Gunshots

Gunshots

This was not part of the plan!

*Mass disassociates, Gov gets shot*

———————————————————————

“Gus said there’s something under his suit.” Massachusetts leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and glaring at the ceiling, “Said it felt like a sheet of metal, said something similar was under his skin— in his shoulders.”

“He was tense as a board, Mass.” Virginia said, the the concern in their eyes countered their dismissal of the accusation. “Louie probably thought he felt something, with how stiff he was.”

“He winced,” New Jersey practically growled, “From falling on the softest things in the house. Not even a wince of surprise, eitha’.”

“He looked in pain.” New York finishes in a grumble.

Georgia broods in his seat, glowering into the distance, and Maryland keeps a hand on the larger mans’ arm— they know that, at this point, the Southerner would simply break down Gov’s door if they let him (He did the same thing when Congress got hurt and didn’t tell them. Would haul him downstairs and they’d fix him up (if he hadn’t already done so) and scold him for his recklessness. He did that often— no matter what they tried to get him to stop).

They’re not at The Table, but it’s one they have for when the 13 of them want to get together, discuss the Younger States and their kids and grandkids. And now they often discuss Gov, and his similarities to their Congress.

“Not much we can do about it, hun.” Maryland says, patting Georgia’s arm a few times, “He ain’t gonna show us, you saw how hard he tried to hide it.”

“So we just have to deal with knowing somethin’s up!?” New Hampshire throws his hands up to his hair, “What if it gets worse!?”

“It’s all we can do without forcin’ it.” North Carolina mutters, head buried in his hands.

“And forcin’ it will drive ‘im away.” South Carolina finishes.

Grumbles of concern, discontent, and frustration fill the room— with a heavy undertone of reluctant acceptance.

They could only wait, and hope they get a chance to see.

———————————————————————

When they said ‘wait and hope to get a chance’, they specifically didn’t want Gov to get shot!

Mass doesn’t know why someone would have a fully-loaded gun in public— scratch that, they’re in America. He couldn’t claim to expect any less, not even from NYC.

He barely remembers seeing Rhode Island, tiny twat that he is, barreling into the gunman’s back like a rabid dog—- the now empty gun falling several feet away. He didn’t pay attention to it, eyes wide and focused on one thing—- just like the rest of the State’s that had come to the City for the day.

Blood on the ground— continuing to drip drip drip even as he sprinted as fast as he possibly could in the direction of his injured fellow soldier— red red red spraying from their lips—

One of the bullets struck straight through Gov’s throat, barely missing everything important but with enough force to nearly tear his head off— and Mass can faintly see vocal cords beneath shredded skin.

Four struck his chest, around his lungs, though the one that went for his spinal cord didn’t seem to have an exit wound from what he could see.

The final bullet, the first one shot, had skimmed the side of his head, blood pouring down Gov’s face as he held a hand to his throat and chest, dripping from his lips as his lungs tried to stitch themselves back together inside— but it’d be awhile before he’d cough up all the blood. His eyes are half-lidded and dull, as if this is a normal situation as Penn tears off his Eagles jersey and shoos Gov’s hand from his neck, his own taking its place even as the fabric grows soaked with blood in mere minutes.

Mass skids to a stop in front of them, shoving Gov’s hand away from his chest to get a better look, other hand pressed against the side of the man’s head. There’s shouting, people are yelling and there are sirens in the distance. He vaguely hears the Carolina’s hauling Rhode Island off the bastard over the rushing in his own ears. He can hear his voice, barking something at Virginia and Maryland—

“Go get a place ready at the House! He’s losing too much blood!”

And it feels like he’s hearing the news of Congress’ death all over again— but this time, he’s watching it. He’s watching the boy’s eyes go dull by the second as blood spills over his hands.

So when he feels the tug, he goes— dragging the boy and Pennsylvania with him.

They land on a bed, one of the medical cots they usually keep in storage— soft and of the highest quality materials, made for comfort and ease of cleaning.

Gov’s eyes go wide and he lets out a silent pained gasp at the jostling, blood pouring from his mouth, covering his face even more with red red red.

He wonders faintly if this is what Robin, his daughter, had to see as her husband— his nephew, Continental Congress— ripped himself apart.

