The Deepest Wounds Aren’t Physical part II
Pairing: Megumi Fushiguro x reader
Synopsis: Sequel time. Fushiguro becomes your caregiver while you recover. Antics ensue.
A/N: it’s here! I did it! Thanks for being patient
Your bedroom held the typical staleness of a place that hadn’t been disturbed in a week. Nothing about the room was different, but you knew you had changed… physically and mentally. Taking in all the stuff that made you, you -- down the where you put your computer, how you left your desk, as well as whatever various odds and ends made their home between these otherwise unassuming four walls -- and all the other details you had forgotten about made you feel awash with cozy comfort. You almost didn’t make it back to this bastion of safety, and though the place might get tiresome after being bedridden for the next several days, right now it felt good to breathe in the stagnant air because it meant you were able to breathe period. Besides, the meandering trek back here from the hospital had blessed you with plenty of fresh outdoor oxygen. Fushiguro had been beautifully dutiful in his assignment of getting you back to the dorms without hitting a single crack or dip in the sidewalk. A gentleman, really.
Now, what to do about said person.
Fushiguro had been in your room before, but now the situation escalated for a multitude of reasons. Was your room too messy? Should you offer him a seat? These pervasive thoughts were dumb when you thought about it. You recalled his mannerisms from yesterday. He reached for your hand with such fluid certainty, his words came out on unsteady legs while he battled to say just the right thing to you, and he took steps to be with you without the distraction of others. This was a man that desired to be with you more than he cared about how you kept your room.
“Thanks again, Fushiguro. You didn’t have to.”
“You weren’t leaving the hospital outside of a wheelchair, and anyone else would have most definitely messed it up somehow; you’d probably be in your wheelchair stuck sideways in a ditch right now.” He imagined Itadori recklessly taking you on some off road adventure he’d describe as ‘fun’ before slipping or letting go of your chair and cascading down a slope to inevitably end up in a pile of weeds or sinking in a trough of mud.
“No,” you restated, trying to convey your seriousness. “I meant for everything. I heard what you did to get me back.”
His eyes enlarged just a fraction at your frank words and heavy truth. You were so cheery just seconds before, and now your eyes smoldered with such hot intensity it caused the temperature to rise under his own skin. How did you do that? How could you say one little thing and hold his attention so completely? It simply wasn’t natural. To be honest it kind of scared him a little. Whatever you had done to him -- and it was very clear you were responsible for something -- brought to the surface an altogether undiscovered side of him. It was powerful, unpredictable, and possessed the ability to replace his typical persona with a depraved alter-ego. The feeling that overwhelmed his body when he found you on the table in the warehouse… it unnerved him to his core. Was something happening to him? All he knew for sure was this: you were the cause, and yet he wasn’t the least bit mad at you.
What was it about you that created such a grand fixation? It wasn’t the result of anything physical -- the way you told jokes wasn’t physical, how you made him feel wasn’t physical -- it was something far more permanent. He only wished he had prior experience to go on, but frankly he had resided himself to a short, lonely, and torturous existence a long time ago. Then you… happened.
“We should all look out for each other.”
In another life you might have taken his words as an attempt to push you away, however, Fushiguro’s affection for you was beginning to take hold and blow away all the misty insecurities skimming the edges of your mind. “Can I at least get you something for offering to take care of me? After this is over I could treat you to a bookstore shopping spree or something?”
“Are you sure? Who knows, I might make you rub my feet or send you into town for candy at four in the morning.”
He exhaled a single breath of a laugh in response. “I’m sure it’ll be okay.”
A bottle of pills fell out of the ‘goody bag’ you’d been sent home with. Originally given to you to carry your prescriptions and instructions for a proper recovery, it now also held everything you’d taken out of the hospital room: flowers from a myriad of people, a pack of face masks courtesy of Kugisaki, and some comfort food and movies brought by the second-years. Fushiguro swiftly picked up the stray container and handed it back to you.
“What’s your healing schedule look like?” Fushiguro said and took a seat in your desk chair. You placed the flowers on the closest hard surface and dumped the bag’s varied contents onto the bed quilt. Your sheets had spent the day under the sun breaking through the window glass and were now pleasantly warm. Curling up under them sounded deliciously inviting.
“Let’s see, Ieiri gave me a few medications to speed up recovery. This one is an oral corticosteroid, then there’s a muscle relaxer, antibiotic, and topical cream to prevent scarring. She mentioned she had healed the worst of the injuries, but the last of the scars and the underlying muscle pains needed further care.”
