Im Still Doing These For My WTTT AU

I’m still doing these 😅 for my WTTT AU

~ Headcanon Asks ~

Send me a character’s name and an emoji and I’ll share one headcanon I have related to the emoji’s topic.

*

Emotional

🟡 - Happy

🔴 - Angsty/Sad

🟣 - Romantic/Sexual/Shippy

*

Lifestyle

🏡 - Home

👪 - Family

🍜 - Food

👔 - Clothing

🧵- Hobbies

🌑 - Sleep

🗣 - Social

🐈 - Pets/Animals

🎼 - Music

🗡 - Fighting

You sent in two, so they’ll all be here!!

🔴 (Angsty/Sad)

Colorado’s one of the few States that gets attached to humans. He sticks by those he sees as friends for decades, always around to see them age and eventually die. The end for all mortal creatures, but it still hurts.

Colorado’s biggest fear is those he loves dying, and seeing so many of his friends— mortal human friends, people he knew would die long before him— pass upsets him more than it would other States, States who get used to people they know dying. States who can grieve for a day or so and move on.

Every time, he goes back to Mom and Dad’s house, he stays there for days. He brings his dogs, because he knows they’ll leave him too, one day, and wants to spend as much time as he can with them.

At Mom and Dad’s house, there are no expectations. He doesn’t have to work, can just curl up in his childhood bedroom and grieve. If it hurts too much, he’ll even lock his Mom and Dad out of the room. They won’t force themselves in. Just remind him to eat, and leave food at the door. They don’t quite understand, they’ve never really cared about humans, but they do their best to comfort him.

Sometimes, he and his human friends will grow apart before it gets to that point, but they still pass away all too soon. It still hurts, but it’s not as bad.

It hurts more when he looses a pet.

He’ll grieve pets for years, has kept all their collars and favorite toys, even when he eventually finds another stray and takes them in.

...He has a lot of pictures, all the way back to when he was a child himself, playing in the streets with the human children while his Mom was in the markets. He has hundreds of photo albums full of friends and pets, and they all have one thing in common...

They’re all someone he lost.

🌑 (Sleep)

When he was younger, he slept horribly. Always too hot or too cold. It was always too loud or too quiet. Definitely one of those babies that kept his parents up for hours before they finally figured out how to get him to sleep.

Thinner shirts, thinner blankets, but combined they were warm enough to keep him from getting sick. A quiet music box he still has to this day, and even used with his own Cities.

As he got older he grew out of his pickiness with sleeping conditions, and can pretty much sleep wherever. He can’t nap though, he just can’t sleep during the day.

The marijuana definitely helps, though.

👔 (Clothes)

Very much a black cargo pants man. He loves the pockets. Perfect for holding everything the local weed dealer needs…not that he’s a dealer (Don’t tell Mom or Dad—).

Hiking boots, he may love to ski and snowboard, but he loves to hike in the warmer months— he’s often invited to join Oregon and Washington with his dogs.

Puffer vest, one with a hood. I love vests and he seems like the type. It’s his State flag colors and the funky little ‘C’ and circle they have. I love it, it such a weird (affectionate) flag to me.

In colder months, he’ll wear a white sweater, a thicker black beanie, and his ski goggles.

In the warmer months, he’ll wear a white t-shirt underneath the vest. He also has one of those thinner beanies made for summer, also black. In place of his goggles, he’ll have those sporty sunglasses.

He also has a silver chain necklace, and all his cities have a matching one. He also wears a watch to keep track of time, he’s very time blind— probably made worse by the marijuana. It’s an older model of watch, he gets a new one every few decades. But the first one he ever got was his Dad’s old watch, and he keeps that old thing in a drawer of his desk.

(Gov has tried to get him to throw the old watch out; “Joshua, it doesn’t even work anymore. It’s taking up space.” “I don’t care.”, he’s very sentimental)

🏡 (Home)

All the States have several homes throughout, usually apartments in major cities and homes in suburbs.

Then they have their Main House, usually wayy bigger than the others (most being manors) somewhere in their State.

