Well, it's certainly been a long time since I have updated anything here! For that, I should apologize, especially to those who have been following Sleeping Beasts. I have no real excuses for not updating that, apart from being in grad school and thus generally pretty busy.

And although I haven't been updating Sleeping Beasts, I have been writing-generally state OC stories that'll eventually appear in this collection. They are remarkably good stress relief! I have a great fondness for state OCs, almost despite myself, and this collection is borne of that. In addition, many of the headcanons that these stories are written around have been made jointly with Ashynarr, whose on state fic you can read on this site (under the name Adventures of the Golden State) and on AO3 (published as Adventures of the Somewhat United States).

This collection is crossposted there too, and as a bunch of these stories are already written, I hope to be uploading them over the course of the next few days!


Important Names:

New Jersey- Susannah (and the Dutch diminutive "Sanne")
New York- Benjamin
Scotland- Iain


[New Jersey's state animal is the horse]

Once, when she was very small, Nederland took her to see the horses he and his explorers had brought with them from Europe, and Sanne remembers them as being the most wonderful creatures, unlike anything she's ever seen before.

They'd been set loose into a fenced pasture to exercise—

(what are fences? Sanne had asked;

we make fences to hold our property, Nederland had replied, and it takes centuries before Sanne understands just why her stomach had clenched at those words)

—and Sanne was enchanted by the way they frolicked and tossed their heads.

The image is vivid in her mind, even centuries later.

Touch? She remembers asking Nederland, tugging on his sleeve and pointing to the big black Friesian that Nederland himself rode.

Ja, he'd told her before whistling to the horse, who came to him eagerly. He'd stroked the horse's nose softly, and even then Sanne recognized that he was gentler with the horse than he ever was with her or Ben—she remembers his gruff kindness fondly, sometimes, but he'd also tried to civilize them, had dismantled their survival skills and then left them in favor of Europe, which they'd never live up to.

Still, this is a good memory, because Nederland takes her hand gently, uncurling her fingers and holding her palm up to the horse's nose.

Let him know your scent first, he'd said, and then he'd smiled as Sanne giggled.

Tickles, she told him. Soft.

He likes you, came the reply.

And Sanne had stroked the horse's nose until he tired of the touch and took off across the field again.

(Always listen to the animal, Nederland said when she asked him to bring the horse back. Otherwise it will take you by surprise when it explodes. Sanne hadn't understood it at the time, but one day she will remember those words while standing on the battlefields in Trenton and Monmouth and Morristown, and she will revel in England's shock when he realizes just who is turning her musket on him—not the lady you bred now, she'll laugh, half lost in the battle-madness—because this time, she's the one who's exploding and it is glorious.)

They stood together for awhile longer, watching the horses play, and it becomes one of her favorite childhood memories.

It is also the first time she falls in love—with horses and with freedom—and Susannah will never forget that feeling.

~1690

[Scottish colonists began settling in Perth Amboy, then part of East Jersey, in the 1680s]

"C'mere, lass," Scotland says to her one particularly bright spring morning. "I've brought you something."

Curious, New Jersey follows him from the garden, padding barefoot across the grass and toward the stables. She's glad when Scotland makes no mention of her muddy feet or messily braided hair—unlike Mister England, Scotland doesn't seem to mind that she's not so good at being a proper lady. He just grins at her when she reaches for his hand.

It's hard keeping up with his long strides, though, so he sweeps her up into his arms instead, setting her on his broad shoulder while she giggles and threads her fingers through his dark red curls.

"What've you brought me, Uncle Iain?" She asks. The big, easy-going man is her favorite of all the people who have come to her land, since he is always willing to make time for her when he comes to visit his settlement in Perth Amboy.

"You'll see, m'girl," he replies, grinning crookedly up at her. Scotland never seems to stop smiling, at least around her, and is always ready with a kind word and a gentle hand.

Scotland carries her into the stables and then sets her down before a stall. Inside that stall stands a bright bay pony, which lowers its head to sniff at New Jersey's hair. Her eyes widen, and she stares at it, enchanted.

"She's a Galloway pony," Scotland murmurs, reaching forward to stroke the mare's ears. "And according to Ireland, every girl should have a pony. I thought that you might like her."

"What's her name?" New Jersey asks, reaches out to pet the pony's nose. She has loved horses ever since Netherlands had shown her his, although she's never had one of her own.

"She doesn't have one yet," Scotland replies, smiling down at her. "That's for you to decide." He seems enchanted himself, pleased with the way that she bites her lip and ponders. He can tell by her face that this is the best gift she's ever been given.

After a moment, New Jersey asks, "What's the Scottish word for star?" The mare has one on her forehead, stark against the luminous bay of the rest of her.

Scotland's grin widens. "Rionnag, or reul." He turns his gaze from New Jersey to the mare, who shifts in her stall.

"Rionnag," New Jersey repeats, tasting the word in her mouth. She likes it. "That's who she'll be."

"I think it will suit her," Scotland says. Then he takes her hand and lifts her into his arms again. "Now, how would you like to learn to care for her? Then I'll teach you to ride."

New Jersey's face lights up, and Scotland's heart feels fit to burst. He beams at her, entranced by her delight as she flings her arms around his neck. He laughs and cuddles her close.

"Yes please!"

