Chapter Text
You slouched in your ergonomic office chair, staring at the ceiling of your office at Headquarters while contemplating the absolute shit show that was your career choice. Not that you regretted it – someone had to keep these idiots from completely losing their marbles – but holy fuck, did it test your patience on a daily basis.
The fundamental truth about making it in the jujutsu world when you had no cursed technique and no prestigious family name was that you had to be twice as smart and three times as stubborn as everyone else. It was a world built on power, pedigree, and the occasional divine intervention, none of which appeared on your resume.
And when your chosen specialty within this already treacherous ecosystem was therapist to the magically traumatized… Multiply that stubbornness requirement by ten, because these assholes would rather get eaten by a curse than admit they might benefit from talking about their feelings for an hour.
Which was fucking ridiculous, really. Show you a well-adjusted sorcerer, and you’d show them a pathological liar. Nobody completely sane signed up for this gig. You simply couldn’t stare down creatures composed entirely of gnashing teeth and weeping eyeballs five days a week without developing a few eccentricities.
A light dusting of madness was a job requirement, maybe even a survival mechanism. The real question wasn’t whether a sorcerer needed therapy, it was how many different kinds they needed. CBT for the intrusive thoughts, EMDR for the near-death experiences, maybe some art therapy to process the existential horror… the list went on.
But try telling that to these prideful bastards. One would think that after years of Gojo fucking Satoru – the strongest sorcerer alive and current Head of the High Council – making psych evaluations mandatory, people would have gotten used to the idea. Apparently not. Old habits, like ancient curses, died screaming and clawing.
While the local Tokyo crews and those from nearby prefectures had learned to just suck it up and comply (even if they still bitched about it incessantly – complaining was a sorcerer’s primary love language, right after gratuitous violence and angsty brooding), you still got the occasional out-of-towner who thought they could challenge the system.
You recognized the attitude instantly, had seen it a thousand times before: the defensively crossed arms, the posture radiating suspicion, the subtle way their eyes flicked toward the exits as if you were poised to leap across the desk with a straitjacket and a fistful of mood stabilizers.
Case in point: that crusty old fart from Nagano who’d rolled in last month, convinced his fifty-odd years of narrowly dodging death somehow made him an expert on everything. He’d attempted to argue that “in his day, sorcerers dealt with their problems the traditional way.” Yes, the grand tradition of drinking themselves into an early grave or dying spectacularly on missions that were way above their grade. Such a fantastic coping mechanism. You’d had to quite explicitly threaten to rip his beard clean off his chin before the old bastard finally sat his geriatric ass down for the evaluation.
And don’t even get you started on the young hotheads fresh out of training and drunk on the toxic combination of unchecked power and profound insecurity. They were somehow even worse than the old guard. They always put up a fight. The number of times you’d had to physically barricade your office door to prevent one of these hormone-fueled little shits from storming out mid-session… You suspected you were developing specific muscle groups just from holding the line against indignant teenagers.
You reached for your coffee mug, only to find it empty. Again. This was your third cup today, and the clock hadn’t even dared to strike noon yet. When your morning had started with a grade 1 sorcerer having a breakdown over their recent mission (while insisting through gritted teeth that they were “perfectly fine, thank you very much”), followed by an urgent consultation with an assistant manager regarding a new recruit showing signs of curse-induced anxiety, you figured you were entitled to all the caffeine you could get your hands on.
At least you’d managed to build enough of a reputation over the years that most sorcerers in the area knew better than to fuck with you. Amazing how quickly people’s attitudes changed when you demonstrated that being just an average sorcerer in terms of raw power didn’t mean you couldn’t fuck them up in a dozen different ways.
Now, they might not like it, might grumble and glare and drag their feet, but they’d plant their asses on your couch and do the work. Because if there was one thing you’d learned about surviving in the jujutsu world without innate advantages, it was this: you didn’t need a cursed technique when you possessed enough wit and spite to bulldoze through any resistance, metaphorical or otherwise.
And speaking of resistance... You glanced at your schedule for the afternoon. Oh joy. A first-time evaluation with some hotshot from Kyoto who’d told three different administrators that he’d “rather fight a special grade curse naked” than subject himself to a psych eval. You could already feel a headache forming behind your eyes.
Right on cue, as if summoned by your very thoughts of difficult patients, the door burst open without warning. In strode your afternoon appointment: 19-year-old Nakamura Satoshi.
