Archive of Our Own

You heaved the giant paper bag on your kitchen counter. Leaning against the wall and trying to catch your breath, you looked at the bag of groceries that towered an inch above your head.

Okay, you thought, maybe I did go a bit overboard. 

You couldn’t help yourself though. How could you? After a particularly gruelling exorcism with the first-years, you had taken it upon yourself to go get the kids some food, knowing they would drop as soon as they walked into their rooms. The exorcism was less of a fight and more of a waiting game, and it took approximately five hours and seventeen minutes till the last curse in the building was gone. 

Hell, you would have dropped dead as soon as you walked into Jujutsu Tech. But you had insisted, taking them to an Italian restaurant in the city. It was a bit of a haughty spot, you noticed, but you didn’t care. All you needed was something warm and filling and quick, without all the nuances of traditional japanese cuisine. 

You had watched Kugisaki shove forkful after forkful of carbonara into her mouth, chasing it down with some lemon iced tea. Fushiguro was a little more refined, despite his still-bleeding nose, as he blew on the surface of his ravioli. No surprise there, you mused, smiling as she sipped her own tea. Kid could break his spine and never bat an eyelash. 

It was the other first-year, however, that you were watching as you ate your own carbonara. If Kugisaki was inhaling her food, then Itadori Yuuji was a black hole. 

The boy ate like his food was going somewhere, so it was no surprise to anyone on the table when he spluttered to a stop, beating on his chest with his fist. You almost laughed at the way his eyes were bugging out of his head. You wondered what you would write in the mission report if your student, Sukuna’s vessel, died from some after-mission spaghetti gone down the wrong way. All four of you reached for the pitcher of water on the side, but it was Fushiguro who reached it first, deftly pouring out some water for his classmate who was promptly turning blue.

“Jeez, Itadori,” Nobara said around the carbonara in her mouth. ‘Slow the hell down, nobody’s gonna take your shitty spaghetti.”

“Hey!” An indignant Itadori emerged from his water, still coughing. His face was red, eyes watering, looking every bit of his near-death experience. Fushiguro was thumping his back. “Spaghetti is the best thing in this entire world, Kugisaki!”

“As if! What are you, five?” Kugisaki was back on her plate, white sauce smeared on her chin. Fushiguro handed her a napkin.

‘I mean,” Itadori said as he started actually chewing his food. Fast learner we have here. “I wouldn’t know, I’ve never really had anything else.”  

You frowned, putting your fork down. “What do you mean, Itadori-kun?”

“I mean,” Itadori started again. “I’m a pretty damn good cook, if I do say so myself. But there’s only so many things I know how to make. Like my famous meatballs, and ramen, and spaghetti.” He counted on his fingers. “Gramps was terrible in the kitchen, almost burned down our house once, so the cooking fell to me.”

“But you know,” he continued, taking a sip of his soda. “I’m no expert at all this fancy stuff. And my gramps never complained as long as it was edible.”

“So yeah,” Itadori finished. “I guess I’ve never had Italian or all that stuff before.”

“Ha!” Nobara pointed a finger at him. You tried to ignore the few loaded stares that came your way. She had a piece of bacon on her wrist. Fushiguro handed her another napkin. “You’re missing out, bumpkin! So much food in Tokyo, you know? Especially Western food? There’s steak, cheeseburgers, those monster shakes as big as your head…”

Nobara droned on about all the dishes she tried right after she stepped foot in Tokyo. Itadori listened with a slight frown on his face. He scratched quizzically at his cheek, at the little dimples sitting just below his eyes. 

“I mean sure, I don’t live under a rock, Kugisaki. I know what burgers and steaks are. Just, you know, I’m fifteen. Never really had the time or the money to go to all these fancy places.”

“Besides,” He paused to scrape the last of his spaghetti off his plate. “I never really liked eating in restaurants. It always felt better to cook at home. But even that made me pretty sad for a while, since you know, Gramps isn’t around to eat with me anymore.” 

You tried to ignore the pull in your chest as you watched your students clean off their plates. Itadori finished first, and was content to sit back and watch his classmates, a small smile on his face. 

Five minutes later, all of you filled to the brim with pasta, you settled the bill and herded the first-years out the door. The trio was silent on the short commute home. Itadori and Kugisaki were asleep on Fushiguro’s shoulders. The latter’s nose had stopped bleeding shortly after dinner. 

 When you finally saw them inside their rooms and headed off on your own, an idea had formed in your head. 

Now here you were, a week later, determined to make Itadori Yuuji the best home-cooked five star meal he would ever eat in his entire life. Hell, the kid had just lost his only family, was forced to drop out of his school, left his home, discovered jujutsu and became the doomed vessel of a thousand-year old curse, all within a week.

The kid’s been through shit. 

Slowly, you unloaded all the groceries, starting with everything cold. You threw butter and buttermilk into your small fridge. The recipes needed them chilled. These were followed by pints of raspberry, vanilla, and chocolate ice cream. You bumped the door of the fridge with your hip. You set down a slightly terrifying mound of beef in the sink to defrost.