“Hold still,” he says sharply when Gov jerks in place, shifting to sit over top the man— he needs to see the wounds, needs to get the bullets out.

There’s a knife in his hand, his own pocket-knife, and sees himself cutting through Gov’s sweater, struggling to get the remains of it and his suit jacket off without moving him too much and risking further injury.

He sees a white undershirt, a compression top, sleeveless. It’s a thick fabric, made for support. He cuts through that, too.

He sees a scar, a four-pointed star across Gov’s entire chest.

He sees something black, reaching from his hip bones up to just under his rib cage. It’s thick and solid, with cotton padding. He’s used to such things being elastic, but this one seems solid, similar to the corsets all his daughters once wore. Beneath the fabric, between the padding, is a stiff weight— boning, he thinks. It’s custom-made. He doesn’t touch it.

“When did you get a facking back brace?” He hears himself hiss down at the man, blood roaring in his ears making everything dim. He hears intakes of breath, and hears Virginia trying to shoo away the States crowding at the door— the commotion drawing ears and eyes.

Gov looks too much like Congress for Mass’ grandkids to see him like this, and the man’s own children don’t need to see him like this either.

“Shut the damn door!” Pennsylvania shouts, sounding like he’s underwater as he tugs the cart of medical supplies closer, easier for Mass to reach. “John, JOHNNY! Help me out here!”

Gov was thrashing beneath them, as much as his own body and Mass’ weight would allow— but he was moving too much, eyes too afraid, he’s looking straight through them, at something far off.

Massachusetts hears the door close roughly, notices several of his fellow Original Colonies not in the room, likely keeping the younger States from coming inside.

Georgia presses his weight carefully on Gov’s shoulders, just enough to keep him from moving his upper half— one hand resting on the man’s forehead to keep his head still as well. Maryland’s state merch, specifically the flag he wears and his hat, is thrown across the room as the Old Line State starts to stitch the wound on his head, before moving onto his throat as Penn carefully pulls the ruined jersey away.

Mass can see his hands, steady despite how detached he feels as he pulls out a pair of tweezers to dig for the only bullet that lodged in Gov’s body.

Millimeters from his spine.

He’s careful, but then the tweezers pinch something solid and smooth — not bone — and Gov throws his head back and arches with a warbled, pained — pained cries, pained words, pain pain pain — scream.

“Masshole!” New York snarls,— he’s afraid, Mass can hear it in his voice, he’s lashing out because they’re all terrified of the scene they’re dealing with—climbing up to put pressure on thrashing legs, “Careful!”

“He’s got metal in his spine.” He hears his own voice hiss, finally getting hold of the bullet and pulling it out. It’s practically thrown across the room and he drops the tweezers, hands reaching for something he can’t see, coming back with a needle and thread. Virginia finishes with the disinfectant, each of their movements swift and purposeful.

He starts stitching.

Pennsylvania crouches down next to the bed, close to Gov’s head, and he’s whispering to him, muttering something— Gov looks so much like Congress, Pennsylvania can’t help but comfort the same way he does his kids.

“It’s okay, you’ll be okay. Just hang tight, Mass’ll be done soon, I promise.” There are more words, ones Mass can’t hear, ones Gov can’t seem to hear either.

Grey eyes are wild and flickering from side to side, hazy focus on each of them as they crowd. His lips are moving, like he wants to say something, like he’s repeating himself over and over again— and once Maryland finishes stitching his throat, setting to work on cleaning the remaining blood off his face when raspy words finally leave him—

“You’re killing me— why are you killing me?” The words are nearly silent, Mass can barely hear anything outside his own head, but he feels how they all suddenly tense at the phrases, “Was the War not enough— why’d you have to come here? Wanted to make sure I would die— that’s why— why else—“ Gov still has that far off look in his eyes, but the fear that radiates from him permeates the air like a thousand pound fog, and he continues mumbling.

Mumbling thimgs Congress— Adam— had written in his last few letters to them.

And Mass hears more voices, three joining Pennsylvania’s muttered comforts as Georgia starts running a hand through the mans— the boys— hair, and Gov finally goes limp, eyes sliding shut.

