment he was barely sleeping in anyway out of fear that someone would jump him from the shadows.

when his sister moved to new mexico, allegedly to expand a chapter of the westies in roswell, hal followed closely behind, not wanting to be left with the westies that were in corpus christi — though they have been nothing but kind to him, he could never, in full confidence, feel truly safe if his sister wasn't there.

hal has recently started busing tables at pizza planet while renting a trailer at tripp's trailer park. effects of his brain injury persist to this day, which include bouts of forgetfulness, emotional dysregulation, and, on his worse days, drop seizures. his return to roswell is, in a way, his attempt to reclaim himself and what he'd lost.

[dailyf1]

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