“How often does it say to take each one?”
“Hmm. Antibiotic is once every twelve hours, muscle relaxer and pain meds three times a day, and scarring cream as often as desired, but should be at least two to three times a day.”
Fushiguro examined the various pill bottles himself under a surprisingly scrutinous eye. Who knew what the side effects of these could be. “When do you take the next thing?”
“I can take the pain reliever and muscle relaxer now, but the rest is for later.”
Without a word he left for the bathroom, and a moment later you heard water steadily filling a cup. It gave you a moment to appreciate the underlying kindness of the person currently out of sight but most assuredly not out of mind.
I’ll enjoy regaling our time together to your friends while I’m taking their limbs off, or maybe making them fight each other to the death, or feeding one’s flesh to another. Which one are you most fond of? I’ll leave them for last.
The curse’s voice was gleeful and energetic while it dutifully picked you apart. You had been told your classmates would never make it through the front door, that they’d be greeted with your corpse stuck up on a pike high above the building as the perfect beckon of gruesome despair. It said this and countless more abhorrent scenarios with such confidence it poured pools of emotions into your eyes against your will. Then the curse mocked your tears with pinpoint accuracy all the while performing those indescribable procedures on you. It kept asking you and asking you to divulge what you knew about Gojo’s Six Eyes but there was little doubt it wasn’t also torturing you for its own pleasure. All of those painful promises about feeding your friends to each other or sending pieces of you to the school… it was all a lie, a god awful mental tactic focused on unraveling your psyche for the simple enjoyment of basking in your sorrow. That curse never intended to stick around, all it wanted was to send a message: the students, particularly those belonging to Gojo, were not as safe as everyone hoped.
“Hey.” Fushiguro said. From the tone of his voice it was clear he’d said something else to you but you’d missed it. Why had those memories suddenly come out of your brain? You thought you felt safe… could you, inwardly, still feel unsafe even with your rescuer literally right in front of you?
You thanked him while taking the cup of water. Even with soothing hydration, the large horse-pills went down begrudgingly. Coughing was basically a given, but thankfully Fushiguro wordlessly refilled the cup and gave it back for you to heartily consume.
He spoke again, calm, matter-of-fact, like always. “You should rest.” Fushiguro probably thought your previous lapse in concentration was due to exhaustion, and truth be told you were steadily becoming tired. It appeared that all the high speed healing took a major toll on your energy -- which was completely understandable.
Fushiguro asked to see your phone. You obliged, a little wary, but saw your bright screen from this angle change to the contact page while he made sure his number was in your phone. Now that was cute. He must have forgotten the first years all exchanged numbers at the start when you all met for the first time; it wasn’t hard to fathom you’d need to contact each other. You on the other hand did not forget. At first you saw Fushiguro as the grumpy introvert just like everyone else did, but no one could deny his beguiling sense of maturity. As time progressed it became clear his ability to act older than his age was a skill refined through the process of -- possibly intense -- grief and emotional upheaval. Though such level headedness was borne out of unfortunate circumstances, his resulting personality made him easy to trust. You could say he was chicken noodle soup in human form. Fushiguro handed your phone back and spoke in his familiar timbre: “the faculty are all busy and none of the other students are going to refrain from being needlessly tiresome, so text if you need anything.”
“I will.” You affirmed. Any kind of confidence suddenly became hard to maintain now that Fushiguro leaned his great weight close to you. From here you could see the way a few of his large eyelashes crisscrossed in a desperate attempt to match the unruly mess at the top of his head. God damnit why did he do this to you?
“I mean it. I’m the only one taking care of you, so don’t hold back just because you think it might upset me or interfere with my time.”
Words were hard, but you managed. “I won’t.”
Now he was backing off your intimated form and gathering his things. Was he leaving so soon? The loneliness that closed around the innards of your chest was a wily beast running amuck within your ribcage and you desperately wanted to slay the offending monster. Bitter realization struck you down: maybe he had other things to do, moron. You couldn’t fault him for that. Was it bad you didn’t even know what his schedule was like?
“What is it?” He asked. It was a curse he could read your internal emotions to this extent.
Now was the time to be vulnerable, right? Or was that going into things too fast? Give a reclusive guy like him lots of space, or take it further? You couldn’t lie -- you wanted to tell him what you were thinking. After what happened both at the warehouse and the hospital, you were sure you could be confidants. He wouldn’t have cared about you in this manner without wanting the accompanying emotional vulnerability you already wanted to show. Fushiguro and a term like ‘emotional vulnerability’ didn’t seem to belong together at first, but you were confident that wasn’t truthfully the case. You looked into pacific-colored eyes; unbeknownst to you because of the infancy of your relationship, his eyes were heavily diluted with waves of newborn affection. It made him feel warm to look at you right now.
