Chapter Text
Gojo Satoru, in many ways, was unpredictable.
The adjective itself was endearing yet terrifying when you realize that the unknown is more daunting than what is known.
Because Gojo Satoru is the strongest, and his unpredictability was intimidating at the worst of times. For example, upon capture and interrogation of a rat among his trusted men, he does not go the traditional, typical route of torture. He doesn't starve, freeze, waterboard, or beat him to death.
No, that would be too simple for a man well known to be untouchable by the law and beloved by the public. It is for his large donations for the support and improvement of Japanese school systems and aid for vulnerable children, many of which included full ride scholarships.
Today, the head of the Gojo clan keeps a traitor in his office with a quaint little torture den concealed behind a heavy blackout curtain instead of the dank, putrid smelling basement. One of the Gojo subordinates, Ijichi gulps at the common knowledge that the man would only be kept there as a plaything for his boss. That was never a good thing, because behind the flashy smile and softness of his fair face, Gojo Satoru was sadistic at best.
Death would always be the kinder option.
Today, the feared yakuza has a neat little list with him as he drags a chair across the floor, cement stained with blood and shit from victims of the past. The unholy screeching the metal grinding across the concrete is torture in itself.
Today, he's listed all the curious little questions he's asked himself about the human body’s limits. Questions such as, how does a body decay while being alive? How much water is too much water till you drown from the inside? How closely can a razor shave till it can cut? How many passes do you have to make through the skin till you can see bones? Will household bleach have the same effect as hair bleach? Is it possible to bleach one's eyelashes?
Satoru grins and peers at the beat up indignant man behind his vintage shades. He slings his legs over the chair, leaning boyishly on the backrest as he speaks,
"So, Yamato, if that's even your real name."
Yamagishi frowns, nearly wincing at the cut that bleeds above his brows. He and the infamous man before him knew that wasn't the name he was going by at all but he didn't dare say anything. The twitch of neatly trimmed fingers gave away that Satoru was just waiting for any reason to start hurting him. The clan's men had already done Yamagishi in with a heavy beating once he was caught. He’s taken many beatings in his career, it was nothing. Yet something about the eerie and relaxed way their leader is leaning over him tells him he'd much prefer the kicking and punching from a dozen men than be under the mercy of Gojo Satoru alone.
"Man, this sucks. I really liked your sense of fashion too," the white haired man sighs, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt, revealing intricate swirls of black and red ink running up the length of corded muscle.
"So let's cut to the chase, who sent you?"
-
Three hours later, "Yamato" had already lost control of his bowel movement, and most of his bodily functions. The makeshift room stinks and reeks of sweat, piss and shit.
Satoru is pristine as ever, looking over the list in interest, humming at his options.
"It's pretty cool how bleach quickly burns off hair," he raises a brow at the blunt and singed edges of his victim's once black hair.
The man glares at him, clinging to the thought he would die as a loyal member of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. He'd die a hero, a remarkable example to be hailed generations to come. That his wife, pregnant, would tell tales of his heroic deeds to their children. So in spite of his wavering will, he holds steady to that fantasy. After all good always prevails--he’s sworn to himself to keep the line between good and evil separate.
"I'm already bored though," Satoru chucks the list, as it flutters onto the blood pooling near the chair.
Satoru's teeth are pearly white, sinister, akin to a Cheshire cat's grin except the said cat was a wolf. His teeth are bared, he’s hungry. It makes the captive shudder in fear and horror at the rapid way the air of the room shifts with his mood.
"Still not talking, hm?" Satoru says, getting up and taking steps closer. He was a tall man and could easily tower over Yamagishi if he stood. With his victim strapped to the chair--he felt bigger, suffocating the room with his presence alone.
The thickness in the air is cut clean when there's a shuffling behind the curtain, a timid voice calling out, "Gojo, sir, there's some-"
"What did I tell you about interrupting my play time, Ijichi?" Satoru sings, his gaze steady on his prey, grin unhinged and tone far from friendly.
Shit, Gojo Satoru was crazy.
"Sir, it's your-"
"They can wait, Ijichi."