He was all six-foot-something of imposing presence, built like a brick shithouse with shoulders that barely cleared your doorframe, looking as though he’d been genetically engineered to loom over people. His black hair was pulled back in a sleek topknot that screamed “I spend an hour on this to make it look effortlessly messy”, wearing what you’d come to think of as the standard traditional ensemble favored by the conservatives, and radiating the kind of entitled arrogance that seemed to be Kyoto Jujutsu High’s main export.
Satoshi swaggered across the room in three long strides and flopped onto your couch with all the grace of a falling tree. He immediately adopted a pose of aggressive relaxation, manspreading to take up as much psychological and physical space as possible. The poor furniture creaked audibly in protest, and you sent a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity oversaw office supplies that you’d invested in reinforced seating after The Incident involving that sumo-wrestler-turned-sorcerer that year.
“Let’s get this bullshit over with,” Satoshi announced to the room at large, already scanning his surroundings with a look of profound boredom. “Got curses to punch, y’know? Better things to do than sit here and talk about my feelings.”
He punctuated this statement with a sneer that clearly broadcasted his opinion: Feelings are for the weak, and you are wasting my valuable punching time. Classic Kyoto peacocking.
You resisted the potent urge to launch him out the third-story window – not because you doubted your ability to do so, but because he definitely wouldn’t fit through it without property damage. The resulting paperwork would be dreadful. So, you simply moved into your armchair across from him and began the familiar tea-pouring ritual as you introduced yourself.
“I hope you had a pleasant journey from Kyoto, Nakamura-san. Would you like sugar with your tea?” you asked pleasantly, as if he hadn’t just burst in like an asshole. “I also have honey if you prefer.”
Satoshi ignored your pleasantries completely. His gaze continued its dismissive sweep over your admittedly cluttered office. It wasn’t dirty, exactly, just… lived in. Books overflowed from shelves, case files threatened to stage a hostile takeover of your desk, and various trinkets of questionable origin occupied every available surface. His eyes snagged on the far wall, where several framed pictures hung.
They weren’t high art – mostly goofy animal photos Nobara and Yuji had gifted you when you first got the office, each emblazoned with aggressively cheerful slogans like “This Doctor Can and Will Throw Hands!” (featuring a muscular boxing kangaroo) or “Behave or Get Bonked” (illustrated by a surprisingly menacing kitten wielding a tiny hammer). They were ridiculous, unprofessional, and you loved them dearly.
A derisive snicker escaped Satoshi. Clearly, the boxing kangaroo failed to intimidate. Color you surprised.
You smiled, pretending not to notice his attitude as you set his teacup in front of him. “Shall we start with some basic questions about your current assignment?”
“Yeah, here’s a question,” he cut you off, leaning forward with what he probably thought was an intimidating sneer. “If you’re such a tough cookie, why’d I have to leave my cursed tool with that pencil-pusher downstairs?”
Ah, here we go. Phase two: The Provocation. It was almost comforting in its predictability. Big guys always tried this, like flexing their biceps was a valid substitute for an actual personality.
You took a sip of your tea, maintaining your pleasant smile. “Oh, I just hate cleaning blood out of the rug. It’s imported, you know.” You gestured at the plush carpet beneath your feet. “Such a pain to maintain.”
“Don’t worry, Doc. I’ll try not to splash your blood on your precious—”
His hand dove into his jacket, scrabbling for something near his chest. Confusion slowly replaced his smug expression as he came up empty. He patted his clothes with increasing desperation, like a man who’d lost his keys and refused to accept the humiliating reality.
You watched him fumble for another moment, allowing the panic to build just a little, then, casually, you flicked your wrist. A small tanto blade appeared, nestled comfortably between your index and middle fingers.
“Looking for this, perhaps?” you asked lightly.
Satoshi’s eyes widened. “How did you—?” His face cycled rapidly through confusion, disbelief, and finally settled on sputtering outrage. He launched himself forward, expecting to intimidate you with his considerable size advantage.
Amateur.
You kicked the coffee table with precise force, sending it slamming into his midsection. The tea set slid precariously close to the edge, wobbled, but stayed put. You’d had lots of practice getting that move just right. You really did like the rug.
Satoshi let out a very satisfying “oof” as he was forced back into the couch, the air knocked out of his lungs. He grunted, trying to push back against the table. Unfortunately for him, you had better leverage and, more importantly, this table wasn’t just any standard IKEA fare. One of your more thoughtful colleagues had enchanted it specifically for situations like this. To you, it was a normal coffee table. To any asshole on the other side? It might as well have weighed a metric ton.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” you advised calmly, applying just a bit more pressure with your leg for emphasis. He groaned, more wounded pride than actual pain.
The whole production was rather theatrical, but you’d found that a non-lethal dose of targeted humiliation was often the most effective icebreaker, especially when dealing with overgrown toddlers who operated under the delusion that might made right.