"England is going to kill us," New York says, staring at the broken vase. It had been a gift from one of England's rich proprietors, and now it lay in pieces across the floor. Yes, he will certainly kill them. And if he doesn't, their governess will. "We're going to die."

"Maybe we could fix it," New Jersey replies. She kneels down to gather the larger shards, piling them into her apron—luckily, it hadn't completely shattered. "We might be able to."

"I've got glue," New York says dubiously. "But it won't look right. They'll be able to tell something's off about it. The glaze is chipped." He points to one of the shards in New Jersey's hand.

Behind them, Twiggy, New York's big wolfhound, whines, waiting to be let out. At the sound, the two colonies share a look and a nod.

"The dog did it."

046. King

"I'll take no tea," she says, lifting her chin. She meets England's eyes squarely.

And I'll follow no kings remains unsaid.

080. Healing

"I'm going to do it now," Pennsylvania says to her, "try to relax."

"That's easy for you to say," New Jersey replies, grumbling, "when you're the one with the needle."

Still, Pennsylvania's hands are gentle as he stitches her skin back together, and he doesn't say a word about the tears rolling down her cheeks.

095. New Year

December 31, 1776

They spend the New Year freezing in Trenton, miserable and wet and bloody. They huddle close together—herself, Pennsylvania, and Delaware—hoping to share body heat.

It's worth it, New Jersey tells herself; freedom is worth it.

Winter 1777, New Jersey

New Jersey huddles as close to Delaware and Pennsylvania as she can, but it does no good—the larger bodies of her companions cannot compensate for faults of her threadbare cloak and the thin bandages wound around her bloody feet in place of boots. The wind is fierce and bitterly cold, and the three states don't stand a chance.

She finds herself drifting, her mind foggy, and eventually lets her head loll back against Delaware's shoulder. She stares out into the night and tries not to let her despair overwhelm her. She cannot give in now.

In the quiet, she feels Delaware twine his fingers in hers, and Pennsylvania is a solid, comforting weight against her side.

When morning comes, the General gives the order to march.

"We must reach the town soon," he tells them. "We can rest in Morristown."

"It's still a ways off," New Jersey whispers to Pennsylvania. "I don't think the weather will hold that long."

This is her land, and she can feel the change in her bones—a storm is coming, and it hangs heavily over their heads. New Jersey shifts uneasily, her feet numb from the cold.

"We have to hope that it will," Delaware says as he comes up beside them. "We have no other choice."

Delaware is right, and New Jersey knows it—they'll die if they stay here. But she can't help thinking that they're risking just as much if they go.

[Later]

The wind blows harshly, cutting through the threadbare cloak New Jersey clutches around herself. She shivers hard, teeth clacking, and hunches forward in an effort to block the wind, which sends snow flying into her face.

It doesn't work.

Beside her, Pennsylvania stumbles, steadied only by Delaware's hands. He lets Pennsylvania lean against him, though he's hardly strong enough to keep himself upright. It's moments like this, with the wind biting them and their bare feet slipping on the ground, that New Jersey wonders if it's worth it.

When they'd decided to take their independence, none of them had realized just what "independence" would entail, not really. New Jersey would never have guessed that she'd be walking to Morristown in a tattered uniform not even fit for a beggar.

She blinks back tears and tries to fight the hopelessness. The only thing she can do, she thinks, is to keep walking.

Their footprints are bright red against the snow.

The soil is cool and damp under New Jersey's hands, and she revels in it as she pauses in her digging; today, she's finally planting her tomatoes, the pride of her vegetable garden. She can't help the feeling of giddiness that overwhelms her as she breathes in the scent of earth and fresh spring air.

New Jersey lifts her head and gazes out across her yard, smiling to herself as a breeze cools the sweat on her forehead. She shifts, leaning back onto her heels, and then turns her face to the sun.

For all that she's grown well-used to the fast-paced life of the modern city and her densely populated suburbs, New Jersey has come by the nickname "the Garden State" honestly.

With a grin, she turns back to her tomatoes.

"What, exactly, is in Taylor Ham?" Texas asks, watching New Jersey dubiously as she fries the meat.

New Jersey shrugs. "Pork product," she says nonchalantly, "and assorted spices."

"Pork product? What kind of product?"

She shrugs again. "It's a mystery." She sounds almost pleased with herself, as if that's something to be proud of. Texas supposes it is; Taylor Ham—also called pork roll—is a Jersey Thing through and through, and lord knows the woman is proud of her state.

He bites back a sigh as she shifts the meat onto a roll with egg and cheese. Then she sets the plate down before him and sends him a smile.

Texas can't say no to her and New Jersey knows it. So he takes the sandwich and bites into it generously and discovers that—

Well, 'pork product' isn't so bad after all.


A note on New Jersey's relationship with Scotland:

After England won New Netherlands in the 1670s, the colony was split into New York and New Jersey (and technically Delaware, which had been part of New Sweden). Then, New Jersey was split further, into East and West Jersey. East Jersey was settled by both Quakers and Scots, and it was the Scottish who had most influence in the area. The two halves remained split—apart from a few years in the 1680s as part of the Dominion of New England—until 1702 when it was reunited as the Province of New Jersey. Since Susannah represents both sections, I've continued to use "New Jersey" for convenience.