For a few minutes, all that’s left is having them lift the man so he can stitch up the exit wounds.

Once Mass hears himself give the all-clear, Gov is lifted, whisked away into the adjoining bathroom— they’d long claimed this room as their medical facility, and the bathroom reflected that.

He hears the shower start, faintly, realizing Georgia and Virginia had been the ones to take Gov away.

They have to clean him properly before they can bandage him. Maryland reappeared outside the bathroom door— another compression top and other clothes in his arms— they didn’t own any of those, he either found where Gov lives or just swiped them from the store or one of the younger States. He sees the clothes belong to Pennsylvania, the Eagles green that would normally piss him off just another thing his brain struggles to process as he stares down at his hands and the medical cot.

Red red red, so much red, so much blood— is he going to die? Did Mass not do enough?

Hands settle over his wrists, and he looks up.

New York and New Jersey look at him, brows furrowed in the exact same pinched expression.

Mass can only blink.

And he’s out of the cot, standing on two feet and feels two other hands scrubbing at his own under hot water, hears another person cleaning up the medical cot. He can’t tell which is which, but the grumbling from behind him tells him it’s New York cleaning the cot.

Soon, they’re all in new clothes, staring down at the sleeping Gov where he lies still in one of the beds in the room. They hooked him up to a few machines, they need to be able to know if something goes wrong.

Gov’s phone, thrown to the floor but undamaged, starts to ring.

The sound makes them jump, and they all turn to stare at it.

Virginia’s the one to pick it up, going pale at the name on the screen, “It’s Assistant.” They croak, before they click accept and hold the phone to their ear. “Hello.”

Mass doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation, but he sees Virginia speaking, reassuring, but he also sees the defeated look when the Old Dominion knows it’s a lost cause.

The air sizzles and crackles, and suddenly she’s there— eyes wide and near feral as Assistant shoves her phone back in her pocket.

She stares down at Gov, and they see her shoulder start to shake.

Mass can’t move— he hasn’t seen his daughter in over a hundred years, he wants to hold and comfort her because she’s— but New York does it for him.

The Empire State rests a hand on the woman’s— she had been a girl last they saw her— shoulder. She shakes more, and Mass can finally— finally— move.

He turns her, she can still look at Gov resting on the bed but it’s not the focus of her attention, and holds her to his chest. She’s taller than he remembers, but that doesn’t stop him from tucking her close like he had when her birds— her first birds— had died from age. New York and New Jersey are by her shoulders, and it’s just the four of them. They pay no mind to everyone else in the room, just as the rest ignore them.

She’s shaking, but she doesn’t cry. She simply stares down at the man lying in the bed and says, quietly,

“Thank you.”

And his chest erupts with a pain so sharp, he can only hold her tighter.

———————————————————————

Gov and Robin are gone the next day, not a single trace of them anywhere beyond a message from Gov, in the same style he always wrote in.

‘Thank you for the assistance, though unnecessary to burden yourselves. The next Meeting is set for 2 p.m on Monday, list of required attendees attached.’

Mass can hear Penn’s threats to ‘beat that stupid, reckless man’s ass’. He snickers to himself when he hears Georgia’s quiet agreement, and it feels almost like back then when their kids would vanish for hours on end, only to return injured.

Robin was perfectly fine to let Mass properly tend the injuries, but Adam always had to be held down by someone, no matter how small or grievous the injury.

The ache in his chest hasn’t gone away.

Oh, Maine 💙 I have a little bit on him;

Maine is the 23rd State and the 10th State to be raised by Adam and Robin; Gov and Assistant. Granted Statehood March 15, 1820.

Now, despite him being raised by a younger Gov and Assistant, he’s still very much a Northeastern State. He’s just better about talking through his feelings than the Oldest of Old Men, the OG 13.

Like most of the older children, he can get protective of the younger ones when they form, because they’re all incredibly small children when they form as State personifications.

This does not mean he sees them as siblings, it’s more like…the bond kids raised in a tight-knit community have. Not to say some States don’t have sibling-like relations, Gov and Assistant just never forced them to see each other as family.

The only ones who are by blood are the Carolinas and Dakotas. It’s why they always say ‘the other kids’ instead of ‘my siblings’ in my stories. Gov and Assistant are their parents, but that does not mean they see each other as family.

