Chapter Text
Sleeping in Gojo's apartment becomes something of a routine, much to Utahime's distress. At least one night in three, Gojo asks her to sing him to sleep; she finds herself waking in his bed the following morning. It's innocent, she tells herself, but it doesn't look great and shouldn't be encouraged.
In the earlier days she'd naively believed that each time would be the last. But Gojo had looked so tired each time he asked, so desperate, that some part of her worried something would snap if she didn't cave. And so she has, and so it wears into a new normal.
It's innocent. Powerful as he is, Gojo still needs sleep—it's not his fault that the Prison Realm left him with insomnia so strong it takes a cursed technique to lull. She should be glad that her powers happen to let her finally do something. They are all working toward a world that does not need to be held up by the might of one man and the sacrifices of the youth, but until then...
"You're spoiling him, senpai," Shoko sighs, when Utahime hesitantly lets out this jumble of thoughts during a rare break together. "He's going to keep pushing until you put your foot down."
"I..." she bites her lower lip. "Sometimes I'm scared it's the only thing keeping him sane. I think he still can't get any sleep without it."
"Gojo's a big boy. Senpai, he can take care of himself."
Utahime glowers at the cancer stick her beloved friend takes a deep pull from, but she can't hold it. They've gone through more than enough to warrant a brief return to old vices. Emphasis on brief, though—she'll get Shoko back on the bandwagon soon enough. Her and Gojo both.
Her thoughts must be transparent on her face, because Shoko grins wryly and puts the cigarette out.
"Only for you," she says with a shake of her head, and Utahime can't help but wrap her arms around her in a tight hug.
"You're my favorite kouhai," she tells her. "But you already knew that."
"I already did," Shoko nods, smile turning genuine. "So maybe you should sing me to sleep, too."
"For you? Anytime." Utahime pauses. "I mean it, Shoko. If there's anything I can do..."
As the world settles, Shoko's work becomes grimmer. There are fewer missions and fewer injuries, while corpses from clean-up pile up in the morgue and the list of post-mortems only grows. Utahime had assigned a team of doctors with newly awakened curse energy to aid her overworked kouhai, but they are too new to this world to make a dent in the sheer amount of work.
Shoko has always been irreplaceable. To Tokyo Tech, to the jujutsu world, but even without her reverse curse technique Shoko will always be incomparably precious to Utahime.
When Shoko squeezes back with an "I know," Utahime hopes she means it even if she doesn't say it outright. So in the little time they have left they move on to lighter topics. Shoko doesn't speak of the atrocities suggested by the monstrous remnants she cuts into and Utahime doesn't bring up the mounting public pressure from the abrupt reveal of sorcery. Instead, they manage to half-plan an izakaya hangout in the indefinite future before duty calls them both.
The non-sorcerers are frightened.
They see us as a threat.
Show them we are not.
All very well and good, but it displeases Satoru that the council has started making moves to take control under the guise of stabilizing the situation. Worse, that they see fit to hand down tasks to Utahime as if she is not far above them in both character and importance. Their presumption strains his patience; perhaps it is time to remind them of their place.
It's a give and take, Utahime sighs as she sets aside the new mission brief. Satoru has already read everything over her shoulder: Another day of interminable meetings with some mid-level civil servants with no power to do anything but run to their own higher-ups. Worse, the meetings are in Kyoto this time. With the Shinkansen only recently returning to service, it would mean Utahime would be away from Tokyo Tech for at least two days. Satoru can't help but complain.
"Tell them to come here if it's so important. You're too busy to be taking road trips like that." He pauses. "And weak, can't forget that."
"Shut up, Gojo."
"But you are! And what will the children do?" He feigns a swoon. "Won't someone think of our children?"
"The students will be fine," Utahime rolls her eyes, but fails to suppress a smile. "You'll keep them safe. I know you will."
The unexpected sweetness, the trust in her words, is enough to make him drop his act.
"Of course I will," he tells her, then grimaces. "But that doesn't make this any less pointless. You'll tell them Tokyo Tech isn't up for grabs, they'll pretend to listen, and all that'll happen is they'll call you for another meeting next month to see if you've changed your mind about turning your students into their little private army."
Her smile drops. "You don't think I know that?"
"Then why are you playing along?"
"It buys another month, Gojo," Utahime looks up at him, serious. "The plans in motion, the pressure you've put on them—we need more time. You know this already. It's only two or three days—"
"Too long," he cuts her off. "If it's so important for them to speak to you, they should come to Tokyo. Or..."