"But sir, you told me-"
"Or would you rather join our friend over here?"
The threat effectively shuts the chauffeur up and distantly, the feared boss can hear furious stomping.
He ignores it, turning to the wall to select from the many well kept torture contraptions of the older generations all over the world. Most in his collection had been acquired through blood, sweat, and tears--literally.
"Now where were we?"
Satoru's fingers lightly brush over the devices, humming a tune beneath his breath. Each pause slowly terrifies Yamagishi and his heartbeat spikes at the "aha!" from his captor.
"So, a quick history lesson," Satoru mockingly waves a metal fork attached to a leather choker, "This is called a Heretic's Fork. A torture device used for confessions in Spain. It’s small but it is most definitely terrible."
He unbuckles the strap, stepping closer to the captive, "You'll see why it works in a second."
Out of perhaps one throw of bravery or stupidity, the undercover cop gurgles, "Do whatever you fuck want, you'll never get anything from me. They'll find me soon and you'll be very sorry."
A glob of blood and spit hits Satoru's polished shoes. He barely grimaces, pausing in his movements and tilting his head. Yamagishi thinks that Satoru was considering what he said, until he speaks slowly,
"You're new to this aren't you?"
"Huh?"
There’s a loud sigh.
"I mean buddy, listen," Satoru leans on his hip, as if exasperated by his victim's beliefs, "There has not been one fucking successful rescue from the Infinite Void, not even one attempt to intrude on my domain and do you know why that is? Every idiot who's been in the business longer than a year knows by now that if you get caught by me, you're as good as dead."
The captive pales at the thought, letting it sink into his broken bones.
"There's no such thing as brotherhood or the power of friendship in this line of business these days," Satoru continues, gesturing in the air, "It's fear, loyalty, and lots of money in today's modern world."
He continues unbuckling the strap, "What? You thought you would die a hero or some shit? I’m touched."
Apart from physical torture, Gojo Satoru loved to crush hope with the sad truth. At least the truth, right? He chuckles at the crestfallen, pathetic expression the undercover cop sends him as he reaches to fasten the device on his neck.
But before his fingers click the strap,there’s a crisp bang followed by a bullet that whirs straight across his snowy hair.
There’s stunned silence between the two men.
A couple wisps of fine snowy hair drift and float to join the pool of scarlet below. Satoru’s eyebrows raise behind dark shades, tilting his head to the neat little hole in the heavy scarlet curtains with the sunlight peeking through from his office window.
His victim chortles, almost relieved, "Eat shit, Six Eyes! I told you they'd come for me!"
Satoru does not seem fazed and he doesn’t answer. Instead, he’s straightening his back with a deep sigh and wincing at the low growl from behind the curtain,
"Gojo fucking Satoru, don't make me fucking wait."
The voice was unfamiliar to the culprit that his eyebrows dip in confusion.
"Ijichi," Satoru calls, running a hand through his hair, loosening some severed strands of hair.
He makes his way to the curtain, "You didn't tell me it was my wife. You know she is priority if she calls."
The captive stares incredulously at his captor's back, eyes nearly bugging out of his head.
Wife?!
"I tried to tell you, sir-"
"Don't dare bring poor Ijichi into this."
The curtain swings wide open, Yamagishi winces at the sudden brightness that floods the dim torture den. He squints, a sudden headache piercing through his skull.
The world spins but he blinks once then twice to adjust his focus. Then he’s confused to find a woman…a very pregnant woman, in her silk night dress, and the smoking pistol still pointed to where the shot had come from.
You.
He can almost hear the genuine smile in his torturer's voice, "Baby!"
Was he already dead? Gojo Satoru had always been sadistic and unhinged that it was easy to tell the poison apple beneath the honey drip of his voice.
The white haired yakuza has his hands up in caution when he sees the still pissed off grimace sitting prettily on your features, "You came to see me?"
You only respond with a glare, and Satoru wants to keel over because it's adorable how you're still in your nightdress (a delicate ivory silk he bought for you from his trip in Egypt), wearing your house slippers, hair mussed up from what he's guessing is from the furious way you rode his motorbike all the way here without a helmet.