“It’s nothing.” You said. “I wanted to offer you to stay and hang out, but I know you’ve got things to do.”
There was a pregnant pause while he observed your battered body sitting only somewhat comfortably in the medical-grade wheelchair. Gruesome marks that previously broke up the planes of your bright complexion were now mere shadows of their former strength. It felt good to see you like this: obviously still recovering, but conscious and in front of him and awake and alive just as you were before everything happened. If only he could return to that.
“Mind if I grab a pillow for the back of the chair?”
And then you spent far more time together, talking, watching TV, reminiscing about friends and enemies alike. It wasn’t much time at all until your exhaustion really became apparent, but neither of you had been focusing on the clock. Fushiguro enjoyed the positive emotions he could discern from you, but you felt even more than what he had picked up on. Having him stay kept away the thoughts that tended to come into a person’s head when alone until your need for sleep became strong enough that it demanded to be answered.
“I’ll be back later. What do you want for dinner?” Fushiguro stood and, after adjusting everything so it was close to the edge of your nightstand for easy reaching, made for the door.
The sudden mention of him and dinner threw you off. “W-whatever you want.”
Now in the open hall, Fushiguro slouched with relief. Here more than usual he cursed his less-than-stellar upbringing. There persisted such a disconnect between how he wanted things to go and what ended up transpiring. Surely it would have been better to stay with you -- you were probably still so scared of being alone and now he regretted leaving -- but he had always been a person to turn inwardly when he wanted to sort out his thoughts. No. He should go back. He’d look like an idiot; indecisive, fickle, maybe needy too. You could already be asleep, and then he’d feel even worse for waking you. Fushiguro couldn’t help the sounds of exacerbation breaking away from his mouth. A fit of frustration meant he was punching the side of his fist into the off-white hallway walls before he even knew what he was doing.
Back in your bedroom, things were going better. The sleep that befell you shortly after he left was heavy; it took time to fight away the groggy sludge in your head when you next opened your shining eyes. Your room had turned midnight blue and ivory white with the replacement of hearty daytime sky by soothing darkness. Worry over the time of night was vanquished by the quick grab for your phone. It wasn’t dinner time yet, so you hadn’t missed Fushiguro or a meal. What you didn’t miss were the scars and their accompanying aggravation at your gentle movements under the bedsheets. Ieiri mentioned the more you applied the anti-scarring cream, the better it would work -- the directions weren’t complicated, but you were about to find out the seemingly simple application was infinitely harder than it sounded.
Five minutes later and you’d only just now managed to get your shirt pulled up across your shoulders so you could get to the myriad of wounds digging deeply into your supple skin.
“Ah!” You cringed. Burning, cutting, gouging, beating, and stabbing had done a number on the nerve endings. Time, not supernatural healing, was the only thing strong enough to help the synapses grow and make new connections -- and the ebbing effectiveness of your pain meds didn’t help either. Just disturbing the fine hair around your scars caused a zipping kind of pain, the kind brought on by over sensitive and raw skin. And that was for the place you could reach. What made this simple task of applying cream seem impossible was the agony brought on by reaching your musculo-skelatal limits. Extensive tensing of your muscles during your session at the warehouse had evidently caused muscle spasms or soreness too great to overcome. In order to treat your scars you first had to reach them with a pair of arms that were currently experiencing pain much worse than the times you’d had extreme sunburn. They couldn’t move far outside their relaxed position in your lap. The vast majority of your healing wounds were simply out of your limited range of motion.
Quiet darkness and solitude were your only friends right now. Gargantuan was the name for the task you had before you. To reach, lather, and massage every scar could take hours; just imagining the pain you had in front of you made your throat grow knives and cut in on itself.
You really wanted this though. After everything that happened surely it wasn’t too much to ask for a little damn self care, right? For the love of god, you just wanted to do one thing by yourself. Asking for any kind of help wasn’t in your mind now that you had desired to do this by, for, yourself. Thoughts you could feel closing in began to smother you: helplessness, insecurity, loneliness, timidness. Your eyes screamed to be dry yet they began to rapidly drown. Frustration seared your muscles and made everything worse. You didn’t want scars as a constant reminder of the heartless grins and abhorrent goings on of your captors. They regarded you as less than insignificant. You struggled endlessly and yet all that came of it was jeering snickers and more agony. A worthless freak of nature was what you were to them… and you didn’t need any more reminders of that feeling than your memories.