You were pretty sure Satoshi hadn’t actually intended to use the knife on you – just flash it, scare you a bit, establish dominance. Which, fair enough. You conceded that you looked rather harmless and easy to intimidate when you weren’t actively trying not to. Maintaining a constant aura of peak menace all day was just too exhausting. Still, intentions aside, ground rules were ground rules.
You sipped your tea and waited patiently as Satoshi continued to struggle against the immovable table, muscles bulging and veins popping in his neck. A few minutes later, his initial fury gave way to frustrated grunts, then sputtered out as his dignity began to take more of a beating than his diaphragm. Defeated and red-faced, he slumped back against the cushions with a muttered, “Fine.”
“Wonderful,” you beamed at him as you released the pressure, hooking the table back to its original position with your foot. “Then, let’s try this from the beginning, shall we, Nakamura-san?” You opened your notebook again, pen clicking invitingly.
Any normal psychologist would have a stroke, possibly multiple strokes, if they witnessed your standard operating procedures. And you’d definitely lose your license if the board ever found out about your... unique approach to building rapport. Then again, nothing about the jujutsu world was normal. Sometimes, the best therapy started with a good ass-kicking. That’s what you planned to argue if anyone ever audited your files. You’d call it “Aggressive Recontextualization Therapy.” It sounded official enough.
“Let’s talk about your recent mission,” you prompted, flipping to a fresh page in your notebook. “Grade 2 containment in Osaka, correct?”
“Yeah,” Satoshi grunted, still sullen yet noticeably less combative now that his knife had been confiscated and his ego slightly dented. “What’s there to talk about? It’s all in the fucking report.”
You hummed noncommittally, keeping your posture relaxed and your voice steady, projecting an air of calm professionalism you only occasionally felt. “Humor me. Standard containment protocols were initiated at…” you checked your notes, “...approximately 2100 hours?”
“2047,” he corrected automatically then scowled, angry at himself for engaging. “We got the call at 2030. Mobilized in seventeen minutes. Standard response time.”
You nodded. “That’s actually impressive for a night deployment. Most teams take twenty to twenty-five minutes to mobilize after hours.”
Satoshi blinked, thrown off balance by the unexpected praise. “Yeah, well, Ari-san – my partner – she’s really good with logistics. Was good. Is good.” He stumbled over the tense, and something in your chest ached.
“I read the preliminary report,” you said, steering away from his partner for now. “Started as a Grade 2 containment, ended with a Special Grade manifestation. That’s a major tactical shift. Walk me through the point where things went off-script from your perspective.”
He stared at his untouched tea as if the answers were swirling in the cooling liquid. “We had the Grade 2 contained,” he finally said. “Standard sealing technique, everything by the book. Then…” He clenched his fists. “It was like the curse just... evolved. Right there. Never seen anything like it.”
You nodded again, making a brief note. “That’s rare. What were your initial tactical observations when you realized the situation was escalating?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. “The curse’s output doubled, then tripled within seconds. I tried to reinforce the seal, buy time to complete the civilian evacuation, but…” He trailed off, then added defensively, “I know I’m new, but I’m not an idiot. The curse’s behavior pattern didn’t match the intel. I could tell it was way above our grade.”
“You made the call to request backup,” you noted. “That was good tactical awareness. Risk assessment is complicated, especially early in your career. You’re balancing multiple factors – civilian safety, team resources, potential escalation…” You pulled out a pack of gummy bears from your drawer and offered them across the coffee table, which had returned to its normal weight now that he wasn’t trying to prove anything. “How long have you been field certified?”
He accepted the gummies with a grimace that might have been trying to be a smile. “Eight months,” he admitted, picking out a red one. “Everyone says that’s why I missed the signs.”
“Eight months isn’t much time to develop pattern recognition for Special Grade deception tactics,” you pointed out. “Hell, most senior operators might miss those signs. There’s a reason Special Grades have such a high casualty rate, and it isn’t because every sorcerer who encounters one is incompetent.”
The gummy bear paused halfway to his mouth. “That’s... not what the review board said.”
“The review board wasn’t there,” you said, throwing Gakuganji under the bus without hesitation. “They’re looking at after-action reports with perfect hindsight. I’m more interested in your real-time tactical analysis. How long between your call and the situation deteriorating?”
“Three minutes, maybe four?” His posture loosened almost imperceptibly as he focused on the technical aspects. “The seal was holding, barely. Ari-san was trying to get the last civilian away, but the curse… It was like it knew. Like it was waiting for us to split our attention.”