Itadori wasn't the only one that liked to cook. Ever since moving to Japan and diving headfirst into a daily routine of cheating death, cooking was one of your last mundane pleasures. You took comfort in the routine of it, the illusion of taking care of yourself, as if you wouldn’t go back to work the next day ready to die. Your kitchen in Jujutsu Tech was small, your room only being slightly bigger than the students. You were lucky to have your own kitchen at all. But it was decent, with cutting-edge appliances more than making up for the lack of space. You had to admit you were a little in love with your Japanese oven. 

Sixteen different features, you thought, amused. Only thing this baby can't do is tie shoelaces. 

Or can it?

You moved on to the fresh produce, loading it all up in your arms. Zucchini, bell peppers, tomatoes, eggplant and squash. Cheeses and herbs, the kind you could never afford without your sorcerer’s wage. You set them in a basket next to the sink. It was a good few minutes before the huge bag of groceries were divided neatly into sections across your workspace. 

You checked the clock by the door. 5:04. Plenty of time. You surveyed your raw ingredients, mentally planning out the massive task of making a meal so good that the first-years would forget their own names. You had invited them yesterday, after a sparring session, and they rejoiced at the thought of free food. 

Time to get going. Tying your hair up and securing a headband on your forehead, you got comfortable, hands on the counter, debating where to start.

Prepping first, you decided. You filled a pot with water, setting it on the stove to boil. You pulled out your knife set, (That you also had a crush on, those blades were glorious.) and layed down two chopping boards. One wooden and one plastic. The last thing you needed was to take someone out with food poisoning. Salmonella would look ridiculous on a sorcerer’s death report, sticking out like a sore thumb among all those deaths by disembowelment. 

Shaking the morbid thoughts away, you made quick work of onions and too much garlic. You scraped those off into neat little saucers. Next was the bell peppers, chopped into pretty little red squares. Off to another saucer. Half of your roma tomatoes were crushed quite unceremoniously into a red paste.

The water was boiling. You sprinkled salt into it, adding a dash of olive oil. After a few seconds of drumming your fingers on the counter, you added a gigantic bundle of spaghetti.

You set a timer to ten minutes, and moved to start on the cherry tomatoes, popping one in your mouth after rinsing them.

Gently, very gently, you slid the tomatoes on the upturned blade of your knife. You preferred them sliced halfway across the center, so they’d be soft and juicy after you sauteed them in the olive oil. One by one you placed them on the blade, admiring the red-and-yellow spheres sliding down the knife like a conveyor belt. Gently, ever so gently—

“What's a cookin’ chef?

You yelped. Unthinking, you flipped the blade, catching it in mid-air and whirling around to stab whatever the fuck it was that just appeared in your kitchen. Cursed energy flaring up so fast you started glowing, you swiped, ready to draw blood. 

Standing there, with cherry tomatoes floating around his head, was Gojo Satoru, a shit-eating grin on his face. 

“Nice knife flip, Bucky.”

“Gojo! What the fuck?” 

“Language!”

You stopped at that, giving him a deadpan stare. 

“What? You don’t get it? You made a Winter Soldier reference, I made a Cap reference, we fall in love, get married—”

“Get the fuck out of my kitchen, Gojo.”

“Oh, you’re no fun.” He pouted. “What’s the occasion? You feeding an army or something?”

You sighed in annoyance. “I promised dinner for the kids.”

He smirked at that, his blindfold shifting as his brow wrinkled. His tone was amused. “The kids?”

“Yeah,” you said, turning around to grab a plate. “The kids.”

“They’re students,” He said. “Not kids.”

“They’re fifteen. Pretty sure that makes them kids.”

“You’re not much older yourself. Are you even in your twenties yet?”

You thought it wise not to speak. You think you’re slick, Gojo. You turned back around to face him, picking out the tomatoes that hung in the air. “These better be clean.”

“‘Course, chef. Clean as a baby’s butthole.” He opened his mouth and snatched a tomato floating in front of his nose.

You hissed. “Gojo! Stop eating my ingredients!”

“Oops. sorry.” He did not sound sorry. “So,” he finally moved as you picked out the last tomato, this time hovering between his eyes. “Do you need help?”

You froze at that, the room filled only with sounds of pasta boiling. Did— did Gojo Satoru just offer to help? Help you cook? Help you cook?

What the fuck?

“Come again?” You decided to make sure. 

He heaved an overdramatic sigh. “I said, do you need help cooking? I’m bored. I can help.”

Well shit, you thought. The bored part, you could believe. The “can help” part, a little less so. But you decided that Gojo was probably not so incompetent to be banned from your workspace. Besides, when else are you gonna get another chance to boss your asshole colleague around the kitchen?

“Fine, then.” You went back to the last of the cherry tomatoes. “Wash your hands and grab an apron.”

“Yes, chef.” He offered you a mock salute, moving to the sink. You tried to ignore the way his arm brushed yours as he stood by the sink, that freaky technique of his buzzing slightly. Belatedly, you realized the kitchen might not be big enough to hold you, Gojo Satoru, and literal Infinity. 

But anyway. 