The answer was simple: if you wanted this done, you needed help. It would make you feel a little exposed, but Kugisaki would help. She wasn’t--
Quiet knocking made you flinch, and flinching caused a muscle spasm the likes of which would alert the entire building if you let out the appropriate sound. Fushiguro softly called your name. At first you said nothing. If all went well, he’d assume you were still asleep and come back later, but now he was saying how he brought dinner, and that you should really eat, and that he was coming in.
“No--wait--ahah!” Somehow you forgot to not move and ended up twisting your torso towards the door. The sheer magnitude of pain brought about by muscle damage was a gruesome and three headed monster that broke its own chains and leaped right out of your quivering body. Fushiguro called your name with severe urgency. He’d heard your struggles and now nothing would stop him from thrusting open the door. You managed to reach up -- another bolt of discomfort -- and at least partially pull the hem of your shirt down over your back. It got below your bra, but not much further.
Your back was facing him but you could still tell how he stopped at seeing your situation. There was little to do but simply exist and let him process the surprise over your somewhat undressed self.
“I’m sorry. I can come back later.”
The shadow of the closing door stopped and receded.
“Can you get Kugisaki? I--uhm--have this scar cream to put on, but I can’t reach anything.”
The silence you got in response drug on for a finite eternity. Slowly, too slowly, the door shut, and with it your heart plopped straight to the floor. Fushiguro’s steps were as careful as his knock from earlier. You couldn’t turn to him even if you wanted to, but you didn’t want to. Your discomfort and appearance weren’t something you wanted to see him look at; you sat quietly and endured this moment of fragility, vulnerability, so you could move on with the situation.
Fushiguro only came into view to set a bag of takeout boxes on your desk. Then, he looked sideways over to you. The eyes consumed you with emotions you didn’t know how to pick out yet, but you wanted to learn. As blue as oceans, twice as deep.
“She’s in town with Itadori right now, but--” he looked to your desk for but a second before regaining eye contact, “--I can help… if you want.”
Now your heart rocketed back up from the floor, through your chest, and hit the roof of your mouth. Jesus Christ.
You really wouldn’t have blamed him if you found judgement in his eyes -- if you showed an eighth of the discomfort and shakiness you felt, you’d look an emotional mess -- but there was nothing but a feather-light inkling of a visual embrace. He didn’t feel anything good or bad in regards to your predicament. He just wanted to make sure you were okay.
It wasn’t his body heat you felt when he sat behind you, but your own.
Your voice was quiet but you’d do anything to fill the silence even if it wasn’t an awkward one. “I’m sorry if I’m shaking. Muscle spasms are stronger than I thought they’d be.”
“It’s okay. They’ll go away.” Fushiguro’s voice was strong and it made you feel better. At least one of you wasn’t freaking out.
Internally, however, Fushiguro was screaming. He wasn’t a prude; he was still a guy. He still had… urges. It wasn’t like he’d never seen or touched a girl, but this was the first time he’d touch a girl’s bare skin after saving her from captors and spending two days beside her in the hospital. After what you two’d been through, this felt heavier. You weren’t just any girl, you were the one who’d basically-kind-of-almost told him he was special to you before getting abducted and nearly dying. You had tried to, and he had pushed you away -- a brutal mistake. Maybe if he had let you finish it somehow would have altered events and you wouldn’t have been taken. Whether or not it was warranted, he felt responsible for the harm that had befallen your undeserving soul. Fushiguro believed getting close to him was dangerous -- just look at what had happened to him thus far -- but he was beginning to see a world where there was strength to be had in the kind of togetherness he found when he peered into your compelling gaze.
“It uhh,” you tried to swallow and almost choked, “it says to lather on a generous amount, and it needs to be massaged in for a bit, too.”
Of course he needed to massage it into you. Had he been cursed or something?
He squeezed a generous amount from the tube onto his hands. Tumbling emotions and interesting predicaments aside, there was someone in front of him that needed his help; someone he cared about. He was going to do what was needed to meet your needs. You didn’t have anyone else.
The large scar eyeing him folded over itself in a way reminiscent of fine drapery. Burn scar. The bastard curse lit you on fire. You’d cried out about something burning when you were comatose in the infirmary -- it could have been because of this thing staring him down. His face fell into a grim expression he was glad you couldn’t see. Based on the intensity of emotions, he could scare you right now. The only thing to do would be to dutifully apply the scarring paste and hope that combined with the intense healing would make it go away.