You leaned forward slightly. “Did you notice any other indicators that might have suggested it was masking its true grade?”
Satoshi ran a hand through his hair, looking less like a peacock from earlier and more like an exhausted rookie. “Looking back? Yeah. The way it moved was too... coordinated. But who expects a fucking Special Grade from a routine containment? They don’t teach you that shit in training.”
“No, they don’t,” you agreed.
The brittle tension had started to fade from Satoshi. Here was someone actually listening to his professional assessment, treating him like a full-fledged sorcerer rather than just a rookie who’d screwed up. Utahime had been right to send the boy to you. He needed this.
“So,” you said casually, clicking your pen. “How’s your cursed energy output been since the incident?”
Keep it clinical, keep it about performance metrics. Nothing personal here, just routine checks.
“Fine,” he grunted, destroying another red gummy bear. “Everything’s fine.”
“Sleep much?”
“Enough.”
“Meaning?”
He shifted, scowling at the floor. “Three, maybe four hours. It’s normal after a mission.”
“Uh-huh. And the shakes? Those normal, too?”
His head snapped up. “I don’t—” Then he noticed his own trembling hand and shoved it into his pocket. “Fuck.”
“Look,” you leaned back. “Your energy flow’s going haywire. I can feel it from here – all choppy and unstable. Seen it a hundred times after rough missions. System gets overloaded, needs a hard reset.”
“I can handle it,” he insisted, but there was less bite in it now.
“Sure, you can. But why burn yourself out when protocol gives you a perfect excuse to catch your breath?” You flipped through his file. “Two weeks administrative leave. Standard procedure after this kind of shit show. Non-negotiable.”
“Two weeks? That’s—”
“That’s the minimum cool-down period to prevent you from going completely to hell.” You cut him off. “Not about you being weak or whatever bullshit you’re thinking. Pure biology. Even Gojo takes mandatory leave, and god knows that’s a pain in everyone’s ass.”
That got a tiny snort out of Satoshi. Progress.
“What happens when I can’t…” he started, then clenched his jaw.
“Brain gets stuck on replay?” you offered. “Keeps running different scenarios, wondering if you could’ve done something different?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s why we do tactical debriefs. Twice a week, we break down what happened. Analysis, strategy, the works. We get it all sorted out, filed away properly, so it doesn’t jump out and fuck with your performance when you’re back in the field.”
He eyed you suspiciously. “And that’s... mandatory too?”
“Part of the clearance process,” you confirmed. “Can’t have our field operators running at anything less than peak performance, right? Bad for morale. And insurance premiums.”
He chewed on that, literally and figuratively, as he finished off the gummies. The muscle in his jaw worked for a moment before he finally gave a stiff, reluctant nod. “Just two weeks? Then I’m cleared?”
“Two weeks of actual rest. And regular debriefs until I sign off.” You offered him back his knife. “Here. Try not to stab anyone with it this time.”
Satoshi actually looked embarrassed as he took it. “Yeah, uh... sorry about earlier. With the whole…” He waved vaguely at the coffee table, the picture of teenboy awkwardness. It was mumbled and constipated, but it was an apology. A definite win.
“Please, that wasn’t even in my top ten worst first sessions this month.” You tossed him a fresh bag of gummies.
His face lit up for a second before he caught himself. Just a kid, really, under all that bravado and bluster.
“Same time next week?” you asked, keeping your tone casual as you made the appointment note.
“Yeah, whatever,” Satoshi grumbled, already digging into the new bag as he stood up. “For the tactical stuff.”
“Of course. The tactical stuff.”
Satoshi headed for the door, paused with his hand on the knob, then seemed to reconsider. He took a half-step back into the room, still not quite looking at you. “I forgot… Um, thanks… Doctor.”
You offered a small smile. “You’re welcome, Nakamura-san.”
“Just Satoshi is fine.”
“Satoshi.”
Once he’d left, you jotted down more into your notebook. Sleep disruption (3-4 hrs/night), CE instability (observable fluctuation, tremors), intrusive trauma responses, likely survivor’s guilt re: partner (Ari – check status). Priority: stabilize sleep patterns, address guilt via tactical reframing. Responsive to structured, performance-focused approach. Maintain operational focus in sessions. You added a final, crucial bullet point: Order more gummy bears.
Being a therapist in the jujutsu world meant meeting your patients where they were, even if that meant pretending therapy was just another form of advanced combat training. Whatever works, right?
With Satoshi dispatched (and hopefully on the road to being less of a traumatized dick), you had a moment to breathe. Fishing out your phone, you winced as the screen flared to life, displaying approximately eight million notifications from your group chat with your three favorite disasters, the vast majority of them originating from one Kugisaki Nobara.