You moved to the boiling pasta, glancing at the  timer. One more minute. You pressed it before the alarm set off. The kitchen was strangely quiet. Suspicious, you turned in time to see Gojo grab another sliced cherry tomato, popping it into his mouth. 

“Stop it, asshole!”

"Now, now,” the asshole in question had the audacity to wag his finger at you as if you were a naughty child. “That language is not up to kitchen sanitation.”

You huffed a sigh. Grabbing a pair of tongs, you swirled your pasta around, squinting at it through the steam. Perfect. You switched off the heat. Without turning, you addressed your newfound assistant. 

“Grab me the colander, will you?”

“Sure thing,” he quipped. And with all the staggering confidence born from being, well, Gojo Satoru, he reached into a drawer and brandished a long arm right in front of your face. 

Holding a fucking flour sieve. 

You stared at it. He stared back at you, still holding out the flour sieve. You’d give a million dollars, an arm and both your legs to see his face through his blindfold.

Before you knew it, you were laughing so hard that you collapsed on the floor, almost taking down the gigantic pot of pasta with you. Tears streaming down your face, with splotches of red all across your forehead, you laughed so hard you peed a little. 

“I’m—” You were cut off by another laugh, this one lasting a full minute. Finally, finally, you calmed down. You rested your sweaty forehead on the floor. 

You sighed. God. You hadn’t laughed like that in a long, long time. 

You looked up at him, sniffling slightly. A shiver went through you as you saw him, a finger lifting his blindfold to peer at you with one eye. The expression on his pretty face was— 

You had no idea what it was, but it was a face worthy of a damn Michelangelo. His eyes were wide, nostrils flaring, his pretty mouth hanging open. He was still holding the damn flour sieve, you noted, as another bout of laughter threatened to incapacitate you again. 

You stood up, pulling yourself upright on the counter. You took a deep breath before speaking.

“Gojo, sweetheart, do you have any idea what a colander is?” You blushed, too late, at the endearment that slipped from you. You were using your teacher voice. Oops.  

Gojo stared at you for another long moment before rolling his eyes. “Yeah, my bad.” he tossed the flour sieve and held another thing out, pouting.

It was a vegetable spin dryer. 

You inhaled, exhaled. Alright. Okay. World’s strongest sorcerer, better shut the fuck up before you offend His Mightiness.

“No, Gojo, that’s not—”

“Jeez, okay, let me try again.”

“Gojo, I am not playing fucking Hot and Cold with you just because you can’t—”

“I can, sweetheart .” You tried your best to ignore the endearment. “I know what a colander is, gimme a sec, yeah?”

Your pasta was gonna get soggy, but he was on a mission now, white head disappearing into the cabinets. “Fine, Gojo, you have three tries.”

A potato peeler. Nope. 

A meat tenderizer. Are you even trying?

Finally, a steel colander in his hands. You took it quickly, moving the defrosting beef to make space in the sink. You poured the pasta into it, and for a minute you just stared at the steaming noodles, fingers tapping on the counter.

Silence. 

More silence. 

“You’ve never—”

“Don’t start—”

You had spoken at the same time, both of you shutting up just as quickly as you began. You tried again, facing him.

“A colander is—”

“How was I supposed to—”

Again. You nibbled at your thumb. Gojo ran a hand over his face. 

He finally spoke up. “You first.”

Okay then. “You’ve never cooked anything before, have you?”

“Nope.” His reply was immediate, all traces of almost-embarrassment, an emotion you doubted he could feel in the first place, was gone. He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Never had to.”

Right. He was a Gojo. A filthy rich, born-with-a-silver-spoon-up-his-ass Gojo. Someone probably chewed his food for him.

“What, did you subsist completely on instant ramen when you were a student here?”

“Nah, always ate out. I don’t even like instant ramen. Why cook when I can pay other people to do that for me?”

Of course you don’t like instant ramen, you weirdo. He probably snorted straight sugar and called that a meal. 

Great, just great. Just fucking peachy. You came into this expecting an evening of ordering Gojo Satoru around, and he turns out to be a 6’3 very handsome inconvenience standing smack dab in the middle of your kitchen. 

Thank fuck you were a decent teacher. 

“Well,” you quipped. “That changes now, Your Highness.” You laid out a second wood chopping board, another knife. You gestured at the roma tomatoes, grabbing the eggplants for yourself. “C’mere and chop these for me.”

You didn’t know what response you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t instant obedience. He grabbed the knife and stared at you, waiting for further instruction. Weird. At least he was holding the right end of the knife. 

You sliced the eggplants, showing him. “About a fourth of an inch, Gojo. Paper thin. Use the weight of the knife. I need those slices intact and not squished. Got it?”

“Got it, boss. Paper thin.” He was silent, and he could almost hear the questions jumping around in your brain. Don’t look at me like that, I do shut up sometimes. He sliced slowly, methodically, his brain going a mile a minute, wondering how he got here.

He had watched you haul a grocery bag big enough to feed a family of seven for a week. Bored out of his mind, not in the mood to go roaming around Tokyo, he decided to go and piss you off. 