They aren’t human nor are they ‘born’, there is only blood relation between the Dakotas and Carolinas.

For a long time, mostly his youth, he didn’t really have any form of contact with the OG’s; especially since the younger States usually stick around Gov and Assistant until they’re at least 15-in-body. This is the age they usually attend their first meeting, as well.

The thing about the Northeastern States is that they’re very protective of their loved ones, and Maine came around after the OG’s pulled back from Gov and Assistant, and, by association, the younger States and Departments. Vermont, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Ohio are really the only States who got the Grandparents the OG’s are. Louisiana, too, but he was really young and barely 2-years-a-State when the Ultimatum went into effect.

Maine is very much that one kid who doesn’t want anyone near his parents.

They’re too nice to be friends with you, so shove off! — Little Maine to nearly every human he’s seen his parents interact with. Not swearing because it makes his parents upset when he does.

Maine was one of the few who took the change from Optimistic Congress and Forever-Smiling Assistant to the ever-exhausted pair of Stoic-but-caring Gov and Always-Worried-but-hiding-it Assistant the best; it took the rest awhile to get used to, but Maine got used to it quick.

They were still his parents, after all. He loves them and knows they love him.

A few more little extras about him!;

—Congress and Assistant made each of their kids a stuffed toy based on any animal of their choosing, even stitching the doll’s name somewhere on the toy. Maine’s is a blue lobster named Ebenezer, because he was an old man even at five. The name is stitched in red on Ebenezer’s left pincher.

—He most definitely owns a lighthouse and uses it to hide when he’s done dealing with people.

—He has a Maine Coon named Persephone and she’s Satan in disguise. She will eat your socks while they’re on your feet. He will hear no word of her wrong-doings.

—Maine, Louisiana, Hawai’i and Alaska have fist-fought bears together. It is not good for Gov or Assistant’s health. They don’t do it as often anymore, but they do hang out a lot.

—Massachusetts is Maine’s favorite Grandpa and Maine is one of the favorite grandchildren.

—Do not believe the OG’s when they say they do not have favorite grandchildren. They are liars.

—He’s very ‘Maim First, Ask Later’. He gets it from his Mama, except Robin is more likely to murder as a warning.

—One of his Cities got him a shirt with ‘Maim First, Ask Later’ printed alongside a Moose. It’s one of his favorite shirts.

—Very much has that ‘lumberjack’ aesthetic. Alaska would too if it wasn’t almost always freezing. The cold doesn’t bother him but it’s become habit to bundle up for the cold weather.

—He enjoys hiking and camping, and takes at least two months every year to just vibe in the woods.

—He was a lobster fisherman in the mid-1800’s to and everyone on the docks adored his Ma whenever she came by, even if they never really remembered her face. Most likely because she made the best blueberry pie any of them ever had.

—He’s not entirely sure, but any food his Ma and Pop makes is more delicious than anything else he’s ever had. Other states agree and so do the few humans they make friends with. At this point, the consensus is either magic or a blood deal.

—He’s sure it’s probably because they grow and make most of their food by hand, no matter how busy they are, or buy from local farmers. They once said its relaxing and they always seemed to have fun, so even Baby Maine didn’t make a fuss like he usually did when they were overworking themselves. (Probably because they bribed the toddler with homemade blueberry jam. They taught him how to make it when he was older. His never tasted as good as his parents.)

—He doesn’t do the fishing much anymore, but he still goes out on his own boat once in awhile for fresh fish, crabs, oysters and lobster.

—He, like all states, can play instruments. Most States know piano, taught by Gov and Assistant, along with whatever other instrument they chose. Maine chose the acoustic guitar as his second favorite.

@professor-of-predators

The Bosses make you want to look away, but you can’t help but stare...

Best not to interrupt...

Cali...ok!! Thanks, Lovely Anon!!

🔴 (Angst/Sad)

California was 14-in-body and 11-years-a-State when he ran away from home to join the Civil War. He was the last State to leave, the last State personification to join the war itself.

He was still young when he thought his father died. When he, and the others, started to avoid their mother; they thought she’d hate them for it (she would never). His self-esteem plummets, mostly due to his own thoughts than any outside interference.

