Chapter Text
Seven years had slipped by like water over river stones; slow at first, then rushing all at once.
The manor felt both larger and smaller in the interim. Danny's absence was the loudest change: no eager paws skittering across the foyer tiles, no wet nose bumping your hand in greeting, no joyful bark echoing from the courtyard.
The story Jonathan had told you in a letter once was still so odd to you: some panicked burglar tied the poor dog's jaws shut with wire and stuffed him into a crate, and consigning him to the incinerator just before the groundskeeper came round to light it.
It had left a scar on the household deeper than any wound. Jonathan never spoke of it directly anymore, but you heard the catch in his voice when someone mentioned dogs, the way his footsteps avoided the spot near Danny's doghouse. Dio, by contrast, had once remarked coolly: " Animals are fragile things, they break so easily when startled."
You had not forgotten the tone.
Other changes were quieter, kinder. You had finished your training at the London School of Medicine for Women, earned your nursing license, and when George's lingering 'cold' refused to lift, your father had arranged for you to move into the Joestar manor full-time. Not as a guest, but as a professional caregiver under the supervision of the family physician. The arrangement suited everyone: George received round-the-clock care from someone he trusted like a daughter, Jonathan had you close, and you had purpose beyond the quiet routines of your father's estate.
Today the air in George's bedroom smelled of medicine and soap. You stood near the head of the bed, fingers resting lightly on the wooden post, listening as the two consulting doctors murmured with George and the family physician.
"... the cough persists far longer than a simple catarrh should," One doctor said, voice low and careful. " Sir Joestar, we must consider moving you to hospital. They have better facilities for monitoring the lungs, perhaps even an oxygen apparatus if needed."
George's laugh was weak but stubborn. " Hospital? And leave this fine house empty of my nurse? No, gentlemen. Y/n has me in excellent hands. Besides, I'm improving. The pain in my chest has eased these last few days, and the swelling in my hands has gone down considerably. I'll not be carted off like an invalid just yet."
You felt the doctors exchange glances, though you could not see them, the shift in posture was audible in the rustle of starched coats.
" Very well," The senior man conceded at last. " But we shall return in three days. Any worsening; fever, shortness of breath, blood in the sputum, and you must send for us at once."
" Of course," George replied. " Thank you, gentlemen."
The doctors filed out, leaving only the soft clink of instruments being packed and the murmur of goodbyes. You stayed, adjusting the pillows behind George's shoulders with gentle hands.
" You're too good to me, my dear," He said, patting your wrist. " Jonathan is lucky indeed."
Before you could answer, the door opened again, and a familiar tread crossed the room.
" Fleetwood!" George greeted warmly. " Come to see the patient, or just to gloat over your daughter's excellent care?"
" A bit of both," Your Father answered, voice fond. He leaned down to kiss your cheek in passing. " And to bring news. I caught the tail end of the rugby match this afternoon, Jonathan and Dio's team took the victory. Quite handily, too. Your boys are a force, George."
George chuckled, though it turned into a brief cough. " Good lads. Both of them."
Your Father's hand found your shoulder. " You look tired, darling. Why don't you go rest? I'll sit with George a while."
You hesitated only a moment. " Alright. I'll be back in an hour to check your Afternoon dose, Sir George."
" Take longer if you need," George said gently. " I'm not going anywhere."
You slipped from the room, your cane tapping a soft rhythm down the corridor. The manor was quiet at noon; servants moving with muffled steps, sunlight slanting through high windows in warm, hazy bars you could feel more than see.
Your bedroom was not the far from Georges, a small but sunlit space overlooking the gardens. The moment the door closed behind you, the tension in your shoulders eased. You set the cane against the wall, kicked off your shoes, and crossed to the bed.
Erina waited on the pillow where you always left her, porcelain face still smooth under your fingertips, silk dress a little faded now but still soft. You lifted her carefully, settled beneath the counterpane, and tucked her against your chest. The mattress dipped beneath you, familiar and kind.
You closed your eyes, not that it changed the view much, and let your mind drift.
Seven years...
Jonathan at twenty was taller, broader across the shoulders, voice deeper, but still the same boy who had once guided your hands to Danny's fur and held you in the river. The kisses had grown from shy pecks to something slower, more deliberate, stolen in garden shadows or quiet hallways when no one watched. He still described the world to you in careful detail: the exact shade of sunset gold on the river, the way the rugby pitch looked after rain, the new freckles across his nose from summer practices. You would trace his face with careful fingers when you were alone, memorizing the changes time had made.