Or he could tag along. Hmm, there's an idea: He could teleport them over, make a day of it. Scare the lackeys stupid, coax his way back into Utahime's good graces with the famous Fumishi sake, and stuff his face with wagashi. Satoru pointedly does not think of the growing list of missions on the docket for tomorrow; they'd be back by midnight, anyway.
He nods decisively as Utahime squints at him. "There's nothing for it. I'll have to go with you."
She blinks. "What?"
"I'll just have to go with you," he repeats. "Such a good kouhai I am, escorting his weak little senpai on her errands. I demand yatsuhashi as payment."
"I'm not buying you any sweets, you'll rot your teeth. Don't you have something better to do than tag along to something like this?"
He opts to walk out in lieu of an answer, waving cheerily at her. The muted "Gojo!" ringing out behind him only makes him snicker as he pulls out his phone to text Ijichi his orders.
It takes a little time and probably weeks off Ijichi's life, but all the arrangements are sorted out by the time he meets Utahime to leave for Kyoto the next day. His idea has turned out even better than he'd originally thought, because the civil servants Utahime had been scheduled to meet were swapped out with Cabinet ministers the moment his attendance was confirmed. This meeting might actually do something more than buy time.
Except not really, because the meeting ends up empty of substance regardless. Satoru leans back, arms folded, as the minister of something he can't be bothered to remember stutters out the same tired party lines. The government must be seen to have control over this emerging force, blah blah blah. The trainee sorcerers would strengthen the nation's defensive capabilities, blah blah.
Never mind that these are high school students they're speaking of. Never mind that they would only be used as tools for self-serving old men unwilling to do their own dirty work. How has Utahime stomached such meaningless drivel month after month?
It would be so much less work to start from a clean slate. Just a flick of his fingers, and they wouldn't have to go through this charade of appeasing these fools ever again.
The minister abruptly shuts his mouth, mid-sentence.
Utahime's eyes flick to his face, and he realizes his cursed energy had been flaring. Perhaps the man can feel it, or maybe just Satoru's general displeasure; either way, he counts it as a win that it shuts the man up long enough for Utahime to finally speak. He lets out a breath as her gentle voice washes over him.
No. Thoughts like this is how Suguru was lost, and Satoru refuses to go down that path. But it would be so easy, and his patience wears thin.
By the end of the meeting, these civilians are in far more danger than they realize. Or maybe they do, because things wrap up a full hour earlier than scheduled. Utahime lets out a pleased hum as they leave the fortified bunker.
"That went surprisingly well," she muses. He pulls a face at her, then can't help but snort at her returning glower.
"I can be civilized. I behaved today, didn't I?"
She looks away in exasperation, but a small wry grin forms on her lips. "Maybe I should bring you more often, then. I've never seen them so agreeable. "
With that, all the tension leaves him. Perhaps he can stand these fools, at least a little longer. Nippon Professional Baseball has only just returned, after all. Utahime would never forgive him if anything happened to disrupt this new season.
At the very least, it's a cheap price to pay for exploring Kyoto with Utahime today. All he needs to do now is wheedle her for sweets, boyish grin firmly in place.
She gives in. She always does.
Utahime is no stranger to missions of a more social nature. Perhaps it is her outward obedience to tradition, her pedigree and adequate but not-too-high rank, but even before the Shibuya Incident it was not uncommon for her to be asked to attend meetings or events involving higher-ups. So it should not be a surprise when she receives a mission to attend an evening gathering with both jujutsu and government officials.
She would have preferred a curse-fighting mission. Serving as the de facto head of Tokyo Tech has left her with precious little time for anything else, even as the world inches toward normality. Being in the field as a sorcerer rather than a teacher would have helped her shake off the rust. But for her first official assignment after months of silence, Jujutsu Headquarters has seen fit to send her to a dinner party.
It's not all bad. On the one hand: Good food and great alcohol. A cabinet-level dinner party is bound to be free with the top-shelf liquor. On the other, much bigger hand: Her mission partner is Zen'in Naoya. And that particular unpleasantness alone had almost been enough for her to try begging off the mission.
But the higher-ups had not phrased it as a request. Strange, that they would be so insistent on her attending. Her questions on the necessity of her presence had been met with chilly silence. There had been nothing for it but to resign herself to the situation and pick out a suitable outfit.
Which is how she ends waiting to be picked up at the gates of Tokyo Tech in a sleeveless cocktail dress. She looks and feels out of place, which she blames for her shortness when Gojo calls her.
"What do you want?"
"Woah, Utahime. You mad? I didn't even say anything yet." Gojo's voice sounds too playful against the muffled backdrop of screams through the connection. He must be on a mission; she can almost imagine him blasting curses with one hand, cradling his phone in the other.