He frowns at the thought but he’ll deal with it later. An angry wife comes first.
“Did you come here without a helmet, sweetheart?”
You only frown, because that was insignificant to you at the moment.
A very angry, beautiful woman… a very pregnant woman, all his .
And damn, you're still holding that gun like a seasoned veteran.
That image does all kinds of things for a hot blooded man like Satoru.
"That Toji's pistol, baby?" he coos, stepping closer when you lower the gun.
The impostor's eyes nearly bug out of his head, Toji? The Zen'in Toji? The insanely untouchable hitman responsible for nearly every yakuza boss' untimely death in the last 15 years? That Toji who's mysterious death shocked the masses and sent the Zen'in clan into rapid damage control?
If you had his custom gun, did this mean that you were responsible for that monster being put down?
"Let's talk," you say--no, you command. Then you're pressing a palm to your belly as if shielding the growing baby from the present violence and incoming bloodshed because the heat in your eyes could murder right now.
"Baby, you know I'd do anything for you," Satoru says in such a tender tone that any bystander could vomit, "But I'm a little busy right now."
Yamagishi unconsciously pisses himself when your sharp gaze darts in his direction. Your finger toys and spins the gun with the safety off that it freaks him and that perspiring man named Ijichi out.
"Do you mind?" you ask him flatly.
He sputters and stares at you in disbelief, asking him that like he was just a client, like he wasn't strapped to the chair, with broken bones, bits out, sitting in his sweat, piss and shit.
When you expectantly arch a brow up at him, he fearfully shakes his head negatively.
Holy shit, Gojo Satoru was crazy and his wife must be absolutely insane to let that nut job put a baby in her.
Satoru then shrugs, tugging the curtains close before disappearing with a wink, "I'll be right back!"
The loyal Gojo clan chauffeur quickly exits when his boss shoots him a look, which then leaves Satoru and his very angry, very pregnant wife behind.
"Baby," he says slowly, testing the waters when he carefully leans over to press a kiss on your hair. He catches a whiff of strawberries and sighs, momentarily pulled ashore from the constant sea storm he's conducted. When you don't push him away or shove the pistol to his forehead, he gathers you in his arms, careful not to crush your full belly, "What's wrong?"
Your brows are still furrowed and he brushes his nose against yours before pecking the side of your mouth curled into a pout.
There's muffled shuffling behind the curtain, no doubt his captive shifting to a comfortable position if there is any.
"Don't mind the man behind the curtain," Satoru murmurs, a finger tilting your chin towards him, "What's on your mind?"
Your frown deepens but the rage in your eyes has simmered into what looked like sadness, "I woke up this morning and found three of my favorite things missing."
"Am I the first?" your husband quirks his lips cheekily, the soft dip of his dimple making him seem more youthful.
"No," you say flatly, "You're the fourth."
Satoru pouts to which you roll your eyes, holding up three fingers, "One, coffee."
"Sweetie, we do have coffee-"
"Real coffee, idiot, not the decaffeinated shit.."
"Ah, ah, don't swear in front of Satoru Jr."
You glare at him to shut up, before you gesture two fingers, "That’s not their name-- two, my ice cream. And three-"
Satoru sags in defeat when he hears the gun's safety click, "Where the hell is Kai?"
Ah, yes, you and your affinity for naming torture devices. You've been together long enough for him to recognize Kai as the Inverted Spear of Heaven. He blinks, partly distracted by the soft curve of your pout before he shakes his head,
"Baby," he says carefully, rubbing your shoulders with his palms in high hopes it would soothe you before actually answering you. You instinctively relax in his arms, your knitted brows unfurling as you let out a quiet breath through your nose.
"One, I read that you shouldn't be drinking too much caffeine. Two, ice cream should be off limits too," he cringes when he feels your biceps flex, "Three, you shouldn't be engaging in strenuous activities or moving alot, let alone touch a special grade weapon."
He hears the gun fall to the ground as you indignantly wiggle out of his hold, "Sweetheart, you're pregnant. What if the baby-"
"I'm not gonna fucking poke the baby, Satoru! I've been in the field since I was twelve."