Dio... was more difficult to catalogue. Polite in company, always. Charming when he chose to be, Yet the whispers from that first night had never quite left your ears. Over the years they had grown subtler, never overt cruelty, just the occasional barbed remark disguised as concern, the lingering gaze you could feel even when you couldn't see it. He called you 'little bird' sometimes when Jonathan wasn't near, the nickname laced with something cold and amused. You never rose to it, never gave him the satisfaction.
George's illness worried you most these days. The cough that refused to fade, the pallor beneath his beard, the way his breathing sometimes caught at night. You told yourself it was only a lingering chest cold, autumn had been damp, after all, but the doctors' voices today had carried an undercurrent of unease you could not ignore.
Your fingers smoothed Erinas hair absently. The doll smelled faintly of lavender sachets, a comforting scent.
The lounge was bathed in the bright glow of the late-afternoon sun reflecting off the snow outside, filtering through heavy drapes. The room smelled of old leather, wood polish, and the faint smokiness of the low fire crackling in the grate.
Jonathan and Dio sat at the low mahogany table near the window, Jonathan sprawled comfortably in an armchair with a book while Dio lounged opposite in a high-backed chair, legs crossed, posture impeccable as always.
The years had smoothed some of the sharper edges between them, or at least polished them to a gleam. They spoke more easily now; university lectures, the latest news, about the manor's endless upkeep. The old barbs still surfaced from time to time subtly, but they passed like summer storms: brief, then forgotten. To an outsider, they might have looked like brothers who had finally learned to coexist.
Dio's gaze, however, kept drifting upward.
The strange stone mask hung on the far wall, mounted between two landscape paintings like an afterthought. Its carved features were stark and alien; wide empty eyes, a mouth with fangs poking out the lip. Aztec, from what George had told him.
George had bought it from a gallery in London not long after Jonathan's birth, a curiosity from Mexican ruins unearthed by some intrepid explorer. " A conversation piece," George had called it. " Nothing more."
Dio knew better.
Seven years earlier, during one of their more vicious boyhood fights, the mask had reacted. A single drop of Dio's blood had struck the stone, and it popped off the wall in a tremble. The moment passed as quickly as it came; neither boy had spoken of it since, but Dio had never forgotten. He studied the mask now with the same quiet hunger he once reserved for secrets that could be turned to advantage.
The door opened with a soft click.
You stepped in, carrying a silver tea tray balanced carefully in both hands. The faint chime of porcelain announced you before your footsteps did. You wore a simple navy dress (practical for nursing duties, the skirt hemmed short enough to avoid tripping) and your hair was pinned neatly back, though a few strands had escaped during the day.
" Tea," You said, voice light. " I thought you two might need something warm after all that running about in the cold."
Jonathan straightened immediately, smile breaking wide. " You're a saint, Y/n. Come sit, tell me you're not still on duty."
" Not quite yet," You answered, setting the tray on the table with practiced care. " Your father's napping. The doctor left an hour ago with more optimistic notes than last week. I thought I'd steal a few minutes." You began pouring Jonathan's cup first, steam curling in the air.
Jonathan leaned forward eagerly as you worked. " You should have seen the match, Y/n."
You laughed softly, tilting the teapot with steady hands. " I can picture it. Mud everywhere, I assume?"
" Everywhere," He confirmed, grinning. " Dio was brilliant, too. He scored the final goal."
Dio inclined his head modestly. " Merely doing my part."
You finished Jonathan's cup and turned to Dio's. You positioned the spout carefully above the porcelain rim, fingers light on the handle.In the split second your attention was divided, half-turned toward Jonathan as he launched into another detail about a scrum, Dio moved.
A subtle shift of his wrist, and the cup slid an inch to the left.
Hot tea splashed across the table in a dark arc, soaking into the tablecloth and dripping onto Your skirt. You gasped, startled, pulling back instinctively. The teapot clattered as you set it down too quickly.
" Oh, no.." You murmured, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. " I'm so sorry, I must have misjudged--"
Dio was already on his feet, taking a napkin from the tray.
" Not at all, Dear Sister," He said smoothly, voice laced with concern. " My fault entirely; I moved without thinking. Here, let me."
He dabbed at the spill on the table first, then knelt gracefully to blot the damp patch on your skirt. The motions were efficient, solicitous. To anyone watching, he was the picture of chivalry.
Your hands hovered uncertainly. " It's all right, really. It's just tea."
" Still," Dio murmured, " Such clumsiness on my part... Unforgivable."