Now here he was, in a pink apron, slicing tomatoes with the same concentration he usually reserved for saving the world or drawing dicks to send to Nanamin. 

But he couldn’t resist. How could he? How could he when he saw the state of your kitchen, all these ingredients sectioned off in neat little groups? How could he, when he saw the sheer determination in your eyes, all to cook a good meal for “the kids?”

The kids, he mused. Whose kids, sweetheart? Don’t forget, they’re not yours. Sure as hell not mine. 

He was done with the tomatoes. You were done with the eggplants, already halfway through the squash. You scooped them up, putting them into neat little plates. You placed a zucchini on his chopping board. “Paper thin,” you reminded him, brandishing your own knife in front of his face. 

He smirked at that, but he felt a strange little twinge in his chest as he surveyed the plates of ingredients arranged in a neat little grid around him. “Paper thin,” he promised. 

Soon enough you were done with the slicing. You decided to test this newfound obedience. “Wash these boards for me, hotshot.”

You waited for him to blast you. Instead, he moved to the sink, removing the steaming colander, and started scrubbing.

You were a little creeped out now. Domestic Gojo Satoru was certainly not something you expected to ever see. You wondered if you should take a photo or something. 

He was done with the dishes. “There, all done. What’s next, chef?”

“C’mere, I’ll let you do the fun part.”

He rubbed his hands together, jumping slightly like an excited kid. It wasn’t cute at all. Not at all. 

“Grab that pan over there, the last one on the left— Yeah, you got it. Now set it on the stove and put the fire on medium-high.”

You guided him through it, until onion, garlic and bell peppers were sizzling happily in a pool of olive oil. You let him grind in salt and pepper. You poured in the crushed tomatoes. He sprinkled in some herbs you handed to him. He read their names as you passed them to him, sniffing each one and humming his approval. 

Gojo was more relaxed now, pushing and prodding at your kitchen. You wondered if he had felt awkward before, when he first offered to help. Awkward doesn’t seem to be a word used to describe Gojo Satoru. But then again, he’s been out of character for the entire evening now. 

You had to admit, he was a mystery. You were new to Jujutsu Tech, and you sensed that despite all his antics whenever he was around his students, he was wary of strangers. Sure, he started pestering you too, right off the bat, standing too close and speaking too loud. Words too rude, laugh too grating. 

Gojo Satoru was a natural-born annoyance. Being an ass was like second nature to him. Yet with all his daily chaos, he had the words keep distance written all over his face. All over that impenetrable blindfold, all over the barrier that he kept up at all hours of the day. Stay away, because something went wrong before and something will go wrong again, eventually. 

But here he was now, snug in your warm kitchen, happy as a clam, stirring sauce and rattling off about how good it smelled. (Almost as good as me, eh? Eh?)

You shook off the beginnings of pity in your chest. Gojo Satoru would not be one for pity. 

“Keep at it, Gojo. After a few minutes, you can add the basil and turn off the heat.” In a mortar, you threw in some more garlic. Some thyme. Parsley. More basil. Olive oil. Salt and pepper. You grinded it all together, and succeeded in making a paste just as the stove clicked off.

“Did you add the basil?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You hummed in response as you scooted past him to stand in front of the pan, switching on the oven on your way. You smoothed down the sauce, tasting it, and started to arrange the vegetables in a spiral. You could feel his stare through his blindfold. He was standing too close. You ignored him, trying not to lose the pattern of zucchini, tomato, eggplant, squash, repeat. 

Gojo knew you could feel him staring through his blindfold. He kept at it, watching how you laid down the last slices, carefully, like you were performing surgery. He shrugged his shoulders in annoyance. 

It was starting to get to him, the care and dedication you showered on some stupid dinner that you could have just bought from outside. It was starting to seep through his skin and push through his pores.

He didn't need this. He was already in too deep, checking on his students at night, making sure they were still in their beds. Tagging along with them as they explored Tokyo. He was already staring at them too long and too deep. He was already too eager to listen their silly conversations whenever they gathered in Megumi’s room. 

He didn’t need this. He didn’t need you. He didn’t need another person to like, another person to care for, another person to protect. 

Another person to mourn for, in the end.

Keep your distance. Stay away. 

You were finished with the vegetables, slices standing neatly in a spiral. He was still staring. You grabbed the paste and spread it on top of the vegetables, carefully evening it out with a brush. You opened the oven and popped the pan in. You set the timer to forty minutes. 

He was still staring. Creep. You rolled your eyes and decided to stare back, arms crossed in challenge. 

Gojo finally spoke. “Anyone ever told you it’s rude to stare?” 

You gaped at him, indignation rendering you silent. “You— Excuse me?”

He laughed. You resisted the urge to slap him. The tension in the room had dissipated. You shook your head, not wanting to be sidetracked and swipe another knife at him. 

“Baking next,” you said, moving to the small island counter behind you both. You pointed him to a food processor sitting on a shelf, and he brought it to you, plugging it in himself. In companionable silence, which you still found a bit weird, you started baking. You directed him, and he did as you said. 