“SPICES YOU ABSOLUTE TRAITOR” Angry Nail Emoji x5
“TWO CANCELLATIONS IN ONE MONTH???” Angry Nail Emoji x6
“If you reschedule ONE MORE TIME I swear to god”
“I STG IF YOU’RE NOT DEAD IN A DITCH SOMEWHERE I’M GONNA PUT YOU IN ONE” Skull Emoji
“ANSWER YOUR PHONE YOU WORKAHOLIC GREMLIN”
“DON’T MAKE ME COME DOWN THERE AND DRAG YOU OUT BY YOUR HAIR”
“MEGUMI IS GETTING WEIRD AND ANTISOCIAL AGAIN (MORE THAN USUAL)”
“WE NEED ADULT SUPERVISION BEFORE SOMEONE DIES”
“YUJI MISSES YOU AND IS MAKING SAD PUPPY EYES AT HIS PHONE” Puppy Dog Eyes Emoji
“I MISS YOU”
“bitch answer me” Knife Emoji
You sighed, rubbing your temples. Adulting was a scam. It consisted mostly of apologizing for being busy and trying not to die. You quickly tapped out a reply before Nobara mobilized a search party or declared you legally deceased.
“I solemnly swear that short of an actual apocalypse, I will be at your apartment this weekend. Even if any world-ending events occur, I’ll bring them with me and we can deal with them over pizza.”
You hit send, hoping the combination of food bribery and extreme commitment would appease her wrath. Her response was immediate:
“YOU BETTER BE. I have witnesses to this promise. Screenshots have been taken and notarized. Evidence will be presented in court if necessary.”
Followed by a flood of heart emojis from Yuji and a single “...” from Megumi that somehow managed to convey both judgment and anticipation in three simple dots.
Shaking your head fondly, you turned to your case files, carefully translating the day’s events into appropriately professional language rather than blunt truths like “had to physically restrain patient with enchanted IKEA furniture to establish baseline rapport.” The notes needed to be detailed enough to track progress but vague enough to maintain confidentiality, and encoded enough that if anyone ever broke into your office, they wouldn’t understand shit. The pile of paperwork never seemed to get smaller. At least, you’d gotten better at creative documentation over the years.
Around sunset, you switched to preparing tomorrow’s lecture materials for Tokyo Jujutsu High. The slides were already done. You’d been using the same presentation for years, only updating the casualty statistics to keep the fear fresh and motivating. You just needed to review the student profiles Yuji had sent over.
Yuji was a natural teacher. He’d slipped into the role seamlessly and was doing an amazing job mentoring the new generation. He possessed an uncanny knack for hammering home the fundamentals, building essential camaraderie among often prickly personalities, and inspiring them to punch curses really, really hard. Which was essential, obviously. His boundless enthusiasm and genuine care for the students could motivate even the most obnoxious teenagers to try their best.
Some things, however, required a different touch. Like getting them to understand the importance of precise cursed energy control beyond “hit thing harder.” Or making them appreciate the subtleties of barrier techniques beyond “big shield go brrr.”
And then there was the crucial task of ensuring the little darlings actually did their goddamn assigned reading. That responsibility, through a combination of seniority and sheer intimidation factor, had fallen squarely on your shoulders years ago, back when you were just an unhinged senpai bullying the first-years into compliance.
Now, you were the legendary hellraiser who could supposedly smell unread textbooks from a mile away. The young folks still talked about that time when you’d caught someone using their phone to cheat during one of your infamous pop quizzes.
The story had grown wildly in the telling. According to current campus lore, you’d eaten the phone, cursed the offending student to only speak in Disney song lyrics for a week, and made them write a thousand-word apology in their own blood. In reality, you’d just made them stand in the corner holding a full water bottle on their head for two hours while reciting safety protocols. You weren’t about to correct the rumors, though. Fear was an excellent pedagogical tool.
Every generation of students respectfully (and fearfully) called you “Sensei,” even though you weren’t officially on the faculty roster. The best part was that this conditioned fear often followed them into their professional careers. Nothing quite compared to the satisfaction of watching a freshly graduated sorcerer drop whatever they were doing and snap rigidly to attention simply because they spotted the Sensei walking by and were suddenly consumed by war flashbacks to their school days.
And honestly, keeping these idiots alive and compliant required a multi-pronged approach. Yuji had the “cool older brother who believes in you” angle covered; you were the scary “don’t fuck this up or else” senpai-turned-sensei. It was a beautiful symbiosis.