"I know, baby, you're strong but-"
"But nothing! Now give me Kai back or I'll-"
"Baby."
Satoru's voice is stern and in spite of your bravado, you stop shrugging his arms away. His frown softens when your hands hang limply at your sides, accustomed to the constant shifts of your mood the few months you've been pregnant.
"Look, I'm not worried about you poking the baby," he says brushing his hand through your hair before cradling your jaw to look up at him, "I'm worried about you overexerting yourself. I know how you get with training and it's not good for our baby."
Our baby.
The term hangs in the air for a while and it soothes the aching urge that rushes through your veins. Satoru notices the way your eyes gloss over and the tug of your lips curving even lower as you nearly wail,
"I just miss fighting, Satoru. I hate feeling sidelined."
Your husband smiles at you, gently passing his thumb through the high planes of your cheeks, "I know, sweetheart, I know. I'll be sure to leave a first grade mission for you when you shit the baby out."
"Don't swear in front of the fucking baby and that's not how it works," you retort, a crooked smile pulling across your face. Satoru only chuckles, squeezing your cheeks to press a kiss on your mouth, "Mm, whatever but for now, you shouldn't be moving too much."
Pregnancy with Satoru was both thrilling, exciting, and mostly an adventure since you both knew no shit on being nurturing parents. But also, surprising considering how your husband transforms into an overprotective mother hen. Yet you can't help but feel imprisoned with the limitations of how much you can do or what you consume. Limited and moderated was not a control you had ever allowed anyone until Satoru and most especially until pregnancy.
There's a sting in your resolve at the realization that you'd have to say goodbye to sharp pointy things, explosive things, and poisonous things for the time being.
"Actually,"
There's a hoarse voice that trespasses the moment you share with your husband. You both whip your heads towards the curtain.
"Exercise for pregnant women is encouraged. It can strengthen her pelvic floor and -- wheeze--.. lessen the risk of gestational diabetes."
A pause.
"You can ask your obstetrician."
You and Satoru blink dumbfounded at the velvet curtain in surprise before turning towards each other.
Why the hell was he helping?
"I don't remember you being part of this conversation," Satoru sighs loudly to the curtain though he clearly didn't bother to keep your conversation private in the first place. After all, you stormed in with Toji's pistol and it's not like his little toy will leave here alive.
"Hm, that would make sense," you mumble and Satoru turns to you in surprise.
He lifts a brow in response, "Baby, he could be just trying to trick you into harming our baby-"
There's a snort.
"I protect the innocent and bring bastards like you to justice," Yamagishi calls out behind the curtain, "That includes protecting a bastard's innocent baby."
Satoru grins in satisfaction, "That the oath of honor they make you guys take on your first day?"
The painful heavy breathing and refusal to elaborate further gives the white haired man the answer Satoru was looking for.
"You're an undercover cop, thought so," he smirks, turning towards you to already find you on your phone pressed to your ear.
"Who you callin', sweetheart?"
You raise a finger to your lips, leaning into your hip while affectionately rubbing your belly. Then in a shift from your attitude you answer cheerily into the phone, "Hello…yeah, good morning too… may I speak to Dr. Ieiri?...Busy?...Okay…Last name?...Gojo…Oh you can get her on now?...Great…thank you!"
Satoru almost looks miffed that you'd immediately latch onto the rat's comments than trust your own husband's long hours of internet research and extensive reading on the volumes of early childhood parenting books.
You're chattering into the phone and he shrugs as he pockets his hands. You smile cheekily, lashes fluttering up at him that it tells him you've got what you wanted. But he can't get mad, especially when you look at him like that in the morning light, a glowing halo behind your head. And you're giggling, all mischief, glowing, and full with his baby.
A very beautiful, satisfied woman…a very pregnant woman—all his.
You tap your phone closed, tossing it onto his expensive mahogany desk. You wiggle your fingers towards him like a child asking for their present on Christmas morning.
"Hand over, Kai, dear husband," you sing song, a large contrast from your biting tone earlier.
