The Cry Of A Mockingbird •Dio Brando X Reader•

•Six•

“Easy,” Jonathan scolded. You glared at him as you swung your leg over the side of the horse. 

“I don’t need your help,” You spat. 

“Your arms are trembling,” He pointed out, extending his arms out. You continued to glare at him but took his hands as he guided you off the horse carefully. 

“I’ll be fine on my own,” You muttered. “I don’t need any more help from you.”

“Your wounds have gotten worse and reopened. You need a doctor, and I’m going to get you one,” He said, turning to smile at you. He then looked off to the side. “I just have to make up a lie so my father doesn’t blow a gasket when he sees you all bloody.”

“Hmph,” You said. Jonathan walked up the stairs, pausing to make sure you were following him, and then back to the doors as he opened them. He held the door open for you, and you glared at him as you passed. 

“Father! Come quickly, please!” Jonathan called. Soon, a man who looked almost identical to the boy standing beside you rushed in, followed by another man in a suit, who you assumed to be a butler. 

“Jonathan? What’s going on?” He asked. He then looked at you. 

You were standing in the doorway, hand hovering above the handle, ready to open it in an instant. Your cloak was shoved over your shoulders, exposing the blood and dirt smeared on the loose bandages lining your arms. You cradled your injured hand to your side, and your hood was pulled back some, exposing your face. You held a strained expression, and anxiety was evident on your face as you looked from him to Jonathan.

“Father,” Jonathan said, placing his arm in front of you in defense. You glanced at him. “I was attacked and mugged while I was in town. They helped me, but they got hurt while they did it. I want to treat their wounds.”

“You did all that for my son?” The man asked, turning towards you. You shifted your weight as you nodded. “My God, please, sit down. I’ll call the doctor and have him here immediately!”

…

Jonathan shot you a reassuring smile as he handed you a glass of water, along with the antibiotics the doctor had given you. You slowly took them from his hands as you watched him sit across from you. He looked at your bewildered expression and frowned. 

“What’s the matter?” He asked. You looked down at the glass in your hands, staring down at the clear liquid. 

“Why are you doing this?” You asked, making Jonathan’s frown deepen. 

“What do you mean?” He asked quietly. 

“Why are you helping me?” You asked in a louder tone. “I’m nothing compared to you. I’ve done nothing for you, and I’ve been nothing but a cunt towards you and everything you are! Why? What...compels you to do it?!”

“You’re my friend, Vex, I care about you-”

“No, no you don’t!” You exclaimed, setting the glass down before standing up. “You are not my friend, and I am not yours! I’m a thief, dammit! I don’t make friends with snobby, wealthy kids like you! You spend daddy’s money on worthless things like me! Stop it! You feel bad for me! You pity me! You’re a goddamn idiot! I don’t want your pity! I don’t want your help!”

“Vex-” Jonathan stood up to try and calm you. You slapped his hands away. 

“I don’t need you or your help, Jonathan Joestar! Take it and shove it up your arse for all I care! I never want to see your face in the slums again; I’ll gut you like the pig you are if I do!”

You turned and darted from the dining hall towards the front door. Jonathan, despite feeling sad from your harsh words, chased after you, yelling your alias. 

“Vex, stop it! I don’t pity you! I only want to help-!”

“I don’t need it!” You said as you swung yourself over your horse. 

“Vex, please-!”

“I hate you, Jonathan!” You yelled, making his eyes widen. “I hate you and everything you stand for! I never want to see you again, or I’ll kill you!”

He could only stand in shock as you jerked and snapped the reins, making your horse neigh in protest, and for you to ride away, not once looking back at him, nor the mansion. 

You didn’t mean anything that you said. Jonathan was good to you. He wasn’t a snobby rich boy. He was a kind gentleman, who only ever wanted to help. But you knew you would only drag him down, soil his good nature, and put him in deeper trouble if you stayed around him. You were a sewer rat, and he was a Persian cat. The two never mixed, and never will. If Jonathan stayed beside you, and you really did think of him as a friend, it would only get him killed. He’d be dead before you could even blink. People were desperate, stingy, and brutal. He was too kind for his own good. 

Guilt swirled in the pit of your stomach, something that was unfamiliar to you, and you felt as if you might throw up. You just ignored it, shoving it down deeper as you near the edge of town. You felt saddened, and almost alone after leaving. Jonathan had been so kind. He helped your wounds, asked how your day was, told a joke that wasn’t funny, but when he said it it was to make you laugh, and he didn’t care about who you were, what you did, or what you had planned to do. He knew Y/n, not Vex. Part of you wished you could have told him that, but another part told you to leave it as it was. There was no reason to make him feel any worse than he already had. 

The door to the tenement opened softly, and you slipped inside. Just from the noise, you could tell everyone was in the kitchen, just a few meters behind you. You heard the screaming of unhappy children cease, and the loud voices trying to talk over them to calm them, quiet into silence. Your hand lingered on the door and you flinched as your name was said. Turning around, your gaze immediately found interest in your scuffed boots and avoided the multiple sets of wide eyes staring at you.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Silverware clattered on a plate and the sound of a chair scraping against the floor was followed by heavy and rushed footsteps. Your hood was pulled down, and your cheeks were cupped as your head was forced up, your eyes landing on the man standing above you. 

Bright and worried blue eyes stared down at you, flicking across the bruises and knicks on your face. Dark and slightly gray-blonde hair filled your vision as he turned your head. The heavy scent of salt and cinnamon, with a hint of burned coal, flooded your nose, making your shoulders slowly relax at the familiar smell. Calloused hands cupped your face, and thick eyebrows were laced together in worry. His hands dropped to yours as he lifted your hands in a delicate hold. His fingers brushed against the cast on your hand. 

“I-it’s nothing,” You mumbled. “Really, James.”

“Y/n, you...you look like you’ve gotten the soul beat out and then back into ya,” He said. “This is not nothing!”

“I’ve already gotten treatment, don’t worry. A friend called a doctor for me. I’ve also gotten a load of pounds for you,” You said, reaching into your pocket and handing him the money Jonathan had given you for training him. 

The older man looked at you in bewilderment. “Have you lost your mind in the past week you’ve been gone? Sit down, I left some food for you. You can tell us everything once you’ve gotten something in your stomach.”

As you sat down, something slipped from your pocket. It was a slip of paper. Picking it up and unfolding it, you felt your eyes widen as you read it. 

“What’s that?” Harry asked, leaning over your shoulder. “I can’t read cursive.”

“Nothing,” You replied, folding the paper up and shaking your head. 

“It was only a reminder.”