Colorado has a rustic-style, manor-ish (not as big as a manor but close) home in the mountains, pretty far away from other people.

He likes humans, more than he probably should, but he likes having the big open space-- his doggos love it too. It’s perfect for when all his kids come visit, enough space for them all to have their own thing, yet close enough for them to be meshed together. He can’t have them all over at once, unless some want to share beds, sleep on couches, and camp in the yard.

There are plenty of natural trails he likes to take around, and its just a pop away from anything else!

🟣 (Romantic/Sexual/Shippy)

Panromantic Demisexual, not currently in a relationship.

He’s not really looking for a romantic relationship right now, but if it happens naturally...

🍜 (Food)

He’s a stoner. He’s got the munchies. He will eat pretty much anything edible thats placed in front of him.

But if Mom or Dad makes cinnamon rolls...he has to be held back from eating all of them. Like, literally restrained.

It’s ONLY if Mom or Dad makes them. He will not do it with anyone elses cinnamon rolls.

It’s not that strange, we’re pretty sure everything Gov and Assistant make is laced with something...the lab results have shown nothing weird, but we can’t be too sure. It might be magic.

🧵 (Hobbies)

Skiing, snowboarding, rock climbing...of course, those are expected. He will try everything outdoorsy once! Its fun for him and his dogs, and his kids often join him.

He also has a synthesizer and plays grand piano, though he usually only does the grand piano at Mom and Dad’s house. He also has a portable beatmaker. He likes the flashy buttons.

He does yoga and other exercises, and likes jigsaws.

Mom taught him to crochet, and he often does it when he’s stressed.

Most States know how to sew, Mom and Dad taught them so they could fix their own clothes if needed, but Colorado is one of few that wanted to crochet too.

Civil

From the day of her creation to the present day, Robin knows how to be civil.

*Blood and Injury, Implied Murder, Implied Cannibalism, and references to poor mental states*

———————————————————————

Congress had been sick since the end of March.

It was a similar sort to when the Revolution was dying down, when their government was in a rocky and unstable position. Robin doesn’t know what’s causing it, the Senators have been tight-lipped— and she’s much too busy taking care of her husband to interrogate them.

She manages to get him to stay home, but he doesn’t stop working— the infuriating man he is.

The house had been tense the last while, what with the secession of several states already. 7 if she remembered, one of them being Georgia— something that had broken her Adam’s heart— and there were threats of others doing the same.

Several of her children had seceded, and it…hurt. She hadn’t felt that in a while, not since the 1810’s, when their parents left them behind.

She knew the rapid secession was likely a cause of Adam’s illness, and she hoped it would pass.

But on April 12, 1861, she had gone out to the capital early that morning, remaining civil with the politicians even as they grated on her nerves and patience.

The house was silent.

Her children— their States— were nowhere to be found. She knew their Departments were in DC, working as they did every day.

But the States wouldn’t leave without notice.

And she smelled it, a pungent smell that she had grown used to in the Revolution— a smell she never wanted to smell in her own home.

Blood.

There was only one person home.

“Adam!” She calls, setting her groceries on the counters to be put away at a later time, sprinting up the stairs.

The smell was coming from his office.

The door was unlocked, not that it would hold against her if it wasn’t.

She bursts into the office, eyes wild— he wasn’t in his chair, but—

She could see a hand on the floor behind the desk.

“ADAM!” She shrieks, dropping down beside him.

Pale skin, wide eyes, gasping breaths as his hands claw at his midsection— a large wound slowly cutting across his skin, blood pouring from it as his hands dig further into his flesh.

———————————————————————

She managed to get him to bed, having to knock him out to do so— she hopes when he wakes, he won’t be so afraid.

She wrapped the wound, the shape familiar— a four-pointed star stretching across his chest. Horizontal points stretching to his sides, the vertical points going from just below the hollow of his throat to the bottom of his ribs.

…

It hadn’t stopped bleeding, and she's had to change the bandages every hour.

She runs a hand through Adam’s hair, damp with sweat, body moving roughly with gasping breaths. Her free hand holds one of his close to her chest.

The air crackles.