You had to admit, you were impressed. Gojo’s hands were sure and steady as he spooned and sifted flour into the processor. He measured out perfect amounts of everything. You added cold butter, cut into neat little cubes. He pulsed the machine, stopping and starting perfectly on your cue. He caught on incredibly fast when you told him to make a well in the now-crumbly dough, waiting for you to pour in buttermilk and honey. He cued on the perfect consistency he needed to achieve, and before you knew it, you were pressing cookie cutters into perfectly made buttermilk dough, pressed and kneaded by Gojo’s pretty hands. 

You watched him now, as he carefully arranged two dozen biscuits on a cast iron skillet. He was quiet, thoughtful even, as he brushed a bit of buttermilk on the tops. You took the dish from him, placing them in the fridge for a bit while the oven was occupied. 

He was silent. You were wondering if you should speak. This was… nice. Very nice. Too nice. You considered homicide only twice this evening, and so far no dick jokes have been made at your expense. 

Gojo poked at your forehead with a flour-covered finger. “Anyone there?”

You just had to ruin it.

You rolled your eyes, grabbing the cold beef sitting by the sink. It’s not as if the second of his skin touching yours made you want to run out the door and scream into the woods. “Rinse these.” You wondered if you would succeed in slapping him with a beef flank, the hunk of meat smacking comically across his handsome face. 

You giggled, almost dropping the roll of herbed butter you had fished out from the fridge.

Gojo looked at you. “Something funny?” 

“Yeah, you.” 

He batted his eyelashes at you, rinsing off the last flank. “What a compliment. You know I exist solely for your entertainment. I can also juggle, and give you a lap dance.”

You snorted at that. Okay, maybe Gojo could be funny sometimes. Sometimes. “A lap dance?”

He smirked at you, wiping his hands. “Yeah, a lap dance on this d—”

You hurled the butter at him. Fast as lightning, his arm shot up and caught it right in front of his nose. You knew it wouldn't have hit him, anyway. Show off. He tossed it back to you, grinning. 

“You walked right into that one, you know—”

“Shut the fuck up. Now.”

“Okay, okay. Shutting up.” Gojo looked at you, feeling the smile on his face grow a bit wider as your scowl deepened. He noted the aggression in the way you rubbed salt and pepper into the steaks. You set them aside for the salt to soak into the meat, and the plate thumped a bit too loud on the counter. 

Mission accomplished. 

Biting back a laugh, he asked you. “What do I do next, chef?”

“Grab a knife and stick it up your—”

The timer went off, and you both jumped at the shrill alarm. Gojo pressed down on it, leaning into you with a creepy leer on his face. 

“Stick it up my what now?”

You shoved past him, opening the oven and retrieving your ratatouille. You inhaled as you removed the foil. Perfect. You popped it back in, uncovered this time. You swiped the timer from Gojo’s hands and set it to ten minutes. 

You refused to let him rile you up even more. Taking a page from Nanami’s book, you ignored him. Let’s get started on that dessert. 

You grabbed a huge glass bowl. “Gojo, get the ice cream in the freezer.”

He perked up at the mention of ice cream, bending down to open the fridge. “Which one?”

“All three, please.”

He gathered the three ice cream pints and set them down next to you. You handed him an ice cream scoop. “Think you can do this by yourself? Scoop these out and put them in the bowl. All together. Alternate each flavor, you hear me?”

Quickly, he opened the ice cream. Too quickly, you thought, eyes narrowing as you pulled your ratatouille out, just a minute before the alarm set off, not wanting another loud sound to jar you both.

“Eat that ice cream and I’ll murder you in your sleep, Gojo.”

“Just a scoop, jeez.”

“No.”

“Whaddaya mean no?”

“No as in no, Gojo, you fucking child, get your own ice cream.”

“Aw, come on—”

“Satoru.”

That shut him up, the sound of his first name spoke so sharply. He pouted at first, then to your chagrin he grinned. 

"Aw, first-name basis huh? Look at you, calling me by my name, while we’re cooking for the kids—”

Nanami, you chanted in your head. Cool, unbothered, mature Nanami—

“Wonder how you’ll say my name once I sit you on my—”

You didn’t even know what you threw at his head this time.

Gojo whistled. “Okay, then, point taken.”

It was a knife, hovering between his eyes. 

You grabbed it and waved it in front of him, smiling sweetly. “I’ll use your skull to scoop that ice cream myself if you don't shut it, Gojo. Get to work.”

He laughed. “Alright, here I go.”

You turned away and placed the biscuits into the oven. Twenty minutes. 

Steaks next. They barely had any time to soak in the salt, but you were hoping the herbed butter would carry the dish. It was another expensive ingredient made possible by that sorcerer wage. You set another one of your iron skillets on the stove, looking over to Gojo as you waited for it to heat up. 

He was almost done, bowl almost full with colorful scoops. “Not bad, Gojo.” You moved to him, nudging him out of the way. You placed one of your beeswax wraps over the top, pressing down to press the scoops together. 

You almost jumped out of your skin when his hands joined you, pressing down into the big bowl. You felt his breath on your forehead as he whispered, “Like this?” 