Carefully he smeared the white paste over the roughly textured skin. You made a noise of discomfort and he took his hand away instantly. “Did I do something wrong?”
Oh god this was the most embarrassing thing you could ever remember happening to you, you were certain. You were essentially shirtless in front of this person, exposing your unprotected back to him and asking him to massage you for several minutes at a time, with darkness only adding to the intimate atmosphere.
From where you were, it didn’t seem to matter to him. Fushiguro dutifully smeared the lotion with his strong fingers and carefully worked it through the skin and into the underlying muscle. His rhythm was smooth. It already felt so much better than what you imagined you’d be able to do. Sure, the flesh zinged with a little sensitivity, but the lotion was thick enough to dull the worst of it.
“Let me know if I’m pressing too hard.”
Oh, you would let him know, for sure. Right now his consistent pace and ample pressure made your eyes close of their own accord but you didn’t have the willpower to protest. Why would you? Fushiguro had finally overcome some of the strain and stress that had long ago locked you up. The muscles underneath his fingers finally unwound. That hand of his was large, strong, far more effective than your weak little limbs would be even if you could reach. Gradually friction and his warmth began to raise the temperature of the cream until it had a pleasant heat and you didn’t realize how much you had begun to slouch. Fushiguro noticed, however, and couldn’t stop the pleasant shift at his mouth’s edges. Not only was he happy that he’d managed to do something you so clearly enjoyed, but he enjoyed seeing you finally feel some happiness for a change. With what he hoped was a subtle final stroke of his thumb, he finished the first scar.
This one was a brand. It didn’t form any word or design -- thank god. If you’d been marked with a message or symbol he was confident he’d be capable of nothing but a hatred fueled rampage. Now that he was near your hip the air started to weigh down your lungs. His breath could be felt over the newly dampened area around the scar he’d just tended to. It cooled it down when he had only just caused it to warm so completely. The temperature of your body as a whole was rising and all these competing hots and colds were causing a buildup of sensations. In short, it felt good. Christ, you’d have to focus if you didn’t want any sounds leaving your mouth.
Fushiguro focused on maintaining a constant rhythm over this scar. If his mind wandered, he’d realize how nice your skin felt beneath his fingers, how you were exposing yourself to him, basically in his lap, trusting him with your fragile body--
His other hand squeezed hard around the plastic cap for the tube of cream. He would outright grab and rip out his own hair before he let himself be consumed with those kinds of thoughts when you genuinely needed his help. You were placing a great deal of trust in him -- the least he could do was keep his thoughts on track.
The rest of the marks he could see were diligently covered in time -- and yes, they were massaged. Each one took a minute or two of attention before he could move onto the next. He felt frustration bubble in his blood with every one he inspected; this one was a cut, maybe from a large knife; this one was deep and thin, like a stab wound; this one was large, maybe something had dug in harshly and pulled. Depending on the wound your skin reflected a wide range of textures due to the varying types of trauma. Yet, despite the folds, twists, bumps, and ridges, your skin still felt good to touch. It was warm and welcoming… it gave him tactile proof you were not only here but solid and whole -- battered, bruised, sure, but whole all the same.
Fushiguro stopped after tending to a long and thin offender over your ribs. That was the last one he could see from here.
“Are there any up higher?”
He’d come closer to you to get the last one and he’d almost had to embrace you to reach it properly. You could see his skin in new detail at your periphery -- if you turned your head you’d be closer than you ever had been before. Such proximity sent your nerves alight; it didn’t help that the hyper-reactivity of your skin was a blurry mix between the faintest discomfort and complex enjoyment. “Yeah… yeah, I think so.”
Slowly, wordlessly, he pulled your shirt all the way up and over your shoulders. The gentleness he’d shown thus far was a blessing. It was the reason your unease had subsided for the most part. Fushiguro stayed gentle and gentlemanly each time his touch brought your skin to life on a different part of your body. Occasionally you leaned one way or the other to give him easier access to wherever he went next. No one had been this careful and diligent with your body. You couldn’t help how you wanted to sigh each time a muscle relaxed involuntarily because of Fushiguro’s commanding touch. Thankfully -- blissfully -- it didn’t get more intense than that.
There was a hand on your arm and the person behind you may have been even closer than before. “You okay? You’re trembling.”
