Chapter Text
The hospital shook violently around them, the impact rattling bone and steel. It was the only thing that told Utahime the battle was still raging outside. The morgue they were in was cold and sterile—Shoko’s assigned point of dispatch.
‘Safest in the basement,’ Gojo had said.
His body had been laid out on an autopsy table in three pieces.
Utahime’s hands trembled as she pressed Gojo’s torso down against what was left of him. Five minutes ago he’d been standing on a screen. Breathing. Talking. Fighting. And now he was here—pale, eyes dull, blood slipping from the corners of his mouth. Cold.
Dead.
She pushed harder, like force alone might undo what she'd just watched happen.
The retrieval squad had called ahead, moved fast, then laid him out on the autopsy table and fled back into the chaos, saving who they still could.
Because this wasn’t salvageable, clearly.
And Utahime refused to accept that.
Shoko hovered her palms over his chest and a bright white light encased Gojo’s body. Utahime watched, breathless, as flesh stitched itself back together.
Then, suddenly, Shoko’s power faltered. The light dimmed, and it was like watching stitches come undone.
“Shit!”
A wave of panic slammed into Utahime, twisting in her chest, setting her nerves on fire. Her body trembled as her throat went tight. The room began to shrink around her, walls pressing in as if the hospital itself was trying to suffocat her.
This can't happen.
“Shoko!” her voice cracked. Helpless, as her hands hovered over what she was now recognizing as a corpse.
He can't.
Gojo can't die.
Her stomach turned sick at the thought, and for a moment, she couldn’t even remember how to breathe.
“Boost me!” Shoko snapped, her words seething as the light in her palms surged again.
Utahime could only stare, frozen, as Gojo’s flesh began piecing itself back together again. She glanced at his face—eyes staring up at the ceiling, dull.
Dead.
“UTAHIME!”
Anger flared through her chest. She shoved off from the edge of the table, into the open space of the room. The tiles were cold beneath her feet, and the bells on her wrists and ankles chimed with each step.
No. He can't. She won't let him.
Her chest heaved and the bile in her stomach threaten to rise up her throat. Her hands shot out, tracing familiar, intricate patterns in the air, feet dragging in steps she'd known since she were a child.
He can pick some other time for this bullshit.
She drew in Shoko’s cursed energy through the soles of her feet, twisting it with her own, then thrust it back, amplifying it, driving it deeper into Gojo’s broken body.
How dare he put them through this.
Anger tightened her movements, turned them sharp and unforgiving. Her hands carved through the air with more force than before, symbols flaring brighter as her cursed energy surged. The glow around Gojo’s body flickered, then strengthened, responding to the pressure she forced into it.
He thinks this is it? He can just leave? Like that?
Her hands moved faster, tracing the patterns in the air with a fury she could barely control as her body swayed. The symbols flared brighter, sparks snapping off into the cold air as she shoved every ounce of frustration, every shred of desperation, into the weave.
He’s not allowed to die. She hadn’t given permission.
She twisted Shoko’s cursed energy with her own again, pushing harder, forcing the surge deeper into Gojo’s body. Her teeth ground together. The soles of her feet cracked unil each step left a fresh bloody footprint in its wake.
A sick crack echoed through the room. Gojo’s bones starting to snap back into place.
Come back, Satoru.
She turned, raising her hands toward the ceiling, drawing in Shoko’s energy again.
Please, Satoru.
She pushed, forcing the weave deep into Gojo’s body. Her arms burned. A thick trail of fresh blood splashed across the white tiles beneath her feet, more added with each heavy step. Sharp electric pain raced up her spine, but she gritted her teeth and leaned into it.
The room shuddered with the surge. The bells on her wrists and ankles rang out frantically, clashing with the crack of each bone. Gojo’s body convulsed violently under the push of energy, limbs jerking as the light wrapped around him like molten fire.
Her lungs burned. Her vision blurred at the edges. Her body rapidly began to reach it's limit.
Still, she raised her hands higher, drawing in every ounce of Shoko’s power, every fragment of her own, and thrust it into him again one final time.