"I'm not in the mood, Gojo," she sighs, peering into the darkness. No sign of her ride. "Why are you calling me now?"
"Why the rush? Are you busy? Is weak Utahime finally on a mission again?" A wet splattering sound, then a low chuckle. "You are, aren't you?"
Utahime hesitates, and that's enough to unleash Gojo's wheedling.
"C'mon, you can tell your cute kouhai. Where are the old coots sending you?"
She can feel a headache starting. "None of your business."
"Grade 4? Grade 3? Can't be higher, because they'd have sent someone stronger. Or are you tagging along with a group mission?"
"Gojo!" she cuts off his rapid-fire questions. "Is there something you need, or are you just trying to annoy me?"
"Well, I need to know what mission you're on, and you're not telling me."
That's it. "Good night, Gojo," she all but snarls into the receiver before hanging up.
The phone rings again. She accepts his call reluctantly.
"What."
"Tell me what mission you're going on. What, is it classified?"
It's not. Utahime just really doesn't want to tell him.
"Tell me, tell me, tell me," Gojo chants. It's really grating on her nerves. "U-ta-hi-me spill the beans! U-ta-hi—"
"Stop it! I'll stop picking up if you keep acting like this."
A brief pause.
"You wouldn't." Gojo's voice is suddenly devoid of mirth. "You always pick up."
"Because something might have happened!" She pinches the bridge of her nose, resisting the urge to throw the phone. "I mean it. Don't call me about this again."
"So I can call you about other things?"
Utahime hangs up, then sighs in relief as the mission car finally pulls up in front of her. The driver's side window scrolls down to reveal the face of the assigned auxiliary manager, one she's worked with a few times already.
"Good evening, Watanabe-san," she greets. He looks a little harried, and piles of paperwork boxes occupy the front passenger seat. Utahime lets herself into the back seat instead, where a scowling Zen'in Naoya and her mission dossier is already waiting.
"Apologies for the delay, Iori-san," Watanabe says as she closes the door and puts on her seatbelt. "We should still make it to the event on time."
She thanks him, then turns her attention to the mission files. A run-of-the-mill cabinet-level party where the main objective is to attend and mingle, just as it has already been described. No cursed tool to track down, no intelligence to gather. Why has her presence in particular been demanded?
Her phone rings; it must be Gojo again. Utahime does not want to answer it in Zen'in's presence and have him hear firsthand how little Gojo respects her. She tries to ignore it, swallowing the knot that forms.
It continues to ring. Again, and again, and again. Zen'in breaks first.
"Will ya shut that thing off?" He peers at the screen. "Huh. Why's Satoru-kun calling you?"
Utahime immediately swipes to decline the call. "That's none of your concern."
Zen'in sneers and slouches into the car seat as the screen lights up again with Gojo's name. She turn off her phone this time, stuffing it into the clutch looped around her wrist. "I apologize for the disturbance. Watanabe-san, is there anything you need to brief us on?"
"Perhaps... perhaps you should take Gojo-sama's call first, Iori-san." The auxiliary manager sends her a worried glance through the rearview mirror. "It might be important."
Utahime tries to give him a reassuring smile. "It'll be all right. The idiot is bored."
Watanabe hesitates, but decides to give his overview anyway. It's a rehash of the information in the files, but Utahime doesn't complain; it helps with retention, and more importantly it prevents having to speak more than necessary to her reluctant mission partner until they arrive at the venue.
Zen'in lopes out first. Utahime nods to Watanabe before clambering out, adjusting her hemline while trying to catch up.
When he realizes she's almost reached him, he speeds up to put her firmly behind.
"Tch. Know yer place."
He seriously expects her to walk three steps behind him as if she were a meek wife from the Heian era. The nerve—she's four years older than him, for crying out loud. What sins must she have committed in her past life to be cursed with such awful juniors? Utahime swallows the acidic retort on her tongue and stalks after him. It would do no good to engage in an argument now.
The worst thing is, the powers that be seem to eat it up. They nod approvingly at his boasts and even his frankly insulting taunts are countenanced with indulgent laughs. Maybe it's the brashness of youth, maybe it's his sickeningly blue blood with all the might of the Zen'in behind him, but they accept from him what would never be tolerated from her.
Luckily, the reception is large enough that they are better served splitting up to maximize exposure. She stops herself from grimacing before walking back into the fray.
Utahime hates missions like this, full of empty words and nothing to show except some nebulous concept of influence and face. Even after the Culling Games, society remains unfair—but that's changing. Utahime is used to navigating the world as it is, and she is more than willing to make use of that to hurry it along. It doesn't hurt that she manages to avoid being in the Zen'in's proximity for the entire event.