Yuji’s notes highlighted a few promising students who needed extra attention to refine their cursed techniques and a couple of troublemakers who thought being born with a technique meant they could skip the basics. You made a mental note to call on them first tomorrow. Can’t let the reputation slip.
A knock at your door interrupted your lesson planning. A second later, Higuruma let himself in. “Still working, Doctor?”
Higuruma had started the whole “Doctor” thing for you a couple of years back, right after you’d wrestled your PhD in clinical psychology into submission and officially taken over the mess that was the Welfare Department. It was his way of backing you up, a subtle power move designed to lend you some much-needed institutional weight.
Being insultingly young, essentially orphaned, and hailing from a non-sorcerer background was a recipe for being treated like a glorified intern in a workplace dominated by ancient family names and even more ancient grudges. The fact that you’d graduated early, blazed through grad school in record time, and were widely known as Gojo Satoru’s “most spoiled student” (a label that came with its own baggage) hadn’t endeared you to the traditionalists who believed wisdom only came with power and arthritis. Yeah, you needed all the credibility boosts you could manufacture.
At first, when Higuruma and your other allies started calling you Doctor, the predictable pushback came swift and petty. “Not a real doctor!” someone would snipe, usually loud enough for you to overhear in the hallways.
Then Higuruma, Nanami, Kusakabe, or sometimes Shoko herself, if she was feeling particularly charitable (or bored), would remind the complainers that while you might not have an MD, you could perform quite a few tasks reserved for medical personnel.
During your years as Shoko’s perpetually exhausted (and entirely unofficial) assistant, you’d patched up damn near everyone currently employed at HQ, usually when their injuries hadn’t been life-threateningly enough for Shoko to bother with her fancy healing. Plenty of the veterans walking these halls still sported the crooked scars from your stitch jobs.
Eventually, the grumbling died down. They could call you Doctor, or they could call you brat and bleed out the next time they got injured and Shoko was drunk off her ass. Their choice.
The sight of Higuruma made you perk up. After a day wrestling with stubborn sorcerers and existential dread, Higuruma was a delightful reprieve.
“Ah, Hiromi-san! I’m just wrapping up now!”
Higuruma strolled in like he owned the place and collapsed onto your couch with the effortless entitlement of someone who knew where the spare key to your apartment was hidden.
“Bullshit,” he stated flatly, tugging off his tie and loosening the top button of his crisp shirt. “You’re done now because we have a sparring session scheduled, and I’m not letting you weasel out of it again.”
You were perpetually behind on your social obligations, a fact your friends never let you forget. Sparring with Higuruma conveniently occupied the murky gray area between work (staying sharp, mandatory physical upkeep) and social activity (hanging out with a friend who occasionally tried to punch you). It was a minor miracle you still had friends at all.
“The paperwork—” you began, gesturing weakly at the leaning tower of files mocking you from your desk.
“Will still be there tomorrow,” he interrupted smoothly.
“Okay, okay!” you laughed, holding up your hands in surrender. “Just let me finish this one thing—”
“You always say ‘one thing’ and then it turns into twenty things,” he drawled, somehow managing to sprawl even more dramatically across your couch.
Watching Higuruma stretch lazily, completely at ease in your cluttered space, you felt a flicker of memory. Your first real encounter after the Shibuya Incident, over six years ago now, had been a spectacularly rocky start, fueled by catastrophic misunderstandings, political schemes, and his antihero homicidal court aesthetic.
Hard to believe this was the same man who’d tried to murder you multiple times during the aftermath of Shibuya. After somehow getting through that initial hurdle of mutual attempted homicide, Higuruma had become one of your closest friends. He was your rock, your sounding board, your personal trainer who nagged you relentlessly about your shitty schedule, and one of the vanishingly few people on this cursed earth you trusted implicitly. Funny how things worked out.
“Remember when you used to try to kill me?” you mused aloud as you gathered your things.
He snorted, cracking an eye open to look at you. “Remember when you deserved it?”
“Rude! I never deserved it. I was a joy to be around.”
“You were a manipulative, evil asshole,” he corrected fondly. “Still are, just a more experienced one now.”
You stuck your tongue out at him very professionally. “This evil asshole signs your mission clearances, you know.”
“And this lawyer can contest them on procedural grounds,” he shot back as he swung his legs off the couch and stood up, his tie completely abandoned now, draped over the armrest. “Now stop stalling.”
“I’m not stalling, just busy!”
“You’re always busy. Come on, Doctor. The training room is calling our names.”
You sighed dramatically. “Fine, but if you bruise any more of my ribs, you’re explaining it to Ieiri-san this time. She gets scary when her research time is interrupted for preventable injuries.”