The light flared, white-hot, flickered, then roared. It filled the entire morgue, bending the shadows along the walls, cracking tiles beneath her feet. Gojo’s torso twisted unnaturally before straightening.
Then, His chest rose and fell in a shallow, uneven breath.
She sank to her knees, shaking, as the surge finally stilled. The light dimmed, and the morgue went quiet, save for the wet rasp of Gojo’s ragged breathing.
He was alive.
Twenty minutes. That’s how long she and Shoko had been sitting against the far wall, watching.
“His soul...I—I can’t guarantee that it will come back,” Shoko rasped.
Utahime cheeks stung with dried tears. Her feet ached, only healed enough to stop the bleeding on her own insistence. Dust fell from the ceiling as the building shook again. She pushed the bottle of electrolyte water forgotten in Shoko’s hand. “Drink,” she demanded.
Across the room, Gojo still laid on the same table he had been deposited on. Whole. Breathing.
Unconscious.
Shoko raised the bottle, her hands trembling, and sipped the water slowly. Utahime watched every motion, every swallow, her own muscles still coiled with tension. A distraction from reality.
Because even after all this. Gojo. He might be—
Gojo’s eyes snapped open.
The table shook beneath him as he lurched upright, gasping, fists slamming against the cold metal. A hiss of breath escaped him, and his body trembled as if jolted by lightning.
Utahime’s heart stopped as he swung his head around, taking in the room in a blur.
“Gojo!” Shoko shouted, hands flaring with energy, ready to steady him as she launched up to her feet.
Utahime stood and pressed herself against the wall a heart threatened to leap from her chest.
Shoko raised her hands, energy shimmering around her as she prepared to stabilize him. “Stay still, Gojo!” she called, her voice tight.
Gojo froze for a moment, wide-eyed and unsteady, looking around the room, then at Shoko, confusion written across his features.
Utahime’s fists clenched at her sides.
Then, his eyes snapped to hers, and Utahime froze, an exhale catching in her throat. Recognition flashed in his gaze—but it faltered immediately.
His brow furrowed, lips parting slightly. “U-Utahime?” he whispered, almost like he were unsure.
Something is wrong.
Shoko’s energy dulled, pulling back, satisfied as he calmed. Utahime watched as the tension fell from her shoulders and she breathed a sigh of relief, catching herself on the edge of the table before she could collapse.
“That was a close one, yeah?” Shoko said, tilting back to look at Utahime.
Gojo’s eyes turned to Shoko, and Utahime watched the crease in his brow deepen. The sight twisted her stomach into knots.
“Fuck, I’m beat. Where’s that water?” Shoko asked, exasperated, shuffling back toward her. Utahime leaned down, eyes never leaving Gojo’s frame, and plucked it from the floor.
Shoko took it, uncapped the bottle, and tipped her head back to drink.
“What the fuck happened to your hair?”
Shoko turned mid-sip. Utahime’s stomach dropped as her suspicions confirmed themselves.
“What?” Shoko asked, swallowing the water too quickly.
“Her hair. The stupid little bow?” Gojo asked.
Under normal circumstances, maybe seven or eight years ago, the comment would have riled her. Would have had her yelling, screaming, chasing him down a hall.
“What the hell is wrong with you!? We bring you back and the first thing you say is something about her hair!? She’s worn it this way for years, Gojo!”
Shoko’s voice was faint, distant to Utahime, as she laid into him.
Because these weren’t the eyes she knew. The ones that had become guarded, careful, calculated with what they allowed people to see.
Now they were bright, reckless, teasing even. The same eyes that had once sparkled with mischief, the same eyes that had gotten her into trouble—and out of it—years ago.
Annoyed. Impatient. All things he had managed to hide for years.
Gojo’s gaze locked on Shoko and narrowed. His mouth popped open in a familiar way that promised a witty retort. It was in the tilt of his head, the flash of irritation, the subtle flare of energy in his expression, that told her everything she needed to know.
Utahime swallowed against the ache it brought, cutting through it with her voice.
“Gojo?” she called.
His eyes snapped to hers.
“What year is it?”
He scoffed, as if the question were absurd.
“2008?”