In the 20’s through the 80’s, he was an alcoholic who did any drug he got his hands on. New Jersey and New York ended up staging an intervention, and he’s been mostly sober- aside from the occasional, supervised drink- since the 90’s.

Figuring out his dad isn’t dead, and learning what the Civil War did to his body and his mom’s mind... makes him want to start drinking again.

🏡(Home)

Like other States, he has several homes scattered throughout the State, but his main home is a literal mansion. Literally enormous, way more space than one man needs.

But, he’s a Material Gurl 💅💅, so it makes sense.

Former Hollywood Star in the 50’s and 60’s who retired with favourable reputation and vanished off the face of the earth, basically.

He has a fat cat all famous people have, his name is Alfonso and he is the sweetest cat to ever exist. It’s actually Alfonso’s house and Cal is just the roommate. <3

Pic of Alfonso’s house: (not really but its what I envision)

🌑(Sleep)

Literally the opposite of Colorado. As a kid he could sleep anywhere, anytime, and hardly wake up from anything.

Now he has very specific rituals and conditions for him to be able to sleep. When those specific conditions aren’t met he doesn’t sleep that night, and thus ends up passing out at 3 p.m in the middle of the kitchen floor.

👔(Clothes)

The black skinny jeeeeaaans. He’s got legs and he’s gonna show em off.

White shirt, it’s simply, easy, goes with everything.

Has a lot of jewelry, mostly gold and silver. Gold Necklace with a flat pendant, a poppy carved into it with the day he became a State enrgaved on the back. Silver chains and bracelets, another gold bracelet with the silhouette of a California Grizzly carved in. Ears most definitely pierced, at least three in each. Maybe an eyebrow piercing. A ring on his right middle finger, with beniliote embed, but like; a family crest type band with a big piece of beniliote instead of a crest.

So, I know the flannel is ✨there✨ (jk I love flannels) but listen-- listen!! A different type of flannel. Like, the same colors but- an Actual jacket. I don’t know how else to describe it so I will include a pic.

A Nightmare

Pennsylvania has a nightmare, and there is only one thing that can calm him down.

———————————————————————

It’s dark.

The cobblestone roads are old and worn by use, the streetlights illuminating the area around him.

He’s sitting on a bench, alone. The wind chills against his neck.

And then there’s someone next to him. A few inches shorter, but with his hair. Long, light brown hanging to his shoulders and tied back. There’s a tricorn hat on his head, a familiar black suit with golden details– a gift from himself and his partners to the man.

To their son.

Congress is still, stiff, not even looking at him– green eyes focused and staring straight ahead. His skin is pale, an ashen color that worries him.

Patrick Jones furrows his brow, but still greets the boy.

“Adam,” he says, “Are you alright? Yer lookin’ a bit grey.”

No answer.

“Adam?”

Not even a fidget.

Patrick huffs, growing annoyed at being ignored– though also concerned, Adam never ignored them.

“Continental Congress–” he says firmly, sternly, but the boys head jerks to face him before he can continue.

His jaw drops, and he can only stare in horror at his boys’ face.

Half of it, the half he hadn’t seen before, is nothing but sizzling skin and muscle and filthy, rotten bone. His entire right side is torn apart, clothes shredded and his body ripped apart– ribs splintered open like a cage around his still beating heart, revealed to open air.

The skin of his hands is peeled and torn away, revealing blood-soaked bones with bits a flesh on the ends. The wounds on his body are shaped odd, as if Congress tore out chunks of his own body himself.

The blood is dry and rotten, the smell suddenly hitting him, but he can’t move. Not when Adam stares at him with one, focused, burning green eye.

“..Pa…” is the hoarse, broken voice that comes from a torn throat – bullets, blood, stitches, barely missed his vocal cords. Teeth grey; blood, bugs and dirt pouring from his lips.“Why?...”

Patrick breathes, “...Why…what?”

“Why would you…kill me..? it hurts, Pa…”

The world shifts, and Patrick– he can’t breathe, he can’t see anything besides his son’s rotting corpse— he did that, oh god he killed his baby boy—

Rotten, broken hands reach out to him from the darkness, grabbing him- holding him down, and there are more hands, more bodies, and he’s—

———————————————————————

Pennsylvania wakes up with a muffled scream, shooting up into a sitting position.

