Work Text:
It is Monday.
Yesterday was Sunday, hence the pounding in her head. Her cursed energy flickers in an irregular rhythm, and in no condition to treat anyone. She does a quick mental checklist of sorcerers who are on missions right now and the odds of one of them ending up on her table with their brains bashed in. She’s going to owe someone a big one if her hand shakes and they leave her office with a scar across their forehead.
Could've been worse. She doesn't drink too much when she's alone in her apartment, which means it’s probably not a problem. Barely touches the stuff on work nights. She doesn’t need a glass of whiskey before bed to fall asleep, unlike some people.
She catches a glimpse of her messed up skin and sunken eyes in the mirror. Looking like a corpse, how fitting. The elders couldn’t find a better person for the job if they tried.
They literally couldn’t. No one does RCT like she does, few people have and no one will again, since she can’t teach for shit. If Gojo didn’t get it when she explained it to him, there’s no hope for anyone else. And thank goodness for that, because the thought of standing in a classroom, in front of the desks and chairs where she and the others used to sit makes her feel a little sick, though that could be the wine.
At her place there's never much in terms of food, save for instant coffee and leftovers from yesterday’s takeout. The meal makes her feel a little more warm and alive. Corpses don’t crave greasy food - at least not most of them, but stranger things have happened on her autopsy table.
She wants a cigarette.
There’s a half-used package of Utahime’s hair mask under her shower. It’s reddish-pink with some kind of flower and contains all sorts of vitamins and minerals that make Utahime’s hair look the way it does. Every time Shoko tried sticking to some kind of beauty routine, she decided she was too tired by night three.
She briefly considers putting on makeup, but then decides the people at Jujutsu Tech should appreciate her more for taking the time to shower before work.
She doesn’t buy cigarettes. If Utahime can’t be proud of her for looking after her appearance, let her at least have this.
The commute to the damn mountain will be the end of her and the only thing getting her through it is the thought that Ijichi has to drive there, at all hours of the day. Sometimes she sleeps at the school - there’s like three hundred rooms for around thirty people - but it’ll be a cold day in hell if she moves in - the longer you’re in, the harder it is to get out back into the city. It was hard enough living at the place for three years as a teenager. No wonder Geto went insane.
They all think about him every day. It was hard not to when he was still alive, harder yet now that he’s forever immortalized as the grim reminder of what could’ve become of all of them. Still, she thought she would have gotten over him at some point. He was a cult leader twice as long as he was her friend.
Her office is a little too white and a little too bright, but at least it’s quiet. The city they’re technically still in feels miles away. Shouldn’t schools be loud? Seven teenagers aren't enough to make much noise. Was it seven? Kids come and go, and she doesn’t see them most days. Easy to lose count. Jujutsu society has a lot of drama: people get scouted and pop out of nowhere, people leave, people die young.
People go insane.
There’s no corpses waiting for her when she gets there. It’s not a bad day, after all.
The samples she took from their latest curse victims are coming along nicely. Ideally, this could be her entire job. She’s much better with organs, cells, and tissue when they’re not attached to living people. It’s almost fun, exposing something to cursed energy and seeing what grows. Meticulously cataloging the results is a bit less fun, especially with the echoes of a headache still lingering under her eyeballs, but hey, beats regrowing kidneys inside a kid.
The new ones are showing some interesting stuff - they don’t act like the ones damaged by other special grades. The way Nanami described it to her, the talking curse’s technique involved locating and manipulating the literal human soul. No hard proof of that existing so far, though. A lot of surprises waiting at every corner in this profession, but it never seems to be that one.
She’s glad she won’t have to be the one going out to apply this knowledge. Updating files with a mild hangover is bad enough, imagine having to run and jump around. Not that she was ever good at it, in any condition.
No one needs attending to so far, either, so she spends the first half of her shift in front of the computer. There’s so few of them, it feels like those slow days should be more common, but there’s only one of her.
*
It’s a convenience store egg sandwich for lunch. She understands the need for secrecy, but surely it couldn’t hurt for the school to be closer to some kind of civilization. A supermarket. A noodle place. Anything. The vending machines have been the same for at least fifteen years. Plus, it’s weird that the ever-sprawling civilization hasn’t come any closer to them; the higher-ups may have something to do with it.
“Yo, Ieiri.”