If only they could also take separate rides home. But resources are still constrained and she finds herself bundled in the car with Zen'in Naoya at the end of the night.
"Yer surprisingly well behaved," Zen'in throws out; she opts to ignore him. He sneers at that.
"That was a compliment, you cow. Someone needs to teach you manners after Satoru-kun's done playing with you." Utahime grits her teeth at his leer. "Maybe I will."
"Perhaps you should find someone your own age," she clips out, then pretends to be busy turning her phone back on. The screen blinks back to life with a chime.
34 missed calls. 1 text message from Gojo. She winces.
Gojo Satoru: Call me immediately.
The phone chimes in her hand again.
Gojo Satoru: Don't test my patience.
Is he actually trying to threaten her? Utahime scoffs, silencing her phone and flipping it face down. She's not in the mood to entertain his whims tonight. The car remains devoid of conversation as the metropolitan landscape fades into the distance.
It's late enough that traffic is thin; they make good time to Tokyo Tech. Utahime thanks the auxiliary manager and more grudgingly Zen'in before heading in. This nonevent of a mission barely warrants a report, so she might as well get it over with before turning in.
The main building is dark and empty. She hums to fill the air on the way to her office. Maybe she'll indulge in a bath after, let the warm water leach out the stress—
Utahime can't stifle her yelp as her wrist is snatched by a strong grip. Instinctively she tries to pull her assailant into a throw, but comes up against immovable infinity.
"Where were you tonight?"
"Gojo!" She lets out a breath, then tries to tug her wrist back. He doesn't let her.
"Answer me. Where were you?"
She glowers down at his grip. "Let go, Gojo. This isn't funny."
Gojo's grip is inescapable as he twists her arm up to force her to face him. Utahime growls, but cannot manage to wriggle free. He pulls down his blindfold to reveal icy, ethereal eyes.
"You really think I'm asking because I don't know where you've been, dressed like that?"
Her cheeks burn as his gaze sweeps over her bare shoulders. She resists the urge to shield herself with her free hand; she has done nothing wrong. So what if she drank a little more than she should have? It made the whole dreary evening bearable.
"You're not to go on assignments like that again." His voice is secure in its finality. "I won't allow it."
"You won't allow it?" Utahime scoffs. "What makes you think you have any say over what mission I decide to take on?"
"I'm Gojo Satoru," he says, not a trace of humor in his words. "I'm remaking this world, and I will not have other men sniffing around what's mine."
She bristles at that. "I'm not yours, Gojo."
"You're not?" Faster than she can even flinch, Gojo grabs her jaw and wrenches her face up toward him. Utahime can't stop herself from trembling in his grip. She shouldn't be scared of Gojo, she knows, but he has never acted like this before. The dim light of the abandoned corridor casts a shadow on his face that leaves him unrecognizable.
"I've been so good," he whispers, a hair away. "You of all people should know how much I've been holding back."
He's too close. "Gojo, what—"
The rest of her sentence is swallowed by Gojo's lips. She gasps; he uses it to deepen the kiss against her will, forcing her even closer against him. Their locked lips leave no space for Utahime to think of anything but the proximity, the terror of the being that is Gojo Satoru.
She whimpers into his mouth at the unfamiliar, overwhelming sensation. Gojo takes advantage, exploring past her already swollen lips. Another stolen breath, and her body finally begins to fight to break free.
He tightens his grip on her jaw and her wrist as she struggles, refusing to let her go. Utahime's panic grows as she feels firsthand the difference in strength: She cannot escape unless Gojo allows it. In desperation, she lashes out with her free hand.
The slap lands true on his cheek. Utahime swallows a sound at the satisfying crack as his face whips to the side—she had not expected to make contact, not really. She tamps down on the reflexive urge to apologize as she scrambles back to make more distance between them.
"Bastard." She swallows again. "How dare you."
The infinite depths of Gojo's eyes have frozen over, but he remains silent. Utahime clenches her shaking hands into fists. Her lips feel strange as she finds the words to speak.
"Stay away from me."
Gojo watches her wordlessly as she tries to even out her breaths against the stab of fear that he will grab her again. A beat passes, then two, but he stays still and quiet. Utahime slowly turns and walks away from him, restraining herself from running as fast as her brain is screaming at her to go.
Utahime doesn't dare look back once the whole way to her room. Only when she has finally locked the door behind her does she give in to her wobbly legs, sinking to the floor and wondering how things had spun out of control so quickly.