Satoru only smirks, tilting his head, his hair bright and soft as they fall to the side.
"Okay, dear wife, but-" your eyes narrow in suspicion, "-you've been naughty riding on the motor without your helmet."
He crosses his arms before flashing you a dazzling smile, "So maybe tomorrow."
Your mouth opens in protest but you instead seal it. You lean your head back and muffle a frustrated whine. Your husband chuckles, tugging you by the arm. You let him draw you closer as if the space between you was still too far, ever touch starved and bratty. His thumb lovingly caresses the curve of your bottom lip, coaxing you to look back at him,
"Awww, don't be upset baby, you can still use the dojo though," he bargains.
"How can I not be upset?" you grumble, "I want the baby to be familiar with Kai-"
You gasp mid sentence, eyes widening in horror that unnerves your husband. You press your palms to your belly, hands frantically passing all over the fullness of it. Your breathing quickens and you whip your head back up to Satoru with a panicked expression.
"I didn't feel the baby kick at all this morning."
Really, for future parents who's childhood and future occupations involved bloodshed, terror, and gruesome accidents, that sentence alone makes them both terribly frightened. Especially considering that their baby was extremely restless in the womb, thrilling Satoru every time he feels the soft bump against his big hand.
"Are you sure, baby?" Satoru asks, masking his own growing panic as he places a protective palm over yours, "Have you spoken to them?"
"Satoru, the baby's heard my death threats and rants about their father the moment I woke up."
"Shit, okay let me try. Must be missing their daddy."
Satoru squats to be eye level with your tummy, "Hey, bud."
His hands are gentle as they circle over the silk night dress and your husband presses his ear against the bump, "Good morning, it's time to wake up."
He only hears the increasing palpitations of your heart but not a single thud against his cheek and palms.
"C'mon, don't scare the shit-"
"Satoru, language, dammit!"
A snort from behind the curtain.
"Mommy and daddy are worried about you," he coos softly, encouraging a kick with the warm hold of his hands.
Nothing.
And his palms begin to sweat against your side.
"Call Shoko again," Satoru mutters, still keeping his head against your belly. You nod quickly before reaching for your phone-
"Have you eaten breakfast?"
You both whip your heads back at the black out curtain, brows raised in surprise.
"Babies are no different from grown people in a way," the man behind the curtain says. He coughs before continuing, "They also need energy from food."
Satoru does not retort anything snarky in return, looking up at you expectantly. Your brow furrows as you chew your lip, "Come to think of it, I haven't had breakfast yet, just water."
There's yet another pause in the air, and your husband carefully mulls over the thought and possibility. He lets out a deep breath, "Any other suggestions in that bright mind of yours?"
Surprisingly, his captive answers, a little too ecstatic and helpful behind his strained throat, "Yeah, there's really good pho just down the corner-"
"Oh, I've been craving for some good ol' pho," your face most instantly brightens, perhaps realizing your own need for sustenance too.
This was so fucking stupid but Satoru sighs and turns around before calling Ijichi in the room.
“And honey,” you say before your husband opens the door, “Get me bobba?”
Satoru pauses in the doorway, really looking at where his life has gotten him and what it has gifted him with. Your smile is cheeky with a little pout to it, the most dangerous' man's gun on the floor beside you, a beat up undercover up behind the curtains, and spacious office with luxury carpets and premium leather couch. The office has seen much, you've seen much, and he's seen much too but never has he imagined he'd be alive to see this. You, his literal partner in crime, wife of three years, and mother of the child you'll soon greet in three months.
Gojo Satoru has done various unspeakable things to be the undisputed head of the Gojo clan, things that would make a normal law abiding citizen weep and vomit from the horror of it all. Yet at the back of his mind, he knew this kind of domesticity cannot be afforded even by the blood paid.
But he has it all because he has you and the yakuza is willing to do anything to keep it that way.
Your eyes sparkled in joy when he takes three long strides to stand before you, lovingly placing a kiss on your forehead. There's the smell of blood beneath the clary sage, and sandalwood scent clinging on his skin but that's how you both liked it, insane as you are.