If she knew Gojo was around she would’ve sent him to the city for something to eat. He’s got some convenience store shit for lunch too and most likely owes her one favor or another. She lost count years ago.
“Why, hello. How are the children?”
“Which children?”
Right. Multiple sets of children. She vaguely gestures around them.
“Oh! The new ones are brilliant. Sent them on a small excursion as a reward for good behavior.”
“They’re fighting a curse.”
“Sure are,” he unwraps his snack and the smell of artificial maple syrup fills the air. “But they love it! It’s good for them. It’s like giving ice to polar bears in the zoo.”
“Fighting curses is enrichment for the children.”
“The children crave glory on the battlefield.”
Well, if they’re anything like Gojo and Geto when they were kids, that’s probably true. She might see one of his students in her office tonight, then. Good thing her energy has stabilized a little by now. It would really suck for a fifteen year old to be scarred for life because the doctor at their school couldn’t stop at one bottle of wine last night. They deserve better than this faculty.
At least Gojo can’t drink. They need that resident sober person at the school.
Unlike her, he’s content, peaceful, cursed energy that could wipe a small country off the map cascades through his body like a bubbling stream. He loves this new batch of students, and his little army is getting stronger by the minute. The two sentiments do not contradict each other.
Maybe it’s the chemical, sugary smell of his snack, or maybe it’s his smile, a little too sincere, but she’s back in the dorm bathroom ten years ago, the night after Shinjuku, and her shirt is soaked through with his tears. She’s cursed to remember that night everytime she looks at him for too long, like they’re all cursed to think about Geto every day for the rest of their lives. When Gojo sees her, does he think of it too? Does he know what his voice sounded like? Does he remember that he lost it the next day?
She wanted to start crying, too, and really thought she would. Her throat got tighter and tighter, hotter and hotter, and she opened her mouth, hoping sound would come out and their voices would harmonize, so they’d both feel a little less abandoned in all this absurd tragedy. But even if she tried, no noise would come, so she just sat there, mouth opening and closing like a fish, eyes wet with tears but none flowing down, clutching Gojo’s shaking body. Completely alone, both of them. If the strongest person alive falls apart, who's going to watch over everyone? Sure as hell not Shoko Ieiri.
“How are the corpses?”
Her right eye burns a little with the memory. She wants a cigarette. She smoked through a pack and a half that night.
“If I find anything interesting, you’ll be the first to know.”
She doesn't go out of her way to pass any news to Gojo. He knows that and watches her labs like a hawk. She’s not directly involved in his little war with the elders, but it's his little domain that she stays locked under. The side has been chosen for her.
“I’d rather hope so.”
It's not a threat. No one’s ever threatened her. Not even the trigger-happy Jujutsu authorities would be stupid enough to give her up. Besides, if it ever comes to that, they can just throw her in a cell - it’s not like she could put up much of a fight.
And to Gojo, she's holy, just like she was to Geto. Forever in witness protection, as the only one who could testify to the reality of their perfect youth.
“I don't know how you could miss anything, the way you’re hanging around my office all the time.”
“Not true. Sometimes I bother Nanami too.”
“Thank goodness for Nanami.”
*
They carry in the girl and drop her on the table like she weighs nothing. The right side of her chest is sunken in under the uniform jacket and blouse. One meter sixty, maybe, of a woman - girl - blasted through with pure energy, like someone had shot at her with a cannon ball. If there was any lingering hangover left in Shoko, it’s gone the moment she cuts through the white fabric. Steady now.
It's fun for the kids until it isn't - well, Gojo of all people would know.
She must mend the crushed ribs first, to make room for the lungs to expand. As she does, the girl’s eyes fly open.
“Itadori and Fushiguro. Where are Itadori and Fushiguro?”
That reminds her that the children have names, and the one in the process of dying on her operating table is Kugisaki.
“They brought you here. Don't move.”
“Did we win?”
Ieiri glances at her face and sees no fear there. You have a perforated lung, she wants to say, you can think about the curse later. But then again, whatever monstrosity this kid just took on was probably easier on the eyes than the mess it left of her chest.
“You broke a rib. Stay still.”
She doesn’t mention the lungs. It’ll all be over soon; anesthesia would waste precious seconds and she doesn’t need someone freaking out on the table right now. Even though she has a feeling this one wouldn’t freak out at the sight of her own guts falling out. They train it out of them.