“Mother!” A voice call from downstairs, and soon thundering footsteps reach the bedroom door, the wood scratching the ground as its shoved open.

Her son, Gideon— the Department of State—stares at her with a heaving chest and wide, frightened eyes.

“Did you hear?” He asks breathlessly, helplessly, body freezing at the sight of his Father.

“Hear what?” She whispers, afraid, for the first time in her life. Her hold on Adam’s hand tightens.

Gideon doesn’t take his eyes off the man lying in the bed.

“The Confederates attacked Fort Sumter this morning.” He whispers, frantic and pained, and Robin feels her chest squeeze. “They’ve declared war.”

Adam’s body jerks, and his mouth opens in a blood-curdling scream.

———————————————————————

DC was the one at President Lincoln’s side when he officially declared the start of the War, on April 15.

Her husband, her Adam, couldn’t be left unattended for long.

He had to be restrained, forced the lay in their bed with his arms, legs, and midsection bound.

Else he’d try to tear his body apart with his own hands.

When he grew lucid, few and far between the last several days, she would undo his wrists and loosen around his midsection, allowing him to sit up.

She changed his bandages every hour, the wound still bleeding as it had that first day.

Not a word from the States came, but she sensed their presence closeby several times.

She knew the Confederates would reach their land at some point. But that was fine.

She’s experienced in getting rid of evidence.

———————————————————————

“Please my love, my heart, my Infinity.” He begged, bloodied hands clutching tight to her arms, head buried in her neck as she tied off the bandage and held him close, blood dripping from his lips, “Please, spare me— kill me, please.”

Her hands are soft and gentle as they run down his back and through his hair, wild and untamed in the last few months.

“My love,” she whispers back to him, leaning away slightly and cupping his face— a touch he burrows in, the touch comforting and easing the excruciating pain he’s in, as her own eyes— deep with pain and sorrow as she gazes down at him, it makes him hold her tighter as he feels the lucidity start to leave him, fingers twitching to tear at his own flesh, “My soul, my Eternity…” the next breath she takes is shuddering, “I would ease your pain if I could, take it on my own to bear— but I can’t.” Her voice cracks, but he hardly hears it, eyes glazed as she hastens to rebind his wrists before he can tear into himself. “I’m sorry, my dear Adam.” She whispers in choked breaths, leaning down to rest her forehead on the bandages around his thrashing chest, “I’m so sorry.”

———————————————————————

Virginia has split once again, she learns.

It’s when she’s left Adam in the care of their oldest four sons— War, State, Treasury, and Attorney.

She’s making her way down South, eyes open across several miles ahead— searching for the Rebels with the same ferocity she hunted the Redcoats.

And she feels it.

The presence of a State.

A young State.

She knows the Western portion of Virginia didn’t agree with the Eastern side politically. She knew such disagreements often ended with a separate State.

But its 1863 and the Civil War is in full swing.

She never thought Virginia would leave a child out to die.

She veers off her path, into the shadowy underbrush with a crackle— and she re-emerges in a thick part of the forest. The terrain is rough, and she feels young eyes on her.

She kneels down, and two chubby hands reach out of the thickets.

Three years old in body, assigned Statehood on June 20th. West Virginia.

She couldn’t leave him here, but she couldn’t take him with her.

…

She can hunt Rebels another time.

———————————————————————

His name is West Virginia, but the kind lady that takes him from the Outside into an Inside calls him Boe— tells him that’s the name he uses with humans. She tells him that he’ll live with her until he’s grown, with all her other children.

She tells him the Man in the Room is the Government, that he is…West’s Pa, in a way.

He asks if that means she’s his Mama.

She just smiles at him, and pats his head.

“If you want me to be, sweetheart.”

He thinks he does.

———————————————————————

Her Adam’s eyes had always been green. The color of lush forests, of soft grass, the color of a unified nation standing strong against the tyranny that oppressed them.

But she’s noticed that they’ve been growing dull, the green fading into grey as the eyebags under his eyes grow.

