Chapter Text
There was that smell of rain and dirt, and alcohol.
A wardrobe, with winter coats stuffed to one side.
The spot behind the couch he could slide into, just in case.
And underneath his bed, boxes stuffed at the bottom with old clothes to muffle the clanks of glass.
When the TV was only static and white noise, he opened the wardrobe and climbed out, small hands on the kitchen tiles as he crawled to the fridge so he wouldn't be spotted.
He'd search for the bottles and grab two. Holding them in one arm as he crawled to the bathroom, and dumped the liquid into the toilet.
Then he takes those empty bottles and hides them in the boxes under his bed.
If he took more than two his father could tell some were missing, and you could never mess with his bottles. John learned that the hard way, a lesson in the form of a scar on his head.
But if he could wane his dad off of them, the egg would be safe.
And maybe John would be safe too.
He had just finished sliding the boxes back in place when the lights of his room flickered on.
They flickered on and John felt a chill all over his body. He felt worse than when he caught a cold and his father had no medicine in the cabinets, just empty pill bottles.
Heart beating at a racing speed, he whips his head around, but he can't meet the gray eyes he's terrified of, it's the hands that always scare him worse.
He watches the hands like a hawk, eyes darting between the two because he knows what's coming, he knows what those hands will do.
So before those hands can hurt him he scrambles out of the room and down the hall.
A rough hand catches his wrist and that gruff voice is saying something, but John doesn't hear. There's a ringing in his ears. And his eyes blur, made from the agonizing fear running through his entire body, or because the rough hand on his wrist makes all the bruises itch and ache.
He screams bloody murder, something that's pure terror– as he’s pulling at his wrist twisting his arm to try and get away.
“No- no no!-” he screams, like it'll stop the hand holding his wrist, like it ever stopped when he screamed “no” and cried.
And then the second hand grabs his hand, the one trying to loosen the grip. And he doesn't know anything but trying to relearn breathing. Was it always this hard? Was it always this unsteady? Were his lungs always this small, no amount of air could ease them?
“John!” He finally catches.
And he thinks maybe his father finally gets it and lets him go, and he doesn't think twice about why, he just bolts. Running to the room with the wardrobe and climbing back in. The dark, and tight squeeze doesn't help the breathing, in fact it's even harder.
But he's safe, he can't get hurt in here, because when he'd climb in his father would stop the hurt and the screams and the safety of the wardrobe muffled the world.
Quiet. He just hears quiet.
It's quiet until there's footsteps and a squeak of the hardwood floor. Then a knock on the wardrobe door.
“John..” His father starts, but nothing else comes after. No apology or reassurance that it's okay.
He thinks maybe hours go by, and his father hasn't moved. At least John hasn't heard any movement. Until the clock strikes midnight and John feels his stomach start to turn, then there's steps and he knows his father is gone.
Because the air is less heavy and he lets out a breath he's been holding.
When some time passes he opens one wardrobe door, just a crack to see the light from the hallway, and as soon as he spots a figure walking back he closes the wardrobe again and presses closer to the back.
There's a knock again and he doesn't answer, but one door opens and he thinks– this is it, nowhere is safe.
He braces for the hurt, but nothing happens. The hand that doesn't nurture just slides a plate in, a clumsy put together sandwich on top.
And his stomach growls and turns.
His father sits in front of the wardrobe again, waiting. He waits until the small blue hand reaches for the sandwich.
And as John takes a bite he thinks– there is no other choice, it's survival.
He eats as quietly as he can, and leaves no crumbs or crust.
Still even when the plate is empty he doesn't move to leave the small space.
“I think..” his father starts again, and he continues after a small pause.
“I think you should stay with your grandma for a while.”
John finally peaks his head from behind the wardrobes open door. To stare at his father with wide eyes. He doesn't look at his dad's face, just his hands.
And his father seems to be looking at his own hands too because they're open, palms up on his lap.
“Just until the egg detaches.” He adds, folding his hands together, looking up as he watches his son watching his hands.
Tentatively he reaches one to John, a silent ask to be followed out of the room.
Maybe it's the fear that overtakes John again, the fear of the consequences if he refuses. So with one hand clutched close to his chest he takes his fathers. The rough hand helped him out of the wardrobe and out of the room.
He doesn't think his father has ever held his hand this lightly, John would say soft but it is too much for what his father is.
But the man walks him to his room, and leads him to his bed. His father gestures for him to climb up and get under the covers, dropping his hand. So John does it with no complaint.
Once he's tucked himself under the covers his father walks to the door, one hand in his pocket, the other by the light switch. He flicks it off, saying goodnight and he leaves the door only slightly open, so the light from the hall pools in.
The next morning, when they walk to grandma's pod it's silent, his stomach turning with hunger as they knock and grandma lets them in.
She hugs John tight and runs a hand through his hair, she takes him to the kitchen and makes him an omelet and toast and he immediately starts scarfing it down like he's been starved for days.
He hears hushed voices from the living room, but he doesn't care anymore. He doesn't care about what his father will make up or that he will be staying with grandma like he had the day before his fifth birthday.
He just eats and eats. Until the turning of his stomach finally stops and he leaves the kitchen to hide away in his grandmother's closet as the hushed voices continue.
Keeping his ears sharp, listening to the pod door open and close.
John knows it's for the best, it's maybe the one show of kindness or mercy from his dad.
Then grandma is calling for him, and when she opens her closet door and sees his small figure pressed into the corner she doesn't ask, doesn't pry or make him crawl out. She just kneels in front of him with open arms for John to lean into, and when he does he cries like an infant.
And when the egg did detach his father came and left it at grandma's pod, not sparing a glance at John, and then Spruce hatched.
John Dory never went back to his fathers pod again.
But he never grew out of hiding away, whether it was the wardrobe, or grandma's closet, or the Neverglades.
Even now he's still hiding away in his room in the bunker, in the closet Branch had designed just for him.
His back pressed against the back wall, with the door only cracked open so that some light pools in and it's not completely dark. He can hear those hushed voices, but not the real sound of steps walking into his room.
He doesn't see Clay until he's quite literally in front of him, face to face holding a plate in his hand. A neatly made sandwich on top.
“You wanna come out of there dude?” Clay says, giving him a weirded out look, a look that says– you're way too old for this.
John reaches out, running a hand through Clay's unruly hair, to make sure he's alive and breathing.
“Hello- John?”
“Okay.” He says, getting up with a groan from his tired bones.