“Aw, man,” Kugisaki’s sigh turns into a hiss of pain. “I can't believe it got me.”
“Just a scratch. You'll be good as new tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? I'm going back there! I need to get back at it for ruining my jacket!”
She tries to laugh, but her broken torso won’t let her, and she falls back against the table, allowing Shoko to do her job. The ribs are not all mended, but back in the position they’re supposed to be in. Now the lung.
It’s practical, that they’re like that. She doesn’t know what normal fifteen year olds act like in emergency rooms, but she imagines there’s a lot more fear involved. A lot more pain. Do they cry? Do they ask for their parents? Kugisaki would probably rather die, maybe literally.
Back when Shoko was still going on missions and getting hurt, she never thought of her family. They were far away, in the free world, and she was locked inside the school. She wanted Gojo and Geto when she was scared - they would never let her die and were the closest thing she had to loved ones in this place.
Then she just wanted a cigarette. Or a drink. Ideally, both.
Do doctors still give stickers to children? Is that a thing? She should start handing out stickers. They’re Gojo’s students, they’ll appreciate the joke.
“I wouldn’t worry about the jacket. They can afford to give you a new one.”
The lung is not as bad as it seemed; the flow of energy is disrupted but not blocked. Severed blood vessels come together, torn tissue melts back like raw dough. No stitches, no trace this ever happened. Can’t have sorcerers running around with scarred organs.
“I don’t care. I need to get back at it. What does it think it is… punching girls like that!”
“Not exactly gentlemen, are they.”
Gojo always says they have to be a little crazy to do this job, and that’s how he picks them, but it’s not true. Nanami was free for just a few short years, and he’s normal. This girl wouldn’t be acting like that if she got hit by a car. It’s not fate or cursed energy messing with the brain. She’s never seen any convincing evidence of it happening. The job does it to them.
“And not very handsome, either,” Kugisaki tries to chuckle again, against all instinct and reason - two things she’s already learned to ignore.
“Stop laughing or I’ll knock you out.”
“No need. Fine, I’ll shut up.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Her body, like her mind, is strong and helps Shoko every step of the way as if it can’t wait to be mended and go back out to fight. The girl is bursting with cursed energy, flowing fast and smooth like quicksilver. Patching up the lung and melting bone back together takes under twenty minutes.
“Is she alright?” Shoko barely has time to take off her gloves before two boys from Kugisaki’s class are barging in. “Kugisaki, are you alright?”
“She’ll live.”
“Never been better!” Kugisaki tries to flex her biceps at Itadori but struggles to pick herself up. “Thanks, doc!”
“Just don’t go running after curses yet, got it?”
“Aw, come on, doc. Just one tiny curse?”
“I can’t stop you, but next time I’ll definitely knock you out.”
“How about shopping? Am I allowed to go shopping?”
“Can you go shopping tomorrow?” Shoko understands that so well. She also took every opportunity to get out of the school and take a look at the real world. “Or maybe Wednesday?”
“Fine. But Itadori and Fushiguro have to keep me entertained until then.”
Fushiguro groans, Itadori starts listing the movies they could watch tonight. They’re big, strong boys, but in the sterile white light they look tiny. Five years from now, will they still be stopping by her office after coming back from missions? They’ll still probably seem like kids to her.
“You heard her, boys. Take good care of my patient.”
Shoko wants a cigarette.
*
She’s cleaned up the office after Kugisaki’s unexpected visit and half-heartedly updates some of the older research files when she gets a text. It’s almost always someone from the school. Her family only texts around her birthday and the New Year.
It’s Utahime.
Before she opens the chat, she remembers the reddish-pink of the hair mask packaging. She should throw it out. It’s old, so Utahime won’t use it next time and will just yell at her for not cleaning the bathroom more often. She’ll bring a small armada of hair and face products with her anyway and line them up all nice in front of Shoko’s drugstore shampoo and conditioner.
hii Shoko <333 i’m coming next month for a council thingy!
Now that’s going to be a hangover. Utahime arriving for a ‘council thingy’ is like the carnival coming to the Tokyo school. Shoko can almost hear her drunk rendition of Mariah Carey and Gojo making fun of her heavy accent already. She can almost hear the sound of breaking glass that will follow.
Utahime’s voice is sexy when it gets raw and husky.
Shoko wants a cigarette, but Utahime would be disappointed. She needs to hold out for at least another month. Surely it gets easier at some point.