Despite her efforts, he can’t sleep through the war, he still needs to eat and such, and even with the special blend of tea she made specifically to help him sleep through the pain, it’s hard for him to return to slumber once he’s woken.

She tries to keep the younger kids away when he’s not lucid, the time they get with him mostly when he’s asleep.

But when he’s awake and aware, even for a short while, he’ll smile and talk with them in a pained, hushed voice that makes her want to cry.

She never cried often before this...this Civil War. But, knowing it's her own family fighting this war— her parents and in-laws and her children—, the same war that’s slowly killing her husband, her best friend from the day they were placed upon the cursed earth to bend at the will of humans who knew nothing but their own greed…

She cries almost every day.

———————————————————————

The War ended almost four years later, almost to the day— April 9th, 1865. They would forever blame the Confederates for the fire she started in Richmond, and no one would ever find the bodies of the boy and girl she tore apart without hesitation— they’d never find Confederacy or his Subordinate.

She makes sure Richmond, the city himself, takes no damage from the fire— forcing every ounce of that pain onto the Rebel Government and his assistant and taking what is left. She cared not that their bodies were young, only that they had taken her children, her family, the States that have always been and will forever be hers.

They had taken them-they chose to leave- and that was something she could not forgive.

Her husband stops thrashing in the middle of the night, just after midnight on the 10th.

He’d been doing so for the last few months, non-stop, so when he finally falls silent and still she’s hit with the most violent surge of ill and fear. She tears out of her bed, a temporary one, they’d always slept together— regardless of the societal norms that dictate otherwise.

But instead of finding her dear Eternity dead— oh what would happen to her and the kids if he died?— she finds exhausted grey eyes staring up at her.

She inhales deep and shocked, frazzled.

“..Ro?” His voice is hoarse and quiet. “Ro, are you alright?”

She can only stare down at him.

“Robin?” He asks again, slightly louder, wrists moving in his restraints. “My Infinity?”

She tears his restraints off without a second thought, clambering into the bed beside him, throwing an arm over his side and burying herself in his embrace.

His hands are clumsy, running up and down her back as her shoulders start to shake.

“I’m alright, my dear.” He whispers against her temple, “I’m alright.”

“You’re not.” She whispers back, a shaky hand trailing along the scar— it finally stopped bleeding. “My dear Eternity, you’re—“

“Alright for now.” His voice is firm in a way she missed, a tone he took when the Senators were being difficult, a tone he took when he was certain of something. “You look exhausted, my love.”

She doesn’t respond, and the vibration of a hum rattles beneath her cheek.

“Sleep, my dear Robin.” He says, “We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

“In the morning…” she mumbles, the stress finally leaving for the first time in ages, and she can’t fight the pull of sleep.

———————————————————————

Things had changed.

They all had changed.

Adam didn’t answer to Congress anymore— which was fine, she never called him that anyway. He was more stern and stoic, less merciful to those who wronged him— even despite the fact he was wheel-chair bound.

The wound that had bled for years had healed, but the rest of his body just wasn’t. He could no longer walk on his own, with the state of the Nation. Paralyzed from the waist down.

Robin was just happy he was there, lucid and awake and with her.

Even if none of the other States checked in, they had Minnesota, Oregon, Kansas, and West Virginia, and their newest addition– Nevada.

She’s not doing much on the Government front at the moment— her dear children had staged an intervention when she tried to go back to work.

“You gotta rest, Ma.” Treasury had said, “The last few years have been stressful.”

“The Meetings—“ she had tried, but West Virginia— with his chubby face and sweet, worried eyes (they put him up to this, they know she can’t argue with a baby), had stopped her.

“You’re gonna get hurt, Mama.” He had said, so soft and sad, his little lip quivering as he tugged on her skirts, “Like Papa did.”

She had folded easily under the gaze of her children, her Departments and her States, but she had refused to let DC go into the Meetings unprepared.

But it helped.

She could focus on herself, her husband, and her family without the stress of being a Government.

It helped when more States came, and she could focus on being their mother, on making sure they wouldn’t want to kill them secede like the others had. What did they do wrong? why did her babies want to leave her and kill their father? Didn’t their parents know what would happen? Did they not care?