“Yeah, like that,” you heard yourself whisper back. 

“Why are we whispering?” He asked you. 

“You started it, why are you whispering?”

“Huh?”

"Huh?”

You stayed like that for a moment, fingers crisscrossed on the ice cream.

Then you both jerked away. You pushed the bowl into the freezer, hoping the flash freeze setting in your fridge would be up to standard. 

“We’re doing the steaks next.”

“Ooh, so we’re gonna do the meat—”

You shoved past him, not wanting to hear it. You drizzled cooking oil on the skillet. Patting one of the steaks with a paper towel, you set two down, admiring the sizzle it produced. 

After a few minutes, poking at the meat with a thermometer, you turned them over. 

“Steak,'' you started, as Gojo listened. “Requires patience, Gojo.” You removed the steaks, setting them on a baking pan. "Three minutes for each side. No moving or poking in between. You got that?” You came off a bit more aggressive than you originally planned, but steak was always serious business. Itadori and Kugisaki were the most voracious carnivores you had ever met in your life. 

“Yeah, I got that,” Gojo mocked. You narrowed your eyes at him for a bit more, before surrendering and leaving him to it. The air was filled once more with silence, punctuated by the sizzling of steak. 

You caught the timer this time, removing the buttermilk biscuits out of the oven, all nicely browned and puffed up. Perfect. You brushed the tops with honey, and just a bit of melted butter. 

Before long, eight flanks of beef were arranged neatly on a baking pan, covered with herbed butter and sticks of rosemary. They were seared to perfection, not that you would ever admit it. You added a few wedges of lemon to be sure before sliding it into the oven. You set the timer to ten minutes. 

Ratatouille, biscuits, and steaks. Done. All that was left was the carbonara, done right this time unlike that terrible Italian place, and the Baked Alaska.

Nervously, as Gojo was left to once more scrub dishes (except your beloved skillets), you peeked into your freezer, eyeing the bowl of multicolored ice cream with doubt. It wasn't as frozen as you hoped it would be. At least you had remembered to bake the fudge base cake in advance. 

Well, this was your own fault for forgetting the night before. You had to do it. Grabbing the bowl, you set it on the counter. 

Concentrate, concentrate.

Your technique was not meant to be used for freezing Baked Alaska, but you were versatile when it came to cursed energy. You concentrated, lowering the temperature around the bowl. Frost crackled around it, and after a few minutes of holding the raw cursed energy, you released it, panting a little.

You poked the top of the bowl with a finger. Rock hard. Perfect. 

Then you sighed, feeling eyes on you. You turned around to meet Gojo’s eyes, peeking out from his blindfold. 

“Did you just use jujutsu to flash freeze your ice cream?” 

You turned your nose up at him. ‘Yeah, what about it? I forgot last night.”

He contemplated you for a moment, before slipping his blindfold back down. You tried to swallow down your disappointment as his eyes disappeared. You waited for him to laugh at you. 

“Smart.”

You rolled your eyes. “What’s up with the tone of surprise?”

“Just take the compliment, sweetheart.” 

You huffed at that, putting your now-frozen ice cream back into your fridge. You didn't notice him put his blindfold up to look at you, his gaze heavy and just a tad bit adoring before he put the blindfold back down. You grabbed eggs and powdered sugar. Firing up your mixer, you made quick work of the meringue as Gojo drifted curiously to you, wiping off his hands. 

You transferred the meringue to a bowl, slapping Gojo’s hands away as he attempted to swipe at it with a finger. This man is a fucking whore for sugar. 

You handed him a bowl and a whisk, hoping he at least knew how to use them. “Grab four eggs and the parmesan in the fridge. Grate the cheese in and whisk it all together.” You turned to him, crossing your arms. “You get it, or do I need to bust out the crayons?”

You saw him roll his eyes through his blindfold at your words. Yeah, cry about it, dumbass. 

“Aye, aye.” 

At least he knew how to crack the eggs. It took him a good minute to get the whisking down. Satisfied that he wasn’t gonna splatter egg all over the room, you set another skillet in the pan, setting down strips of bacon. 

Your stomach growled. Bacon smelled divine. Unable to resist, you crunched down on the first strip, doing a little happy dance as you licked at the grease on your fingers. Unthinking, forgetting who was in the room with you at the moment, you took another strip and held it out for him to taste. 

He didn’t even stop his grating and whisking, leaning down to your hand, tilting his head to grab the bacon between his teeth. His lips brushed slightly on your skin. 

Oh, shit. You froze, fingers still pinched around nothing. Gojo smirked at you, a strip of bacon between his teeth, before tilting his head back and sliding it into his mouth with his tongue. He chewed and swallowed as you watched his throat bob up and down. Oh, fucking shit.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Damn, this bacon hits the spot.” He hooked a thumb under his blindfold and lifted it up.

He winked at you, smirking, before going back to his parmesan. 

Oh shit oh fucking shit. 

Your stomach stirred. The bacon was probably a bit too greasy. It was definitely not because Gojo Satoru just ate from your hand and winked at you, all pretty and charming annoying.

