Chapter Text
The library of Pop Village stood like a cathedral of wood and paper, all tall shelves reachin' up toward the vaulted ceiling and dusty golden light filterin' through the stained-glass windows in soft, colorful beams. The air smelled of old parchment, ink, and a faint trace of pine resin from the beams overhead. Usually that scent brought a body some peace, like wrappin' yourself in a warm blanket after a long day on the road. But to John Dory it felt like walkin' straight into a room full of predators waitin' to strike.
He sat himself down at a heavy oak table near the back, fingers already tight with tension he couldn't rightly suppress. After everythin' on the Neverglade Trail, savin' Floyd, gettin' the band back together, finally bein' named Scout of Pop Village, he just wanted to know who he was in his own words. No script. No brother standin' over his shoulder tellin' him what to say or how to say it. Just him and a thick volume called Names of the Ancients. The cover was beautiful, embossed gold with soft worn corners that spoke of generations of trolls who had read these pages and understood every single word. He ran his thumb over the gold lettering, feelin' the raised edges like they might somehow make the letters inside behave.
The letters were already failin' him.
They twisted and crawled across the page like inky insects, breakin' apart into meaningless chaos the moment he tried to focus. John blinked hard, squeezin' his eyes shut before openin' them again, hopin' that this time it would be different. But it wasn't. The "F" in "Family" drifted sideways while the "y" stretched downward like a reachin' hand tryin' to pull him under. Inky insects, he thought, the old childhood phrase bubblin' up uninvited from somewhere deep and ugly. Small dark skitterin' things that existed only to remind him what he lacked. What he had always lacked.
Stay still, he told himself, jaw achin' from clenchin' so tight. Just stay still for one second. Don't let it win. You're the Scout now. You brought your brothers home and faced Velvet and Veneer and lived. You should be able to read one damn book without fallin' apart.
His head started to throb, a dull hammer-strike of pain behind his eyes that grew sharper with every failed attempt. In his mind the voice of his biological father hissed like cold wind through the Neverglade Trail. "Don't try. Do." To Pine, John's struggle was a disappointment, his "rocks for brains" a crack in the perfect line of BroZone leaders. John could still feel the weight of that cold, assessin' gaze watchin' him fail at a simple schoolbook at seventeen, hear the disappointment in every heavy sigh. He had been the oldest. He was supposed to be perfect. He was supposed to lead.
And here he was, thirty years later, still failin'.
He was the leader of BroZone once. He was the Scout of Pop Village now. And he still couldn't read a single word without help.
"John."
The voice came gentle as summer rain, but in that heavy silence it hit like thunder. John flinched hard, his whole body jerking like he'd been struck by a live wire. The book nearly tumbled from his tremblin' hands. He caught it at the last second and pressed it flat against the table, hidin' the pages with his forearms as if that could hide the shame burnin' in his chest.
King Peppy stood at the end of the row, eyes full of that soft, unbearable warmth that always made John feel seen in the worst possible way. "I can see how tense you are, son," he said, takin' one careful step forward, voice low and measured like he was talkin' to a spooked critter. "Ain't nothin' wrong with strugglin' sometimes. Let me help you with this one."
Help. The word landed like a slap across the face.
John's fingers curled tight against the leather cover, nails diggin' in hard enough to leave marks. His ears pinned back on instinct, a feral response twenty years of wilderness hadn't shaken loose. The library suddenly felt too quiet, too close. Peppy was too close. The shelves seemed to lean in, pressin' down on him. And the letters were still squirming at the edges of his vision, mockin' him even now.
I didn't ask for this, he thought bitterly. I didn't ask for any of it. I just wanted one moment where I didn't need savin'.
"I didn't ask you to hover over me, Peppy," John snapped, voice jagged and higher than he wanted it to be. "And I don't need your pity. Go babysit someone else."
"I ain't pityin' you," Peppy said softly, ignorin' the bite in John's tone as he took another slow step closer. His hand reached out, the same hand that had once given John his scout's glove to hide his shame. "I just want to make this easier for you."
Easier. As if thirty years of believin' he was stupid, broken, and fundamentally wrong could be smoothed away with one kind word and a patient smile. As if the weight of every failure didn't sit on his shoulders like Rhonda's whole engine block.
The room started to shrink. Shelves pressed inward. Air grew thick in his lungs, heavy and hot. Somethin' cold and sharp rose in his chest, clawin' its way up his throat. John lurched to his feet. The chair toppled behind him with a loud crack that echoed between the tall shelves like a gunshot.
"LEAVE ME ALONE!" he shouted, the words tearin' out of him raw and desperate.
The library doors burst open. Poppy and Viva stood there, expressions shiftin' from surprise to wide-eyed alarm as they took in the scene: John standin' rigid and tremblin', the book clutched to his chest like a shield, Peppy frozen mid-step with hand still extended, and the overturned chair rockin' gently on the stone floor.