“It’s the muscle cramps.” Which was largely true, but you didn’t know if he believed you. The parts that had been stroked were calm, relaxed; what you didn’t pick up on was the rigidity of your arms while they gripped injured legs. Who could blame you though? There had to be some kind of outlet for this situation.
Fushiguro withdrew. “After this is done you’ll need to take your meds.”
“Yes, doctor.” You couldn’t help but instigate. Managing a joke was a surprise… as was the very soft chuff of amusement from the man behind you.
Fushiguro eventually began to make a dent in the numerous wounds that needed tending to. From then on the silence grew and grew into the night until you began to pay attention to the hum and buzz of cicadas outside. The scars at your shoulders had their turn to sigh in the comforting breeze that was the person leaned over your spine. He had yet to fatigue or lose strength. It was honestly impressive -- how he could brutally exterminate curses yet still possess the delicacy needed to prevent your skin from experiencing too much pain. This guy was becoming more and more the blessed enigma you imagined him to be.
“Thank you for helping me Fushiguro. I don’t think this is probably how you envisioned spending your evening.”
The pause you got as a reply wasn’t anything like the pleasant silence from a moment ago. This break in speech was oppressive, a ball and chain dragging you down, down, down, down into the depths of your thoughts. The stoic person behind you was wading through his own mental currents; you were the one bare before him, yet he was feeling like he was exposing himself to you. “I think we’re on a first name basis now… after this.”
And suddenly you felt even hotter under the skin than before. Were you really beginning to sweat? Fantastic. As if you needed another reason to feel uncomfortable. Why did your ribcage have to feel so tight?
“I just figured, since you don’t love your given name, I’d--”
Fushiguro -- Megumi, now, apparently -- moved casually to tend to an abrasion on the back of your arm. The jolt of cold kept you grounded. If only there was some ice you could pour on yourself. However, the more you thought about it, the more a friendly fuzz began to hug your heart. First names. It was heartwarming and giddy at the same time. Perhaps this wasn’t awkward, perhaps this moment of darkness and vulnerability was a blessing, a route to growing closer. Perhaps this was the beginning of a turn of luck. What else would change?
Well that brought you back up to reality. You hadn’t been told that before. “I did?”
“Yeah,” the note was a touch somber, “Ieiri did everything she could; they got this really burly guy… he gave you compressions until they got a pulse.”
Megumi remembered how your limbs catapulted up off the bed each time your torso was slammed into the mattress. It looked like they were breaking you… all over again.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“It's alright. You came back fairly quickly.”
That must have been why there was so much bruising on your chest. Megumi wasn’t going to be privy to that information.
He spoke once more: “do you need help turning around?”
“There must be some on your front--”
“I can do those!” Rubbing lotion on a girl's back was one thing, but your front was where all the soft bits were, and there was no way you’d face the guy while he massaged you. How could this kid be so oblivious? Now was the time to change the conversation before your embarrassment was obvious even in the limited nighttime light. All it took was mentioning the take out boxes getting cold on your desk before focus shifted to the idea of dinner. The cooling breeze infiltrating your room from the window was kept adequately at bay by the warmth in your stomach (courtesy of both the food and your company). Conversation became lighter and even ascended to the airy ranks of laughter. Megumi had wondered when you’d sing that song again.
It was here and now that he got to fully appreciate your presence. Your laughing pulled at something deep down within him. The muck and stench of death from before had long since left you. He was looking at a live person that gravitated towards him, made him feel stronger and made him worry about his strength all at once. What if something happened to you again and neither of you were as lucky as this time? When you looked at him, he could tell you saw a version of him he only hoped to be. Frankly, it was nerve wracking. Megumi spent several moments observing the finer details of your visage under the stark desk lamp light. His dimensional eyes were deep as ever and filled to the brim with a pensive thought… it was strong enough to make your inner muscles shiver at the possibilities of what thoughts those irises contantained. “There’s a couple on your face.”
“What, food?” In horror you held your hand to your mouth.
Now the tremors of your heart arose again with scary vengeance when his hand rose without warning and subtly grazed a small patch of skin on your forehead. You didn’t miss his minute shaking. “Right there… I’ll get the bottle again.” You wanted to look away when his thumb pad went out of your field of view to ignite the skin at your hairline in an intimate stroke. However, it was impossible to do anything other than watch his placid, focused expression diligently tend to the abrasion. You couldn’t feel the heat of his finger based on such a small area of contact, but your skin became warm all the same.
The lightest smattering of freckles peered back at you from their throne over his cheeks.