Inhale, exhale. “That’s—” Your throat was dry. Definitely the bacon. You tried again. “That’s enough whisking, Gojo.”

“Alright then.” He reached around you to grab another strip of bacon. You didn’t even have it in you to scold him. Get your shit together. You’re a grown-ass woman, not a squealing middle schooler. 

You stirred garlic into the grease and chopped up bacon as he watched, crunching along behind you. Too close behind you, as he muttered a quiet that smells good over your shoulder through his bacon. The man really had a thing for invading personal spaces. 

“Grab the pasta and the eggs, we gotta move fast for this.”

“Oooh, getting intense now, huh?”

You gave him a look.

“Fast, got it,” Gojo backtracked. Smart. 

You took the pasta from him, setting the fire to low. “We pour this on three, got it?” He nodded. “One, two, three!” You dumped the pasta into the pan, some of the noodles dangling off the edge. Gojo followed as soon as you were clear, eggs splashing yellow on both of your arms.

You yelled. “Quick, move move move I need to stir move Gojo!” He jumped back, and you realized as you grabbed the tongs that you were both laughing. Maybe it was the adrenaline of trying to make perfectly creamy carbonara, but you both started cracking up, giggling as the food spilled and splashed with your less-than-perfect coordination. 

You were full on laughing now. Gojo boyish and amused, you startled and breathless. Bright sparks of happiness travelled up your spine, fuelling your mirth. 

"Quick,” you gasped, “Salt and pepper Gojo, faster, faster!” He floundered a bit, eyes scanning over the counter. 

You squealed at his stalling, hastily turning off the heat. “I said faster! Do you not know what that word means it means more fast—”

“Dammit, where— Got it! Here you go hurry—” He sounded just as panicked as you, his words high-pitched and rushed as he pressed the shakers into your waiting hands. 

You grabbed them and sprinkled. “The pasta water, Gojo, quick the eggs are gonna get fucking scrambled grab that bowl there—”

He swiped it, water sloshing over the sides. He handed it to you, splashing water on your apron as he yelled out a panicked here here here oh my god why is this so stressful it’s just pasta—

“Yes, yesyesyes almost there, baby—” You cooed as you spooned in pasta water until the pasta was perfect, creamy but not too creamy. Perfect. 

You let out a happy sigh. “Done!” You were both still laughing, both of you biting at your lips to keep back the childish giggles that escaped you. Then you stopped, eyes moving down, and so did he. 

Gojo had a hand on your waist as he doubled over, cracking up. You had a hand on his shoulder, and your face was half-buried in the crook of his arm. Infinity was down. You were touching each other, really touching. Gojo’s skin was warm under your hands, corded muscles rippling under your fingers. 

Gojo froze too. Your body was pressed soft against him, fingers digging into the side of your waist. 

“You spilled the egg everywhere, you fucking donkey.” You could see splatters of yellow this close, all over his white shirt. You spotted a few stray drops on his blindfold. 

He smiled, still holding you against him. “Well, shit. My apologies, Gordon Ramsay.”

That startled a laugh out of you, jolting you even closer to him as your body shook against his. His fingers gripped your waist. 

“You walked right into that one, sweetheart.” His voice was low, amused. 

“Yeah.” That was all you could manage, mouth going a little dry. You swiped a thumb at his blindfold, wiping away the egg. 

Then the timer went off. 

You pushed away from him, a hurried oh shit the steak hissing out of your mouth. Gojo laughed and let you go, but his stare lingered as you pulled the steaks out of the oven, poking at them with a thermometer and muttering to yourself. 

Stay away, he reminded himself. Over and over, every day, he has to remember to stay away. He doesn’t need this, doesn’t need the way you fit so good against him. He doesn’t need to like the way you laugh, or the way you move in the kitchen, miles ahead of him in skill. He doesn’t need the way his heart aches as he watches you, pouring your soul into dinner, worrying over temperatures and textures and tiny, irrelevant details. 

All of this, he thinks mournfully, because you feel sorry for Itadori Yuuji, a dead boy walking. 

He shook off the beginnings of pity in his chest. He had a feeling that you would not be one for pity.

Vaguely, he hears you call his name.

“Earth to Gojo, time to make the dessert now.” You popped the three dishes that you two had accomplished into a food warmer under the oven. "Grab the meringue and ice cream for me, would you? And focus,” you said, snapping a finger in his face. 

He smirked. “Is this another faster faster faster thing? I don’t think my heart can take it.”

You laughed at that, and Gojo felt his chest swell with satisfaction. He ignored it. Stay away. 

“C’mon, rookie. Baked Alaska is easy, basic thermodynamics.”

He watched you grip the wrapping on the inside of the bowl, lifting the dome of ice cream unto a fudge cake you had laid out. He watched, utterly fascinated, as you coated the entire thing with a thick layer of the meringue.

This cooking thing is harder than jujutsu, he mused, who comes up with this shit?