"Dad? John?" Poppy's voice came small and hesitant, her usual glittery brightness nowhere to be found. "What's goin' on?"
"John's just frustrated with the book," Peppy said with a weary sigh, gaze never leavin' John's face, still tryin', still reachin' even now. "He has trouble with readin' sometimes, and I was only tryin' to suggest we go through it together."
Together.
The word detonated inside John's chest like a bomb. A dry, bitter sound escaped his throat, more sob than laugh. The secret was out. The leader was broken. The toy was on full display for everyone to see.
"HELP?" he sneered, body shakin' with humiliation that felt like physical pain, sharp and burnin' behind his ribs. "That's all y'all ever do! Stick your noses where they don't belong! You all look at me like I'm some kind of defective project that needs fixin'!"
Viva stepped forward, eyes already fillin' with tears, her voice crackin'. "Why are you treatin' us like this? What did we ever do to you? We're your family, John! We care about you!"
John looked down at her and for a moment felt nothin' but cold, distant contempt, a shield against the pain Pine had taught him to carry. "Family?" he spat, the word tastin' like ash. "You ain't my family. You're nobody to me, and you'll stay nobody. Don't ever call me your brother again."
Viva gasped, her hand flyin' to her mouth. Poppy froze like she'd been physically struck, her eyes wide and glistening.
"Get out," John hissed, voice droppin' to a dangerous hum that resonated in his own teeth. "ALL OF Y'ALL. GET OUT!"
Somethin' was risin' inside him, raw and uncontrollable, somethin' colder and sharper than any Pop song he'd ever felt. The air around his body began to shimmer, not the familiar warm gold of a celebration, but white and clear as glass, bendin' the light like heat risin' off a desert road. He didn't choose to release it. He simply stopped fightin' to hold it in.
A violent burst of transparent white energy exploded outward from his body, too pure to be dark, too honest to be controlled. It caught Poppy and Viva before they could react, liftin' them off their feet and slammin' them hard into the opposite wall. Shelves rattled violently with the force of John's unspoken rage. Books tumbled to the floor in a chaotic rain.
He didn't look at them. His feet left the ground. Magic seized him and lifted him into the air. He let it. He was too tired to fight anymore. Hoverin' in the center of the room, surrounded by cracklin' white energy that lit up every dust mote in the golden beams, he stared down at everyone below with eyes that blazed with light that weren't his own. Inside his head the voice of Pine laughed coldly. See? Even your power is broken.
But Peppy didn't fall.
The old king held his ground against the roarin' force, boots planted firm on the stone floor, lookin' straight into John's blazin' eyes. Over the thunder of power he began to sing with steady, unbreakable resolve:
"This has to stop now!
Whatever it is that you're goin' through,
We'll fix it together, me and you,
Just like we've always done!"
John whipped around midair. The word "together" hit him like a red flag to a wounded animal. He clenched his fists, magic cracklin' around him, and his voice boomed back, drownin' everythin' else:
"No! This has to stop now!
This thing where you think that you've been my friend
And don't even hear how you condescend,
The way you've always done!"
"I DON'T NEED YOU!" John screamed. The music cut off abrupt. The magic vanished all at once, like a switch had been flipped. Gravity yanked him down hard. He crashed to the floor on his knees, the impact jarrin' through every bone in his body.
He stayed there, head bowed, shoulders heavin' with the effort of not shatterin' completely. Tears burned hot down his scarred cheeks and dripped onto the ancient stone tiles, leavin' dark spots that looked like accusations. He felt small. Broken. Worthless. He waited for Peppy to turn away, to leave him like Pine did, to leave him like everyone else always did once they saw what he really was.
But the footsteps didn't leave. They came closer.
Peppy caught him before he could collapse fully, steadyin' him with strong, calloused hands, and lowered himself down onto his own knees so they were eye to eye. He looked at John, really looked, at the tremblin' shoulders and the helpless hitchin' sobs he was still tryin' so desperately to choke back.
"You can say we're nothin'," Peppy said quiet, voice soothin' against raw nerves. "But I ain't goin' nowhere. I'll stay right here, and if you let me, I'll stay as your father."
He gently pressed his forehead to John's, holdin' him there in the silence of the library, the scent of old books and pine resin wrapin' around them both.
John closed his eyes. A soft broken sob slipped out, then another, and then he was cryin' in earnest, ugly and loud, all the years of loneliness and shame and "rocks for brains" finally findin' voice. Peppy wrapped his arms around him, pullin' him close. John clutched back desperately, fingers diggin' into the king's clothes, buryin' his face against his shoulder as the last of the storm poured out. Peppy held him tight and did not let go, one hand rubbin' slow circles on his back like he had all the time in the world.