Georgia, Virginia, and Maryland are awake, but he doesn’t see them– he’s struggling to stand– he needs to find his boy–

“Patrick!” Virginia says frantically, stepping in front of the Keystone State, “Honey, honey– it’s okay, it was a nightmare–”

“Adam–” is all Pennsylvania can gasp out, hand clutching his chest, “Where–? My boy– he’s–”

“He’s fine.” Virginia soothes, trying to guide the other back to bed, “He’s with Robin, alright? They’re perfectly fine.”

“No, no–” is all the Northeasterner can mutter, still trying to leave the room, “He’s– he’s not– he’s hurting– where’s my boy–”

Virginia throws a pleading glance over the other's shoulder, and Maryland nods– whipping out his phone and dialing a number they had never called outside of emergencies.

The receiver picks up almost immediately, and Maryland immediately starts muttering into the device.

It takes only a moment before he hangs up.

Virginia is still trying to keep Pennsylvania from leaving the room-- the other State seemingly unaware of where he is, or even when he is.

The air feels static around them, a tell-tale sign that lasts only a few seconds, before there’s a small crackle and a knock at the door.

Pennsylvania’s head jerks at the noise, and the door swings open.

Light brown hair– narrow, worried eyes– a small, grim frown– his boy shouldn’t be frowning, why is he upset?

Pennsylvania ducks out of Virginia’s grip, not even realizing it, before he’s practically wrapped around Congress. The boy is still shorter than him, but he’s a bit broader than he remembers, a few inches taller, but just short enough for Pennsylvania to bury his face in his son’s hair.

When had he cut his hair?

When had he grown so much?

When had he gotten so pale, was he growing ill again?

He presses his cheek to the boys temple, feeling for his temperature just to feel nothing out of the ordinary. He feels the boys chest rumble as he speaks to the others behind him, asking questions.

“You said there was an emergency?”

“Figured you’d rather come here than have him break down your door.”

“Hmm.” Adam’s arms wrap around him, and he does his best not to sag against his boy. He’s the Pa, dammit, his son shouldn’t have to take care of him. “It wouldn’t be the first time my door’s been torn off its hinges. I can stay if necessary.”

“Sorry, Gov, but he wasn’t listening.” there’s guilt in the tired voice, “He…doesn’t seem to be aware of where or when we are.”

Adam’s fingers tap against his back in a simple rhythm, and Pennsylvania feels himself start to droop with a sudden, bone-deep exhaustion.

He hears more muttering, the creaking of a bed as someone stands.

He feels hands around his waist.

“He seems to be asleep enough. We’ll take him so ya can go back home– sorry for troublin’ ya.”

The arms start to pull– pull him away from his boy who’s right there, he can feel his boys breath stutter and his boy is upset and hiding it—

He tears himself out of the grip like a man possessed, wrapping his boy up in his arms entirely. He herds the two of them closer to a wall– fewer openings for someone to try and drag either of them away– and glares at the three blurry figures as he tucks Adam’s head tight to his chest, blocking the boys vision.

He can feel his boy trying to peak over his arm at the figures, sees the figures trying to creep closer, and he growls. He feels his heart pounding against his ribs, feels his grip on his son tighten– before there’s a hand at his back and on his arm, and Adam is whispering– so quiet that no one but himself can hear what he says, and his growl goes silent so he can listen.

“Pa,” the boy says, and Pennsylvania closes in tighter around him, “It’s alright. It’s Mapa, Pop, and Papa. They won’t hurt you–” that’s not what he cares about, and he huffs. His boy pauses, seeming to think, “...they won’t hurt me.”

Pennsylvania glances back over his shoulder, and he slowly starts to relax. There are no faceless figures trying to take his son, just the faces of his concerned partners. He relaxes further, they’d help keep their boy safe.

He crouches, just a little, just enough to get a firm grip on his son in a way that won’t cause him any discomfort or pain, and he lifts.

Hands shift to grab at his shoulders, and there’s a small noise of surprise in the chest against him.