He mutters into your hair, rubbing an affectionate thumb over your belly, "I'll be back soon."
So with a swift kiss to your lips, the white haired yakuza boss casually walked out of the room without a second glance to deal with the latest mess.
-
Gojo Satoru was well known to be unpredictable in many ways but you? No.
You liked things done a certain way. The way you like your kills to be quick and clean, the way you're meticulous with your alias', the way you cover your tracks, the way you like to keep your nails trimmed and neat without a trace of your victim's blood flaking beneath, the arrangement of your collection of katanas, and the order in which your arsenal are cushioned in the back of your shelf back home. Satoru has memorized them all down to the way you like to enjoy your coffee and which cup you prefer them to be in.
You had plans for plans and that had served you well in your line of work.
Your routines, strict protocols in your job and your clear set of preferences had the effect of grounding Satoru onto something for the first time in his chaotic life and he's paid extra attention to it.
Then you got pregnant by accident.
If you could call it that with your husband’s damn breeding kink.
Which made you truly become a Gojo with your newfound unpredictability. He joked out loud about how he wonders if something about him impregnating you could alter your genetics to which you only snort rather than smack him on the shoulder.
He wasn't too surprised, simply unused to it. He's heard plenty of horror stories about pregnant women and their erratic fits.
Take for example your abrupt drive all the way here without a helmet, perhaps speeding through traffic lights when you were ironically the most law abiding citizen and careful in spite of the criminal nature of your jobs.
It's funny and endearing how your communication dynamic has shifted from you being the analytical and logical one with him being the dramatic and impulsive one to you being impetuous and emotional with him being understanding and careful in response.
You were both bumbling fools, maneuvering through popular baby books and videos as you gulped nervously at the sight of care and gentleness on an infant that could barely hold its head up. Later, you begin earning puzzled looks from seasoned parents when you and your husband stood at the toy store, asking if there was an AK117 version of the toy guns. There are various (unwanted) advices from various rival clans such as the Kamo (which was still dealing with the scandal of producing an heir outside of the marriage) and the Zen'in (who tossed away the dirt covered diamond known as Toji and had their eyes on an heir who wanted nothing to do with them.)
Pregnancy was a new challenge for both of you. Something you both did not anticipate nor discuss beforehand.
Yet while you both look solemnly at Shoko announcing your pregnancy and the drive home was quiet---as you soon as you arrive and the doors shut, you're holding each other tenderly in silence. You both knew that with this news that perhaps you both can have something normal, bringing forward life with your two hands rather than death for once.
Your lives were unpredictable now with something new waiting just beyond the horizon.
But that's okay because Gojo Satoru was smart as he was unpredictable.
The elevator dings as he arrives, earning respected bows and a uniformed choir of 'welcome back sir' from the guards lined at every entrance. In all honesty, the man could defend himself better than ten men could but it couldn't hurt to display the splendor of his power. Presentation was key in the underworld of crime.
The plastic bags crinkle in his hands then he hears muffled voices followed by loud laughter one of which he recognizes as yours. Satoru's eyebrows raise in suspicion because Ijichi was not funny unless he was being bullied.
"No way!" he hears you exclaim, "You mean swimming is actually good exercise?"
There's a grunt of approval behind the door.
"Holy shit, I always thought that I'd actually drown with the extra weight."
"No, it relieves the tension off your lower back and bump."
"Hear that, Ijichi? Write that down."
Imagine Satoru's surprise when he sees you relaxed and lounging on the couch with--his prisoner on the other end.
"Yamato" is still bruised, bleeding, and smelly. But he's hastily dressed in a spare uniform for the guards, the material hanging poorly off his frame.
Ijichi is standing behind you, warily eyeing the freed captive. His hand is holding a notebook while the other is nervously clutching at the gun by his hip lest the man in question try anything funny.
Satoru hides his frown with that signature easy smile, "What's going on?"
You know he isn't happy but your grin isn't even the least bit guilty. You're completely at ease even as a threat in the room has both his hands uncuffed.
Your husband regards Yamagishi with an icy smile to which the man fumbles, coughing into his elbow with the way his breathing picks up at the sight of him. Ijichi inhales sharply when his boss shoots him the same smile while raising a questioning brow.