And it only got better in the 1920’s.

Adam was no longer wheelchair bound, the economic boom allowing his body the strengthen, and the new advances in medicine allowing surgery and a cane— and he could finally walk again!

They danced across the country— and oh how she had missed dancing with him like they used to!

A lot of their time was spent in New York City, and she fully embraced the name her Poppa had created for himself— Thomas Jones was a frightening man and no one ever told them what Thomas threatened to do if they hurt his Baby Bird.

They may the Government Personifications, but Adam and Robin Jones were some of the top Mafia Couples of the age— never once getting caught.

Even those who had been in direct interaction with Mr. and Mrs. Jones couldn’t say what they looked like, they were never found.

It was one of the best times of Robin's life, and she knows her dear Eternity, her Adam, enjoyed it as well. Even as the depression came and it made his already injured body ill… it was nothing she couldn’t handle.

And then World War 2 began, and they let the other nations fight. They stayed out of it. For a while, at least.

Hawai’i…she had been young. One of the few territory personifications they willed into being, simply due to the fact Hawai’i was so far from everything else that it was harder to keep protected without the personification. She wasn’t even truly theirs, but she’s their daughter in all the ways that matter.

And that...that Imperial had taken their kindness- their negotiations- and stomped all over it. It left her seething, her teeth itching for the taste of blood and flesh- humans had never been delicious as a fellow fragment, she hasn’t had a taste in so long-

But her Adam had taken her hands, and whispered so softly to her before she could burn Japan to the ground and feast.

“Let me do this, my dear.” He says so sweetly, smiles so softly, but his eyes burn with a fury and it's a combination he wore often in the Revolution. “You took care of the Rebel, allow me to take care of the Imperial.”

And she lets him, watching with glee— helping Mikala recover as the bombs drop.

She feels no guilt towards the civilians, nor to the Cities themselves. They aren’t hers, they mean nothing to her.

She feels nothing but a hatred for Imperial Japan, and nothing but joy as her Adam comes back with one less bullet and a bloodied guntō.

They always liked taking trophies, the many items of the Redcoats they have in their basement trophy room— the one room only they are allowed inside— are proof of that fact.

The blood makes it an eye-catching feature of the room, no?

By the year 2000, more trophies were taken. USSR and Nazi Germany’s Personifications shattered like glass beneath their bloodthirst.

The Iron Crosses, scorched and melted together to make a sort of screaming face, are an interesting art piece.

And the brown, bullet-ridden jacket is one her sweet Alaska had nightmares of before they took it.

And that’s not to mention the skulls! She’s sure they rival Frances’ Catacombs by now. It’s a lovely thing they've made over the years.

———————————————————————

It’s 2023, the first Meeting she’ll be part of in over a hundred years.

She feels no nervousness, she’s an expert after all.

She hears her Adam’s voice through the door, a rough barking sound that makes her giggle.

“Sit down! Sit down— Ian, I will ground you from the alligator ponds for a month if you don’t sit down! We have an important someone joining us today, and she’ll be very cross if you don’t behave!”

She hears the shuffling of feet, the scratching of chairs, and— finally— silence.

Her Adam sighs.

“Alright, good, good.” He mutters, and she feels a tug.

She follows it, allowing the air to crackle until she’s standing next to him in the meeting room.

———————————————————————

Her smile is still gentle and kind, they notice, posture perfect and suit without a mark or crease.

Most can’t believe their eyes, though there are several who aren’t surprised to see her, the ones who came after the Civil War visited her often.

Stormy blue-grey eyes they remember so fondly, as they ran amuck across the Pennsylvania property. Who tended to their injuries, no matter how small, and held them when they were frightened. The woman they call Mother.

The sweet face they remember so carefully handling the birds. The smile they had seen grow so wide and bright on her wedding day. The girl they call Daughter.

“Everyone.” Gov says loudly, firmly, rising from his seat to stand beside her. He makes a small gesture, to show her off with a barely concealed pride. “Robin Jones, the Executive Assistant, will be joining us from now on.”