“Deal. Now move it before I carry you down there.”
“You wouldn’t dare—”
The look he gave you suggested he absolutely would dare, had done it before, and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. Some things never changed, like his complete disregard for your dignity when he thought you were being too stubborn for your own good.
Argument was futile. You shouldered your backpack and followed Higuruma out the door.
“I’m telling Yuji you’re bullying me, Hiromi.”
“Good. Then, he’ll stop going easy on you in training, too.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. You trust me with your life.”
“Worst decision I ever made.”
His laugh echoed down the hallway as he dragged you down the depths of HQ toward the scent of sweat, ozone, and impending bruises that permeated the training rooms.
You promptly changed into your training gear – loose pants and a fitted top that had seen better days. Higuruma did the same. Even in sweats, he managed to look annoyingly composed, as though he’d just stepped out of a minimalist sportswear catalogue. You envied his ability to look put-together when preparing to inflict pain. The mats squeaked under your feet as you circled each other.
Higuruma had adopted that lazy predator look that always meant trouble. “Ready?” he asked.
“No, but when has that ever stopped you?”
He started slow, as always – light jabs and basic combinations that you could easily dodge or block. A warmup. Gradually, his movements became sharper, faster, forcing you to stay focused.
“Your left guard is dropping again,” he commented, demonstrating his point with a quick tap to your ribs.
“My left guard is fine,” you protested, only to eat another tap to the same spot. “Okay, maybe it wouldn’t be dropping if someone hadn’t bruised these ribs last week.”
He smirked and picked up the pace. You managed to hold your own for a while, even landing a few hits, though you suspected he let you have those small victories just to keep you engaged. Inevitably, as always, the tide turned.
He slipped inside your guard, his forearm pressing against your throat for just a fraction of a second before you twisted away, gasping. He didn’t follow up immediately, but the message was clear: I could have ended you there.
Frustrated, you went for broke, throwing a wild combination you hoped might catch him off guard through sheer unpredictability. He weathered the storm effortlessly, blocking and weaving, then saw his opening. A sweep took your legs out. You rolled, narrowly avoiding an axe kick that would’ve cracked ribs. Scrambling, you deflected his next strike, but he simply flowed around your defense.
“Too slow,” he taunted, grabbing your wrist and flipping you onto your back.
You hit the mat hard but managed to trap his leg with yours, trying to drag him down with you. He just laughed and turned it into a pin, his considerable weight settling across your back as he twisted your arm into a submission hold. Damn lawyer.
“Yield?” he asked.
“Never,” you wheezed, squirming indignantly beneath him, trying to dislodge his grip, maybe land a sneaky bite on his forearm if you could just contort yourself enough.
Higuruma adjusted his weight, neutralizing your struggles with minimal movement. Being pinned by someone who could bench press a small car was deeply unfair. Just as you were contemplating the strategic merits of playing dead, your stomach decided to weigh in on the proceedings with a loud, embarrassingly long growl.
You froze. Higuruma froze.
A beat of silence passed, then he threw his head back and burst out laughing at your expense. “Alright, Doctor,” he managed between chuckles, “I’ll make you a deal. Yield now, and dinner’s on me.”
“...this feels like coercion.”
“It is.” He twisted your arm a little further, not enough to hurt, but enough to make his point crystal clear. “Going once…”
“Okay, okay! I yield! Feed me, damn it!”
He released you, still chuckling as he hauled you up. “You’re too easy to bribe.”
“Free food is free food,” you shrugged, rolling your shoulders to work out the kinks and glaring at him half-heartedly. “Even if it comes from my tormentor.”
An hour later, showered and changed back into your work clothes, you were demolishing a bowl of steaming miso ramen at a quiet noodle shop nearby. Higuruma watched from across the small table, sipping his green tea with an expression of fond exasperation.
“When was the last time you ate today?” he asked, observing the speed at which you inhaled noodles.
“Uh…” you paused, trying to remember. “There might have been a protein bar at some point? Around lunchtime? Ish?”
He sighed. “This is why Yuji made me swear to keep an eye on you.”
“I’m a grown adult,” you protested around a mouthful of noodles. “I can take care of myself.”
“Evidence suggests otherwise. Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t get shanked in a dark alley on your way home.”
“That was one time—”
“Three assassination attempts last year alone.”
“Only two of those were serious.”
He gave you a look that suggested your definition of “serious” was concerning, and you weren’t helping your case. “Finish your food. I’m driving you home.”