You beckoned at him, and armed with spatulas you both scooped and sculpted until the entire thing was covered in meringue. You taught him how to make soft little peaks on the meringue's surface, and he had to admit to himself that this was fun. Making little swirls in the fluff, swiping at the leftovers in the mixer to stick into his mouth. Grabbing your wrist to stick your spatula in his mouth when you were done, smiling at the way you giggled and pushed at him.

Stay away. Over and over, every day. Remember to stay away.

Then you were done, and you were deftly pushing the Baked Alaska back into the fridge as he licked the mixer, raw meringue all over his face. 

Your phone buzzed, and you gasped. “They’re coming!”

“Well,” Gojo said, setting the bowl into the sink. “Guess I gotta get going now.”

You frowned at him. “What? Why?”

He had to smile at that, at your face, all confused and a little disappointed. His voice was a lot softer than he meant it to be when he said, “Well, sweetheart, uh, you never really invited me.”

Oh.

You pretended to scoff, ignoring the sinking feeling in your chest at Gojo’s feeble admission. “Don’t be ridiculous, Gojo. You’ve done all this and you’re not gonna stay?”

Then your eyes softened, the gig was up. “Stay.”

No. “Okay.”

You perked up. “You’re staying?”

No. “Yeah.”

You smiled at him, and busied yourself with tidying up, rambling about how the kids are about five minutes away, they said they just gotta freshen up and head straight here. 

Gojo sighed, leaning against a wall. It was dark out now. Around this time he would be sat alone in some too-expensive restaurant, ordering from snobby waiters, eating food he didn’t even like. Tonight, however, he was stood here, wearing a pink apron, warm and comfortable in your tiny kitchen. It was no special night, the date unassuming, so why was did he feel like something big was happening?

He tried to calm down, he really tried. But when he catches you opening the oven and staring at the food again, his mind wanders. Do you know? Do you know what Megumi is gonna grow up to be? Do you know what awaits Yuuji-kun?

He can’t help it, the exasperation that bubbles up in him as you painstakingly arrange silverware on the table. His thoughts turn scornful at a drop of a hat. 

You knew, of course you did. Everyone did. But you were stupid. Stupid enough to go ahead and start caring for the students. You went ahead and started using the same makeup as Kugisaki. You went ahead and got comfortable around Fushiguro’s long silences. You were stupid, so stupid, enough to go ahead and dote on Itadori, to feel for him, to start pitying the poor boy that housed a thousand-year old curse.

You, he thought venomously. You were stupid enough to care for Itadori Yuuji. 

A dead boy walking. 

Would you cry during the execution? Would you ever stop crying after Yuuji's dead and gone?

As quickly as his anger came, it faded. This wasn’t your fault. He knew why this happened to you, to the other first-years. To him. This wasn't your fault, it was never really your fault.

Because Itadori Yuuji demanded to be loved. 

Itadori Yuuji demanded to be loved, and refused to take no for an answer. He pushed and prodded and squeezed his way through the strongest of walls, demanding love for himself and for others. 

Gojo Satoru is an asshole, and he rarely cares for anyone other than himself, but he understood love. When his ears perked up at the sound of the first-years approaching down the hall. When you opened the door, beaming. When you hooked your arm around Nobara’s to catch up on vapid gossip. He understood when Yuuji walked through the door, a convenience store bag in his hand, and his classmates immediately moved to accomodate him between them. Always between them. When you smiled and pinched his cheek, as if you didn't see those horrible, doomed dimples just below his eyes.

He understood love, when he felt himself smile against his own will. As he ruffled the boys’ heads and teased Nobara on her weapon work. He understood, when Fushiguro looked at him questioningly, wondering why his mentor was here, wearing a pink apron, but chose not to say anything.

You all crowded the table, which was meant for only four, and the evening passed quickly.

The steaks disappeared, one by one. The ratatouille’s spiral diminished slowly. The buttermilk biscuits were picked off, leaving honey smeared on plates and hands. You all chugged the iced teas the kids had brought. Kugisaki loaded her plate with carbonara. Itadori inhaled his food. Fushiguro handed out napkins and water. You promised the recipe to Itadori, and laughed at Kugisaki’s brash humor. 

And Gojo. Gojo had pushed all thoughts of the future from his head. Those thoughts were not thoughts you entertained in a warm kitchen, in front of delicious food and good company. The future didn’t belong here, it had no place among all of you. It didn’t belong here, as he bragged about helping make the food they were eating, as he teased and made obscene jokes at the table. It belonged somewhere distant and unimportant, as the students oohed and aahed when you poured rum on the Baked Alaska and set it on fire. When they were all adequately impressed, you extinguished it and offered them slices. You offered Gojo two. 

The future had no right to be here, among all that was kind and bright in his world, among the happy here and now.

Gojo pushed all thoughts of the future out of his head, and chose to think about love. He understood it, and hoped he would someday let himself stop fighting it.

He remembered just now, when the kids were washing their hands. You had pulled him aside and asked him a question, nervous and unsure. 

“You think they’re gonna like it?”

Oh, sweetheart. You never stood a chance.

Something soft and warm pushed at his chest as he looked at you. “Sure thing, Gordon Ramsay, they'll love it.” 

You smiled, and he felt like his heart might give out.

Neither did I.