“Here, too.” Megumi said and gently thumbed the top of your cheek just below your eye.
“Oh, thank you.” You looked over his shoulder so as to rescue him from the obvious intensity of your stare. It only served to strengthen the other senses: taking in the steady grip of the rest of his hand holding the back of your head still, the sharp smell of his cologne, the beastly tresses of his hair invading the edges of your vision, the taste of heady anticipation in your mouth.
Then his thumb glanced across your chin repeatedly, methodically. For fear of disturbing the air of delicate affection, you didn’t dare hardly breathe. How’d you hold it for this long without struggling? He was going on… and on… and on for several seconds.
Megumi’s fingers delved into a scar you hadn’t realized was on your neck just over top of your carotid. His fingers were slippery and damp from the cream. Frankly it was a miracle your mind could still take in any information at all. Megumi was closer now. Close enough to be intimately aware of all the secrets of your eyes and the exposed thumping of your pulse. Surely the weight of it was making your chest -- and the pulse point he was currently focusing so intently on taming with those damned fingers of his -- jump up and down enough to be visible. You two shared each other’s breath and eyes finally looked back to each other’s.
You had to break away to double in on yourself, forehead bumping into his shoulder, a razor sharp scream chilling Megumi’s blood to frigid levels. This was what you must have sounded like in the warehouse.
Finding the willpower and voice amongst the storm of pain overtaking you was gargantuan -- you didn’t want to bother speaking. “Muscle spasm. This one really hurts.”
“Let me see, let me see.”
But you didn’t want to open up and physically expose your body to someone in such a time of pain. Ancient instinct decree that you suffer in silence for fear of being hurt. In caveman days a lion could so easily take you out in this state, and though there was nothing to fear here, your baser thoughts couldn’t shake the desire to hide away from him. It was only his touch that was powerful enough in its gentility to break through the haze and get you to entertain the idea of trusting him. After all, touch was far more primal than words. Megumi softly pulled your shoulders open and unwound your hand that was choking the other forearm in a suffocating hold.
“Right here.” You gritted out.
Deftly he took the blasphemous limb in his hand and laced his fingers in between yours. Then he began to pull open your fingers and fight against the unyielding tightness causing them to clench. At first the pull did very little, but slowly he put more strength into it and gradually your fist began to open. His other hand dug into your forearm and massaged out the muscles with a deep and forceful pressure. Little whines of discomfort slithered forth from behind your teeth. It was apparent you could trust him enough to verbalize your pain. Over the minutes your arm began to slacken and release itself from its own cage. Megumi didn’t stop pressing into your skin even after most of the tension had left and you could successfully manage a full breath of air.
“Hello? I have a question regarding one of the patients you recently discharged.”
Such strange words caused you to look up. Megumi was on the phone.
“She’s experiencing very painful muscle cramps. Should she come back in for an evaluation?”
You were close enough to hear the other side of the conversation.
No, that shouldn’t be necessary. After what she has endured, the underlying tissue is rightfully very traumatized. Her nerves are simply reestablishing their connections -- contrary to popular belief, nerve cells do replicate and regrow. It will take some weeks before the severed connections make new ones. Until then, occasional muscle spasms caused by the misfiring of damaged nerves is to be expected. They will decrease in number and intensity over time and eventually subside altogether. Do you have any other questions?
“No, that’s it. Thank you.”
“That’s a bit of a bummer.” You tried to bring positivity to the situation. It probably wasn’t very enjoyable for Megumi to have to help you through that. In fact he was rapidly developing a tsunami of self doubt in his own mind. There wasn’t anything to be done for you -- again. You got robbed from the school even under everyone’s watch; a fact still being investigated. He could do nothing for days while people more experienced than him scrounged for scraps as to your whereabouts. Christ, the kid couldn’t even keep his emotions in check, as evidenced by the whirlpool of cursed energy he unleashed the other day. That wasn’t a result of anything you did, that was his fault. For a moment he was so consumed by the hot-breathed monster known as fury that he totally forgot about you. All his life rational thought had ruled him but in that moment thought had become an impossibility. Just like before, he could do nothing.