“Hello.” She greets, smile never once dropping, a practiced ease, “It’s a pleasure to see all of you.”

And it is, despite how her chest still aches some nights— just as she knows Adam’s does. How they left so easily and simply never came back.

But, perhaps— she thinks, as she notices several sets of eyes grow wet with an emotion she can’t help but name ‘relief’— they could start to heal.

She could be civil, at least, until then.

The Fire of 1814

Assistant’s view of the Burning of Washington

———————————————————————

She hadn’t been expecting the burst of heat she felt across her torso.

Robin grimaces, hand coming to press against the burning sensation. There’s no obvious wounds or injuries,

They were spending time in Washington DC, there are things going on that they had to be close by for.

At this time at night, she’s long since shut the curtains, but the beaming orange-red light that slips through them causes her brow to furrow.

She slides the curtains open, and she can feel her eyes widen.

…

The buildings will bear no damage or scars, bear no pain in the time it takes to fix them.

But the fires she can see rage across the city line will not be as kind to her husband or son.

She doesn’t even bother with shoes, allowing the world to wrap around her as she starts to run, appearing in the streets of Government Buildings. The heartbeat of her love beat solidly in her chest, stuttering once every few minutes, leading her to him. DC was with his brothers, War– Robert– and Treasury– Oliver–, she could sense even from so far away, while State– Gideon– and Attorney General– Jack– were with the younger children back in Pennsylvania.

The three children were just slightly off the ocean shore, but Congress– her dear Adam, her Eternity; such a stupid, reckless man— was in the middle of it.

So she trusts her children and runs to save their father.

———————————————————————

Her knife cutting through clothes, matted by blood and stuck to skin like scabs.

The faint burning from her sons arm, wrapped in bandages she soaked and cooled to battle the temperature, even as he squirmed and writhed at the pain as she cleaned his blackened, bloody right arm. The injury had crept up to the side of his neck, but not far. Easily covered by clothes.

The sizzling skin along her husband's left arm, along the side of his neck, blackening the side of his face.

He doesn’t move, hardly shifts as she cleans the injuries and wraps him in the cold bandages.

War, her little Robert, is so much help when it comes to changing their clothes into something softer, less irritating on their skin.

They’re soon tucked into bed, and Robin leaves them for a moment, just a moment, to check in on her other children. To comfort and hold as they worry for their father and DC.

———————————————————————

26 hours.

That’s how long she had to hold her husband just under the ocean’s surface.

How long her sons had to hold their brother.

That’s how long it took the fires to go out, both on the streets and on their skin.

That’s how long the fires raged an not one State– not even Maryland, whose home is within eyesight of DC— showed up.

She knows they know about it. She knows they’d feel it if Congress passed, feel a sharp, sudden pain in their chests. She knows this, but she doesn’t know if they know it. For all she knows, they could think he’s dead.

But as she sits between the beds of her husband and son, gently cradling their youngest State, Louisiana, in the rocking chair…

…

She finds she can’t bring herself to care.

It’s been a few months since their parents and uncles stopped responding. She knows it hurts her Adam, breaks his heart, and he’s spent many nights in their bed wrapped into her embrace, crying, asking her why they were leaving them behind, why they no longer used the names they had gifted them– Adam and Robin?

It breaks her heart to have no answer for him. It shatters her heart when her Poppa, the one who gave her the name Robin, calls her Assistant. When her Pa, who built her birdcage, the one she still uses even after her first birds have passed, won’t even look at her outside of Meetings. When her Pop, who helped her name her birds, who taught her to care for them, won’t speak to her unless it’s a matter of business.

When they’re so quick to leave when they used to love staying for hours, visit her and her husband and her children– their grandchildren.

But…it’s fine.

It’s fine.

…

She’s fine.

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.

Not Upset

Ian hides.

*mentions of abuse, reincarnation, and death*

———————————————————————

Ian Jones has always been a high-energy child. Bouncing off the walls, practically, with a loud laugh and a big grin. His Mami thinks he’s adorable, just as she does the Other kids, and his Papi lets him climb all over him when he’s not busy.