Both men are fucked.
Satoru lowers his shades towards Ijichi and the man gives a very slight nod of his head and a discreet hand sign from behind.
"Okay, so things are safe."
A moment of awkward silence passes and Yamagishi tenses, feeling his skin prickle with goosebumps at the yakuza boss' deliberation and displeasure rolling off in waves. But before Satoru draws the gun secured or opens his mouth to end this mess, you point towards the beaten man with a ridiculous statement: he had to stop.
"I want this one."
Ijichi chokes out in surprise while the prisoner's eyes stare at you in disbelief.
"Baby," Satoru says in a warning tone, placing your orders on the coffee table with eyes still trained on the undercover cop who swallows nervously.
Satoru then takes it upon himself to wedge his form between the love of his life and the current bane of his day. He very pointedly ignored the pained shout as the rat fell from the seat. You shimmy into him when he places a protective arm around you, petting his palm possessively over your belly. You barely seem to acknowledge the suffocating dominance of his presence in the room, or the way his fingers pet over your shoulder while the other is tense in preparation.
With a quiet inhale, he takes your hands in his bigger ones.
"Honey, no. You don't know where he has been."
The cute pout on your face would have killed Satoru if he was a lesser man.
"Hey, I let you keep Megumi. Let me keep this one," you try to avoid eye contact, tilting your head over to the prisoner sprawled helplessly on the floor. But Satoru places one of his hands on your cheek to prevent your head from turning to look anywhere but him.
"Megumi-chan is a brat, one you helped orphan by the way" he reminds you with one of the few truths he would admit without a lawyer. You release a guilty chortle at that. "And this old guy is a cop!"
"Well, you paid 10 million yen to the Zen'ins for Megumi."
Satoru opens and closes his mouth. He had nothing to say to that little reminder of his teenage rebellion, even if the amount was chump change to him. You smirk at his hesitance, sensing an opening you keep adding pressure to get the love of your life to crack. You tilt your head towards Ijichi to motion to the large desk your husband barely works in. Ijichi dutifully follows, walking towards the mahogany to search through the drawers.
Meanwhile from his new place on the floor, Yamagishi feebly clinging onto the thin string of hope you offered him so he could live. Perhaps his heroic dreams and ambitions in the first place had been fickle. Maybe it's all the repeated blunt force trauma to the head, how his eyes sting, and his muscles ache; maybe it's the nearly unnerving way his cold hearted captor and long time enemy to the Japanese police community completely switches to a doting and loving husband at the sight of his wife; maybe it's the way a father like him is both horrified and impressed with how two dangerous people, amateur parents, tirelessly try to provide the best for a baby they were yet to meet. Maybe this was his wake up call to focus on the privilege he's had in his life to be raised well and to raise his family the same way.
As a father he did not want to die as some hero of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. Reduced to just a remarkable example to be hailed generations of crime fighters to come. He did not want his wife, pregnant, to tell his children the heroic deeds of their father--their dead father. So in spite of this wavering hope, he clings onto the reality and possibility of coming back home to his family.
Good will prevail--he's sworn to himself to keep the line between good and evil separate but he's realized now that even in the bad, he had to credit this scary couple for their desire of good for their child.
He hears the shuffling and clicking of the cabinet, panicking and wondering if Ijichi was retrieving some gun.
This was it, this was his end. He weakly grips at the couch. To hell with the epiphany when he's lost the chance to do something about it!
Instead, Ijichi retrieves a manila folder. The man eyes it with a quizzical stare as he walks over and bows as he hands it over to you. Your husband watches you carefully as you open the folder and toss it onto the table.
There's a resounding slap on the glass coffee table then your husband and the prisoners' eyes widen at the contents.
The undercover cop perspires heavily at the sight of all playfulness and motherly glow disappearing from you and leaving you with cold eyes, collected voice, and threatening presence. He visibly pales as he begins to feel that thread of hope snap. Because your eyes are understanding, face serious, and in any minute now, he's desperate enough to throw away his pride and beg to be left alive.