He takes long strides back to the bed— past Georgia, Virginia, and Maryland— and falls back onto it, pressing Congress’ head back to his chest and curling tighter, putting himself in the way of whatever may want to hurt his son— and there were so many people, so many things, that want to hurt Congress.

“Suppose I’m staying,” his boy says apologetically, “I apologize for intruding.”

Maryland rushes to assure him, “No, no, hon. You’re perfectly fine!” the other three take their time climbing back into the bed, keeping Congress in between them, “We’re sorry for gettin’ ya in this mess.”

“It’s fine,” Congress assures, “I’ve dealt with worse– this situation is actually strangely pleasant.”

“Shhh…” Pennsylvania mutters, shifting just a bit to hold Adam tighter, to cover him more, “Babies need to sleep…”

Congress must make a face, because Pennsylvania feels Georgia chuckling against his back, can hear the quiet snickers from the other side of the bed from Mary and Virginia.

“I assure you that I’m far from a baby—”

“Shhhhhhhh…” he says louder, into the boys hair, “Sleep.”

There’s a huff, some squirming, but he pays no mind as he falls asleep— his partners around him and his son– one of his babies, his Cities have missed their brother— safe, wrapped up in between them.

He lets himself drift.

———————————————————————

Gov is gone by morning, slipping from his Pa’s hold and carefully closing the door. He pops back to his home, leaning against the wall tiredly.

He sighs.

It’d been nice to call Pennsylvania his Pa– the man completely unaware of the date, unaware of whatever made them no longer wish to be his parents. He made sure Georgia, Virginia, and Maryland didn’t hear him when he called them those personal titles, he’s sure they would’ve been furious at him. He’s sure that they are, anyway, for Pennsylvania dragging him into their bed— even if they tried to reassure him that it was fine.

He runs a hand through his hair.

He’d have to send them a proper apology for the intrusion.

…

He wonders what Pennsylvania dreamt about, to have Maryland call him so late at night…

12-28-1845

The Day the State of Texas was formed.

———————————————————————

The Republic of Texas. A country between the United States and Mexico, young still. The Government, or Country– depending on the place, the Corresponding Personification would be called one or the other, but they were one in the same– still barely in the body of a teenager.

Carlos, Adam knew his name to be, looked…well, he looked young. Covered in bruises and scrapes and blood that he wasn’t quite sure belonged to the personification or not. He was gaunt and thin, and looked at the older man with such desperation.

It’s December 28th, 1845. The boy– for that’s all he really was– having nearly begged for Adam to meet him.

He had said, then;

“Señor, no puedo– no puedo hacer esto. No puedo ser un país.”

Sir, I can’t do this. I can’t be a country.

The boy had stumbled, body too weak to hold himself up on his own feet. Adam moved forward to catch him, holding the dirty, ragged teenager– his clothes torn and eyes wide with a primal sort of fear, the boy had no shoes– thin fingers clutching to his coat.

“Por favor, señor, no me envíe de vuelta al Maestro— a España. Por favor, haré lo que quieras.”

“Shhh,” he soothes the boy, hand coming up to brush through wavy curls, not as tight as Louisiana’s, not as loose as Florida’s. “No volverás con él, muchacho. Te quedarás aquí conmigo. Haré todo lo posible para mantenerte a salvo, ¿de acuerdo?”

I’ll keep you safe.

“Sí, sí señor, por favor–”

“Shhh..” the body in his arms grows weaker, fading, and Adam can feel the grainy feeling of his skin fragmenting, “It’s alright…”

It takes a minute, maybe two, for the teen in Adam’s arms to shatter, only the be pulled together once again– smaller, younger.

Different.

He catches the toddler, drapes him in the blanket he had over his shoulder since he arrived. He knew it would happen when the paperwork was finished, the Republic of Texas annexed, becoming the new State of Texas.

He shifts his hold, looking down at the small child.

“I think Gabriel is a suitable name.” he says softly, thumb running across the young fat of the boy’s cheek. “Let us go, then. Your mother will be happy to meet you.”

And he turns on his heel, walking away from the empty clearing– the gravesite of a nation unable to be, unable to grow.

Hopefully, this child– his son– will not face the same fate.