As long as he was outside, he was allowed to go as wild as he wanted, so long as he stayed close to the house.

But, sometimes, he couldn’t wait to get his energy out.

It’s what led him to his current situation, staring in horror at the shattered glass vase. The thing was older than him, and he had knocked into the table in his haste to get outside— sheer luck that the other kids were all outside or in town for the day—

“Ian?” He hears Papi call from upstairs, and he freezes, “Ian? Is everything alright?” He hears footsteps creeping down the stairs, and bolts.

He leaves the crime scene, suddenly so very afraid— there are flashes of a man with tanner skin and curlier hair, always angry with them, always mean and always hurting them— and he ducks into the coat closet.

He hears Papi reach the shattered glass, a near-silent ‘Scheiße’ before the voice calls out again, sounding concerned.

“Ian? Ian, where are you?”

Ian holds his breath as the footsteps approach, covering his head with his hands. He was going to be found, he was going to be hurt—

“Oh…” the voice is soft, right in front of him. “Kleiner…”

“Lo lamento,” Ian whimpers, curling tighter, “Lo siento, no fue mi intención— por favor, no me lastimes—“

“Mein kleiner Junge,” the voice is soft, and the hands don’t reach out to..to bruise his face or pull out his hair or-or leave his clothes soaked in his own blood with hands or whips—, “Why would I hurt you?”

“Rompí el jarrón. Lo siento, por favor—“

“Shhh.” Finally, a gentle hand. The skin rough, but in a different way than he remembers, and settling in his curly hair. “It’s alright, sweetheart..”

Ian looks up.

The man in front of him, his Papi, is pale with straight, red-brown hair and green eyes. The Other Man had darker skin and curlier hair, with eyes so brown they were almost black. The Man-on-the-Island had been blonde with hazel eyes. He’s smaller than he had been with the Other Man. Smaller than he had been with The Man-on-the-Island.

He’s not La Florida, a centuries old territory called Andres by the humans. He’s not an adult, not anymore. Peter and Margaret (he’d been split in two, East and West, an excruciating pain as his body tore apart) died in 1783, Andres died in 1822 when Spain sold the territory, the fragments of his body creating the 4-years-in-body Territory of Florida.

He’s Ian Jones, the State of Florida, 8-years old in body and 4-years-a-State. He has a Papi and a Mami and they have a bunch of other kids like him.

The man in front of him isn’t Máster España, or Sir Britain- but Continental Congress, his Papi.

“Why would I hurt you?” Those green eyes seem to burn like a righteous fire at even the idea. As if he wanted to take everyone who’d ever hurt him and bury them in ash and embers.

“Estas molesto conmigo.” He mutters back, “Rompí el jarrón…”

Papi looks back at the shattered glass.

“I’m…no, I’m not upset, Ian.” Papi says slowly, looking back to him, “But, dear boy, I would never hurt you even if I was furious. I would never punish you in a fit of anger.”

Ian looks at him with amber eyes, an orangish yellow color that shifts and glows. He slowly starts to uncurl himself, leaning up to the hand still resting on his head.

Papi smiles.

“Come along,” he says gently, carefully guiding the boy out of the coat closet, “You can help me clean it up, yes?”

“Sí.”

“Let’s go then. Your mother will be glad it’s gone, she has hated the old thing since we got it. A gift from a politician she never really liked…”

Ian giggled, scampering to follow his Papi, clutching to the end of the man's sleeve as he talks about the new excuse for it being gone if the politician ever visited again.

With a simple motion, the man shifts the grip and holds the boy's smaller hand in his.

Ian Jones, the State of Florida— and whoever else he’s been before, the versions of him who died—, smiles.

———————————————————————

Scheiße = Shit/Fuck

Kleiner = little one

Mein kleiner Junge = My Little Boy

Lo lamento, Lo siento, no fue mi intención— por favor, no me lastimes— = I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to— please don't hurt me

Rompí el jarrón. Lo siento, por favor— = I broke the vase. I'm sorry, please—

Estás molesto conmigo. = You’re upset with me.