The air was pressing in on him and he stood in a futile attempt to leave these tumultuous emotions in the chair facing you. What he had done in the warehouse were the actions of a curse. Helping you until this point hadn’t accomplished anything; caring for you, bringing food, providing company and a distraction, it meant nothing. Christ, when he thought about it like that, it sounded like he was only here with you now to ease his own guilt, which wasn’t true! Megumi was here because he wanted to be. He could still feel the fear in your aura -- he wanted it gone for good, not for him but for you. That was how he knew there existed emotions beyond just trying to make himself feel better. It was hard to convince himself he could cradle your wellbeing in his hands and feel confident enough to trust in himself. “I’m not happy like the others. I’m not… good.” That last bit wasn’t really what he wanted to say but once again the true words he wanted weren’t anywhere to be found. Megumi vaguely gestured to the items spilling off your window sill. “Words of comfort, getting flowers, that’s not me.”
The person in front of you was shy, timid, uncertain. You wouldn’t know he could fight curses looking at him now. Honestly the lack of faith in one’s own self was a sad sight to see. “Megumi, the fact that you care about that means there’s nothing to worry about. Who made sure the window was open before he left to get dinner? Who double checked the dosage of the pills to make sure I was taking the right amount? Who closed the door behind him when he saw me with my shirt up so no one else would see? You’re better at this stuff than you realize.”
Well damn, he couldn’t disagree with your logic there.
“You know,” you continued, “what people call someone who’s done what you have?”
He shook his head, unable to come up with anything.
And just like that his heart imploded in on itself in a splendid and stunning show of fireworks. The way you said his name instantly rebirthed it anew. He could come up with nothing to say though he was certain his eyes told plenty. All he could do was absorb your words in shock. Had anyone ever called him a hero before?
You hid a yawn behind a cough and he finally jolted himself from his reverie. Of course you were tired. It was well into the night and you still didn’t even possess the strength to walk, let alone endure an all-nighter. Megumi hastened to get you the medication he promised to give you after the whole massage fiasco. You had yawned twice more before the pills made it down your throat.
Now came the awkward part. Well, the most awkward part since about 10 minutes ago.
“Do you need help getting ready for bed?”
For the love of god this guy was going to be the death of you. “Nope, no, I’m good! I’ll message you if I need help.” Which was a lie because even if you flew out of the wheelchair, onto the floor, and broke open your head, you’d still never ask him to help you get ready for bed. The clothes you had on were comfortable enough to sleep in, all you had to do was get from the chair to the bed. It would be fine. You’d go slow, grit your teeth at the aches, and be under the safety of your covers in no time. Sure it might take a minute to position the chair so that you could move easily to the bed, but--
“You need help getting into bed, don’t you?”
Thankfully Megumi didn’t try to lift you into his arms after he pulled back the bedding. Instead he gingerly hung your arm across his shoulders and eased you slowly onto your feet. The sharp aches were no joke (was this even any better than if the wounds hadn’t been healed with jujutsu?) but Megumi assured you repeatedly that he had you and you could put your weight on him. That was a blessing, because you totally needed to. The pains were numerous and had you clamping down on your lip to prevent too much complaint. Eventually, however, you could finally relax in your own bed. Knowing the long day was at an end and you could finally settle down in the epitome of comfort to escape the word and all its intricacies had you resisting the urge to reach for the covers and bury yourself right in front of Megumi.
“Your phone is charged, right?” He asked, closing and locking your window and looking for anything you might need near you in the middle of the night.
You hummed an affirmative.
“Alright… I’ll come by in the morning, I guess, unless you think you--”
Great. He’d come on too strong hadn’t he? “Right.”
He spared your vulnerable form one last glance from the hallway. You looked small now that he was farther away from you. She’ll be there in the morning.
Megumi closed the door softly behind him. Solace and solitude were your friends now. That fact wasn’t a bad thing, however. With all that went down, you were convinced you’d have enough material for perhaps years of wandering thoughts. You hoped the comfort Megumi had gifted you even after he left outweighed any creeping thoughts of less fortunate situations. As minutes multiplied, though, the fears grew tendrils and rooted deep into your nerves. The desk lamp only made the long shadows skulking in your periphery become more and more sentient as time passed. You had to pummel the lanky fears into submission. Gojo was back; if anything were to happen again, he’d no doubt fulfill his role as the strongest sorcerer and prevent another breach by an attacker before they even made it into the same zip code. There was also something -- someone -- you didn’t have last time.
Just thinking about Megumi and what he’d done in the last hour alone was enough to defeat the last dregs of dread weighing down your spirit. He clearly and deeply cared for you in his own introverted way. That fact alone strangled the last ghosts of unease until they collapsed and faded away into obscurity. He’d long gone, the darkness of night and the power of loneliness was everywhere, but all you could feel were the lingers of warmth from his capable hands.