The heavy library doors were thrown open with a bang. Branch skidded inside, survivalist instincts screamin', still feelin' the static of white energy cracklin' in the air. His eyes darted across the cathedral of wood and paper, immediately lockin' onto Poppy and Viva as they struggled to sit up against the far wall, lookin' dazed but unhurt.
"Poppy! Viva!" he barked, rushin' to their side and checkin' them for injuries with practiced efficiency. "What happened? I felt a surge from three pods away. You two okay?"
Across the room the world finally stopped tiltin'. The inky insects had settled back into the shadows. The roarin' power in John's veins had cooled into heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. He was still on his knees, but he weren't alone. Peppy's strong hands stayed right there, anchorin' him to the earth.
Peppy slowly pulled back just far enough to look John in the eye. With a gentle calloused thumb he wiped away a stray tear from John's reddened cheek.
"It's okay, son," he whispered, voice warm and soothin'. "I've got you. You're safe."
John let out one last shudderin' breath and leaned forward, restin' his forehead against Peppy's shoulder for one more second. The feral tension finally drained from his muscles, leavin' him limp and hollow but somehow lighter.
Branch helped Poppy to her feet, then turned toward the center of the room. His gaze sharpened when he saw JD's red eyes and Peppy's protective stance. He folded his arms, docked tail twitchin' with barely contained worry. "Seriously?" he asked, voice drippin' with trademark dry sarcasm, but there was a jagged edge underneath it. "Again? I swear, every time I turn around someone's tryin' to break my brother."
John wiped his face with his scout's glove and tried for a smile. It came out more like a pained grimace. "I'm fine, Bitty B. Just a little academic frustration."
"Completely under control," Peppy added calmly, offerin' John a hand to help him up. "Just a small misunderstanding about the archives. Nothin' we can't handle together."
Branch didn't look convinced. He stepped slightly in front of John, protective without even thinkin' about it, his baby blue eyes narrowin' at Peppy. "Look, Peppy," he said, tone still mockin' but with steel underneath, "if I find out you've been condescendin' to him again, or if any of y'all made him feel like a broken toy that needs fixin', I wouldn't envy your position. I spent twenty years buildin' a bunker that can withstand a Bergen siege. I got enough traps to make sure no one leaves this pod without singin' for their life. And I ain't afraid to use 'em if it means protectin' my brother."
He spoke with a smirk, but the steel in his eyes said he weren't entirely jokin'. Poppy and Viva exchanged a knowin' sympathetic look, both still a little shaky but clearly relieved to see John calm.
Peppy didn't take offense. He placed a hand on Branch's shoulder, soft and approvin'. "I hear you loud and clear, Branch. I'll sooner face a whole pack of Growlbeasts alone before I let another word hurt this son of mine."
Branch huffed, the tension in his shoulders easin' just a fraction. "Fine. But I'm watchin' you. All of y'all." He glanced at John, voice gentler now. "Come on, JD. You look like you need a coffee before you decide to launch another white wave at the historical records."
John let out a weak but genuine chuckle and followed Branch toward the door. For the first time he didn't feel like he had to be the leader who knew all the words. He was just JD. And with a brother on one side and a father figure on the other, them letters on the page didn't seem quite so terrifyin' anymore.
The late afternoon sun was sinkin' low over Pop Village, paintin' the sky in shades of amber and rose as John walked beside Branch, the dirt path soft beneath their feet. They walked in comfortable silence for a spell, the kind that only comes between folk who've seen each other at their worst and stayed anyway.
"You know," Branch said finally, voice uncharacteristically gentle, "I used to think bein' broken meant you couldn't be fixed, that you just had to hide it away where nobody could see."
John glanced at his brother, surprised by the vulnerability in them words.
"But I was wrong," Branch continued, starin' straight ahead at the path windin' through the glitterin' pods. "Bein' broken just means you got cracks where the light can get in, and sometimes them cracks let other folks see you, really see you, and they decide to stay anyway."
John felt his throat tighten, a fresh wave of emotion threatenin' to overwhelm him. He reached out and gripped Branch's shoulder with a hand that still trembled slightly. "Thank you, Bitty B," he said, voice rough with feelin'. "For seein' me. For stayin'."
Branch snorted, that familiar mask of cynicism slippin' back into place, but not before John caught the warmth in his eyes. "Don't go gettin' all mushy on me, JD. I just don't want you blowin' up the village archives. Where else am I gonna research ancient trap mechanisms?"
John laughed, a real laugh this time, and it felt like sheddin' a coat that had grown too heavy. Behind them the library stood silent and watchful, but it didn't feel like a place of predators no more. It felt like a place where a man might learn to read in his own time, with folks who cared enough to wait.