Chapter Text
Ijichi’s lower lip trembled as his foot pressed down on the gas pedal, his sweaty hands gripping the steering wheel tight. Fushiguro sat silent in the passenger seat, Yuji’s body in the back, laying across all three seats, his eyes vacant and glazed over. The assistant manager bit his lip to still it, managing a few shaky, deep breaths, in through his mouth and out through his nose. He tried in vain to swallow the lump forming in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Fushiguro’s eyes, even as he parked the car. He didn’t immediately get out—in fact, he didn’t get out for a long time. He stayed in that car for what felt like hours. Fushiguro had left long ago, without so much as a word to Ijichi.
His thoughts were finally interrupted by two sharp knocks to his window. He jolted upright, having been slumped down in his seat. He didn’t need to look to know who was outside of his car. He finally unbuckled his seatbelt, opening his door and standing, his joints popping loudly as he did. Gojo gave a low, almost amused hum. Well, it would’ve sounded amused to Ijichi if the circumstances were different, if he didn’t have a dead student in the backseat of his car, his blood soaking through the dark upholstery.
Ijichi said nothing to the blindfolded man as he lifted the corpse out of the car, avoiding looking at the dark, empty cavity where a heart full of hope had once lived. He still held his silence as the pair walked into the building and then down the corridor to the morgue.
“Not even going to say hi?” Gojo finally murmured. His tone made Ijichi flinch slightly; the man sounded pissed. He probably was. He had every reason to be. Ijichi had allowed a student to die on a mission.
Sucking in another deep breath, Ijichi replied, “I’m sorry, Gojo-san. I told them not to engage in battle, to leave if it got dangerous.” His voice was low and shaky. “I’m sorry, I should have-”
“Save it,” Gojo scoffed, cutting him off. “It isn’t your fault. You didn’t send them on this mission.”
Ijichi’s tense shoulders, drawn up nearly to his ears, relaxed slightly, and he nodded. “Right,” he mumbled in response, somewhat comforted by Gojo’s words, despite his harsh tone.
Setting the deceased student down on one of the examination tables, Ijichi let out a quivering breath, drawing a blanket over the child so he wouldn’t have to see the gaping hole in his chest. “I’m sorry, Itadori-kun,” he whispered, biting the inside of his cheek. He flinched, feeling a firm hand on his shoulder. He glanced back at Gojo, brows furrowed, his body tense once again. The other man reached for his blindfold, but hesitated, deciding not to pull it down. Ijichi was glad for that. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle having to meet Gojo’s eyes—they were terrifying enough when Gojo was happy, and Ijichi had never seen them when he wasn’t. Not up close like this, at least.
“I’m sorry, Gojo-san,” Ijichi began meekly, but Gojo shook his head, silencing the weak sorcerer.
“Don’t start with that,” he muttered, again reaching for his blindfold—why was he so tempted to take it off? He pulled it down, his hair falling. Ijichi couldn’t help but think about when the two of them had been students, when Gojo had hardly ever acknowledged him, and when he did, it was only to say something unnecessarily cruel just for the sake of being cruel. The older man’s eyes were not hard, intimidating, angry, as Ijichi had expected them to be; Gojo’s gaze was almost sympathetic. The assistant manager wondered if the way he felt now was how his superior had felt after…
Ijichi quickly pushed that thought away. Gojo couldn’t read his mind, but Ijichi was always careful with his inner monologue—private thoughts could easily become public statements if one wasn’t careful.
A small sigh escaped Gojo, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. “Sit down for a while,” he told the slim man, gesturing with his head to a bench by the wall. It wasn’t an offer or a suggestion, but an order. Ijichi obliged, tearing his gaze from the brilliant azure of Gojo’s eyes and instead focusing on the cold gray of the metal bench as he approached it. The gray only served to remind him of the student on the examination table; the color had drained from his skin, his muscles beginning to tense and tighten up as rigor mortis started to set in. Had it really been hours since the child’s life was taken from him? It felt like only moments ago, Ijichi was loading a heavy, limp body into the backseat of his car, coaxing Fushiguro out of the rain and into the passenger seat.
Ijichi sat, his hands gripping the edge of the bench as a bead of sweat dripped down the back of his neck. He let out a shaky sigh, his eyes fluttering shut as his glasses slipped down his nose. He felt them slide back up, peeking one eye open to meet Gojo’s as the man adjusted Ijichi's glasses for him, uncomfortably close to his face. He closed his eye again a moment later. The metal bench creaked as Gojo sat down next to Ijichi, stretching his legs out in front of him, one hand pushing his hair back up as he put his blindfold on again. Ijichi could feel the other man’s gaze on him, boring into the side of his head. He didn’t open his eyes to look back at Gojo; his eyelids felt heavy, as did the rest of his body. He was just… tired. Tired of carrying bodies to and from his car. Tired of working until past midnight in his office, just to go home and work some more. Tired of phone calls. Tired of emails and conferences and the scrape of filing cabinet drawers that were two decades older than him.
The door to the morgue clicked open, and Ijichi managed to raise his head. Shoko. He gave a weak smile, one that wasn’t returned. He closed his eyes again, letting the sound of her and Gojo’s voices fade into the background, become just another buzz to harmonize with the constant ringing in his ears.
He wondered what life would be like if curses just didn’t exist—it was a thought he had often. Other than creating barriers, Ijichi’s only skills were using Excel, doing paperwork, and driving. If jujutsu just didn’t exist, Ijichi was sure he’d make a fine office worker. Would he be married? Have kids? Unlikely. As much as he’d always wanted to ‘settle down’, have a family, he knew he’d never be a good husband or father. He was too easily distracted by work; he could hardly take care of himself as it was, what made him think he could ever take care of anyone else?
But it was nice sometimes, just to close his eyes and fantasize. Get lost in his own mental world, where all of this jujutsu nonsense wasn’t real, where he was just a regular person. Oh, how Ijichi would’ve loved to just be a regular person.