"His name is Yamagishi Fujin," you explain in a tone so serious and almost business-like, "He's 34 years old, from Morioka, studied in Hachimantai before moving to Tokyo for university.
Satoru lifts a brow in curiosity at the shift in your countenance. He glances at the folder, gingerly picking it up while the other hand rests possessively on your bump. He flicks through the pages, seeing passport scans, photos, and even his badge number.
"Wife, Yamagishi Himari and they have a three year old girl, Yamagishi Aiko. They live in an apartment in Yamata Street, Chiba."
Yamagishi starts to feel cold sweat, fingers trembling at the accuracy and how quickly you can recite without even glancing at the information packet.
"Room 316, Mihara," you complete the address as you play with your hair, "He's with the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, under his senior Gakukanji who is also being fed info by Suguru's men."
You reach over to your husband, flipping some pages to reveal photographs taken of the man in question three days ago, "By now, they know our current transactions and trade as of June last year and our current base."
Your husband takes his time analyzing each line of report, photographs, and charts. You're thorough as always, and he's impressed but the real question was-
"How long have you known and why have you not told me sooner?" his lips start to curl into that cute little defeated pout.
"Two weeks ago. You should really check your paper work, husband."
Satoru frowns.
"Baby Daddy, I told you," you coo, tone swiftly changing to its affectionate warmth, "I hate being sidelined."
You grin when Satoru turns to you with a stern gaze partly proud and partly upset with worry. You have always been stubborn but you're pregnant. Did this mean you had still been stealthily sneaking around? Did you catch wind of a mole in your empire?
"I had a bet and I wanted to see how long it would take you to find out," you tease, hoping it lightens his mood.
"A bet with who?"
As if hearing the current discussion, the yakuza leader nearly gasps with you when you both feel your child's strong kick delivered in your stomach.
You grin broadly, patting your bump before grinning mischievously at your husband, "With the Gojo heir of course."
Satoru chuckles, releasing the tension in his shoulders with your child's activity and one less worrisome thing on his list: information. The twitch of his fingers was the only sign of his wavering will to let you keep your pet so you bring out the big guns so to speak.
"I'll give up on anything with coffee in it?"
There's a pause and a tense stare down between husband and wife. Satoru chuckles, releasing the tension in his shoulders with your child's activity and one less worrisome thing on his list.
"Deal. Welcome to the rest of your life Yamagishi Fujin!"
Yamagishi nearly cries in relief.
"Of course if he tells the police anything about us,” you quip, “I'll send all his limbs to his family members and leave him to live out the rest of his short life just shitting on himself. Nothing more than a large slug."
Yamagishi could faint.
Your husband hums, "And the alibi?"
"We can pin this on the Kamo clan so our new friend will get medical benefits and paid leave."
As his fate was being casually discussed like someone trying to work out where their pet will stay while on holiday something broke in Yamagishi.
The Gojo are insane as the rumors said no worse, Yamagishi thinks as he dumbfoundedly follows along the conversation being made about him. Ijichi closes his eyes both in relief and exhaustion because yes, you were both insane.
Yet you make it work happily.
Because the cop's duty was to analyze much with the little given, and even with his skittishness over your relationship and let alone bring a child into the world, he thinks twice.
Yamagishi learned many things from his time as a Yakuza grunt. You've held a gun and killed a man when you were twelve, Satoru has done unspeakable things in the eyes of the law at ten as a tradition of loyalty to his clan. But even with the price paid by blood, the Gojo clan has contributed, assisted, and sponsored the unwanted. They've educated many hopeless souls with full ride scholarships and donated to forgotten charities.
You were both insane, untouchable, dangerous, and unpredictable.
Yet he finds himself here, a witness of two mistreated children, one a grown assassin with the other a feared leader of the yakuza--trying to be good parents.
Maybe the next Gojo kid would have a better shot at life, especially when their parents loved them this much to pay close attention to them in the midst of a free fire.
The Gojo's were unpredictable in many ways, but this one? Yamagishi feels he can predict that they'd make good parents.
For a Yakuza and assassin anyway.