Later, settled into the passenger seat of his car, you watched the city lights blur past. This used to be Miwa’s job. For years, she’d been the one making sure you made it back to your apartment without getting murdered by any of the numerous powerful and unpleasant people you’d pissed off during your ongoing campaign to clean up the cesspool of corruption that plagued the jujutsu world. The only reason you were still breathing was probably because the truly dangerous people you’d comprehensively fucked over hadn’t quite figured out exactly who was responsible for their sudden misfortunes. You were good at covering your tracks.
Since you’d finally managed to oust the corrupt Head of Finance – a truly odious man who’d been skimming funds for decades – and get Ijichi installed, things had shifted. Someone needed to take over Ijichi’s former operational duties. Who better than your badass guardian angel and the fiercest advocate of Gojo’s administration? Naturally, Miwa had snagged a well-deserved promotion to Acting Head of Operations. Fantastic for her career, but left a gap in your personal security detail. She didn’t have time for daily bodyguard duty anymore between running half of HQ.
Higuruma had quietly taken it upon himself to fill in the vacant position. These days, he was your primary babysitter. Feeding you when you forgot to eat, dragging you to training, making sure you actually left the office at the end of the day, driving you home almost every night. You often wondered how he even found the time, given his own demanding responsibilities. Maybe you were the reason the poor man was still tragically single at 42. You mentally filed that away under “things to feel vaguely guilty about later.”
The warm glow spilling from under your apartment door should have set off alarm bells for someone living alone. Anyone else might have reached for their phone, maybe a concealed weapon, but you already knew who was inside. Just as he undoubtedly knew the precise moment your key slid into the lock, sensing you even before the tumblers clicked.
Sure enough, as you pushed the door open, a shock of gravity-defying silver hair appeared around the corner, followed by that impossibly perfect face lighting up with pure joy. His blue eyes, usually hidden behind dark glasses or a blindfold when he was out and about, were uncovered now, bright and focused entirely on you. Your stupid heart did a little acrobatic flip it really had no business doing after the day you’d had. Some reflexes, it seemed, never faded, even after all these years.
“You’re home!” Gojo chirped, like this was the most magnificent event of the century.
Not giving you the time to process, he bounded over and scooped you clean off your feet. One moment you were tiredly trying to shoulder your backpack off, the next you were airborne, enveloped in his warmth and the scent of his cologne. It didn’t matter that you’d literally seen him this morning before work; his greetings always operated on the scale of a soldier returning from a decade-long war to find their beloved waiting patiently on the shore.
“Sensei!” you yelped, clinging to his neck as the world whirled around you. “Put me down! I’m getting dizzy!”
“Don’t care,” he sang, squeezing you tighter. “Missed you.”
“You saw me this morning!”
“That was forever ago!”
The whole living arrangement was a bit unconventional. You had your apartment, Gojo had his penthouse monstrosity across town, but you also each had dedicated rooms in the other’s place. Considering he spent roughly ninety percent of his off-duty hours here, it was safe to say your home was his, too. Not that you minded. He paid the bills, kept the fridge perpetually stocked with fancy snacks, and did the dishes without being asked. You couldn’t ask for a better semi-permanent, overly affectionate housemate.
After another enthusiastic squeeze that threatened the structural integrity of your spine, Gojo lowered you back to solid ground. You steadied yourself with a hand on his broad shoulder while fumbling with your shoelaces, feeling slightly breathless.
“I was gonna take you out to dinner,” Gojo announced, snatching your backpack before you could toss it carelessly onto the floor. “But someone is always eating with Higuruma these days.“
There was a faint edge to his tone that made you glance up. Was he… upset? Nah. He was grinning down at you, all devastating charm and sparkling mischief. Just Gojo being Gojo, then.
“So!” he continued brightly, slinging your backpack over his shoulder and ushering you away. “I bought dessert instead! Go wash up and change! No work clothes allowed for dessert time!”
“Stop pushing me, I’m going! What kind of dessert did you get?”
“It’s a surprise! And don’t take too long changing, or I might eat it all myself!” he called after you.
“If you touch it before I get back, I’ll strangle you in your sleep!” you yelled back over your shoulder.
You huffed on principle, but complied readily because this was the precise comfort you craved after the endless grind. A hot shower, comfy clothes, expensive dessert you didn’t pay for, and… Gojo Satoru. The magic of coming home to him. No matter how brutal life had been to you, he somehow always knew how to make it better, to offer you solace in ways both grand and mundane.
It’d always been that way, hadn’t it? Ever since that fateful day nearly a decade ago when the strongest sorcerer alive had barged into your unassuming existence and decided, for reasons still largely mysterious, that you were his problem to solve, his responsibility to protect, his person to cherish above all else.