Jonathan frowned, half-rising. " Are you burned, Y/n?"
" No," You said quickly, forcing a small smile. " Just... startled. And wet. I'll fetch a fresh cloth from the kitchen." You stepped back, smoothing your skirt with one hand.
The flush lingered on your cheeks, not from pain, but from the sudden, childish humiliation of having spilled in front of them both. You hated feeling inept, even for a moment.
Dio straightened, his eyes flicked briefly to the stone mask on the wall, then back to you.
" Take your time," He said gently. " We'll manage."
As You turned to leave, Dio settled back into his chair. The concern melted from his expression like mist in sunlight. He lifted his untouched (barely full) cup, turning it idly in his fingers.
Jonathan watched You go, worry creasing his brow.
" She's been on her feet all day," He muttered. " I should have poured it myself."
Dio's lips curved just a fraction. " Such a pity," He agreed softly. " She tries so very hard."
The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the house, thick with the scent of bread. You stood at the sink, sleeves rolled to your elbows, wringing out a damp cloth. The tea stain on your skirt had darkened, and you dabbed at it methodically, working from the outside in, the way your governess had taught you years ago; small circles, steady pressure, no frantic scrubbing that would only spread the mark.
A soft footfall behind you, barely audible over the hiss of the kettle still simmering on the hob, and then a sudden clatter as someone set a copper pot down harder than intended.
You jumped, cloth slipping from you fingers into the basin with a wet slap.
" Oh, sorry, miss!" The young maid hurried forward, voice pitched high with apology. " I didn't mean to creep up on you. Lord Joestar is awake and asking for his dose, Said his throat's scratchy again."
You exhaled, pressing a hand to your chest where your heart had jumped. " It's all right. I'll take care of it now."
You dried your hands on a towel, then moved to the narrow cupboard where the medicines were kept under lock, though the key always hung on a hook nearby for the household staff. Your fingers found the small glass jar by touch: blue and ridged for grip, the fine white powder shifted with a faint whisper as you shook it.
You measured a careful amount onto a clean linen napkin, exactly the amount Dr. Harris had prescribed, then folded it into a neat packet. Next came the water: a glass filled halfway from the pitcher, cool and clear. You set both on the tray, arranging them with practiced care.
George would be hungry soon, too; the afternoon dose always came before dinner, and his appetite had been erratic lately. You crossed to the bread bin, lifted the cloth cover, and felt for the fresh loaf. Knife in hand, you cut three thick slices, even and straight, feeling with your fingers, the blade whispering through the crumb. A pat of butter went into a small porcelain dish beside them.
As you arranged the bread on a side plate, a flicker of movement caught at the edge of your vision, a vague smear of darker color shifting near the tray. You paused, head tilted.
Nothing. No footsteps, no rustle of skirts or trousers. Just the low tick of the kitchen clock and the distant murmur of the house settling.
A maid checking the range, perhaps. Or one of the footmen passing through on an errand. You dismissed it and brought the bread and butter over, arranging the tray once more and lifted it carefully, balancing the weight against her hip.
The stairs were familiar; you took them slowly, tips of your shoes tapping each riser in rhythm, the tray steady in her other arm. George's room was at the end of the corridor, third door on the left, always left ajar when he was awake.
You pushed the door wider with your shoulder and stepped inside.
" Sir George? Your afternoon dose, and a little something to tide you over."
From the bed came his familiar voice, tired but warm.
" Ah, Y/n. Bless you, child. Come in, come in."
You crossed to the bedside table, set the tray down with a soft clink, and began to unfold the napkin packet.
Unseen, standing just next to the staircase you had just came up on, Dio Brando slipped away.
His footsteps made no sound on the carpeted floor. The original medicine now rested in the inner pocket of his waistcoat. It was a near-perfect swap; same weight, same texture, same innocent appearance.
He allowed himself one small, satisfied exhale as he returned to the lounge. Jonathan was still there, staring into the fire, lost in thought. Dio resumed his seat opposite, expression serene.
" Is everything alright?" Jonathan asked, glancing up.
" Perfectly," Dio replied, folding his hands. " Y/n was just tending to Father. She'll be back down soon, I imagine." He smiled politely, utterly convincing.
Above them, in George Joestar's bedroom, You waited as George took the substance Dio had swapped the medicine out for, glass of water in hand as George tapped the powder onto his tongue.
" Drink slowly," You said, guiding George's hand to the cool glass. " It'll ease the throat."
George took it with a grateful nod.
Just medicine.
Nothing more.