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bakugoushotwife · 4 months

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born sinner (part one)

pairing: crime boss!suguru geto x fem!surgeon!reader series content: blood, gore, realistic descriptions of surgery but like as accurate as someone with access to google has, angst, slow-burn, eventual smut, anxiety as a heavy theme, no curses!au, violence, guns, gang mentions and typical violence, religious imagery, etc. words: 8.5k a/n: omg omg happy new year! the gojo writer takes on suguru geto!! he's so challenging for me in the best of ways and i hope that his characterization is at least tolerable LMFAO!! i got this amazing idea from a gorgeously detailed outline from @antizenin who trusted me to bring her outline to life. i hope you love it!! part two //

the lights are entirely too bright in the meeting hall. it’s nothing compared to the lights in the OR that illuminate the vessels of a heart as you slice into it—finding the clot that caused the fourty-one year old mother of two to collapse in the middle of making breakfast. you saved her life, you save lives. you’re a cardiothoracic surgeon–and a top one at that, though you spent your residency flirting with general and neurosurgery, you ultimately landed on the heart of it all–literally. it was riveting work. it was satisfying work. you got to play god, holding the lives of everyone that came through the hospital doors in your hands. you got to be the one to repair the tear in their aorta, the one to physically pump their heart with your own grip. it was thrilling. until it wasn’t. until you couldn’t stop the bleeding or make the heart beat again. until being god of the emergency room meant sending some people to the afterlife, and realizing that you are no god. you’re just a woman with a degree and a scalpel and a crippling fear that you don’t know what you’re really doing at all.

that’s what got you here. the clock in front of you is just about the only thing to look at in this section of the hospital. the board meets here—the people that convene to discuss fates. it’s almost comically just that the long hallway before the meeting room was barren and hopeless–only the clock’s hands to tick loudly by in mock of you. 7:55 am. just five more minutes until you went from the god above it all to a simple beggar praying to be spared. you were no different from those you operated on. you’re suddenly very aware of how scratchy and hard your chair is, making you adjust and readjust to try to find some semblance of comfort in the last five minutes before judgment day. as a surgeon, you know just how out of whack your vitals are. as someone with a diazepam prescription, you know exactly what’s causing it, regardless of the MD at the end of your last name. shit, you forgot to take your pills again this morning—

there’s a faint sound of heels clicking against the cold tile floor in conjunction with the loud clunk, clunk, ding dong ding! of the clock that signals the top of the hour. it’s time. the secretary calls your name as if you’re not the only person waiting out here, and you nod without meeting her eyes. you know without lifting your gaze that hers is judgmental–like everyone’s lately.

the problem with being god is that you can’t make mistakes without feeling the wrath of the people that once loved you and championed your name.

millions of thoughts race inside your head simultaneously: if you can’t handle the hardening stare of a measly secretary, how on earth would you be able to function under the eyes of the council, the real gods amongst men. they have the authority to revoke your license if you don’t figure out how to answer to them. the one case, the one incident, the one person’s life that ended because of your inability to handle such racing thoughts drives you to clutch at your chest now as you rise from your chair, back aching.

“right this way.” she says without another glance, and you’re thankful for that reprieve. she turns, loud heels click clacking their way back down the hall at the same pace of your hammering heart. you love being a surgeon. you can’t lose that. you have to fight for it. saving lives is important to you! you just have to convey this. it’s not hard. swallow your fear and finally fight for something you want, put one foot in front of the other, you tell yourself. breathe in and breathe out—you have to get your sinus rhythm back to normal if you have any hope of getting through this. but it’s so hard when all your senses lie to you like this, the clock’s ticks still rattling across your brain—the long and dark hallway only stretching to be longer and darker before you. you know it’s impossible–just your mind playing tricks. or, more aptly, part of you knows that. but the other part starts to break out in a cold sweat once you finally approach the door. on the other side of the heavy oak were the group of people who would decide what your life was worth: do you get to stay a god amongst men, or will you be cast out like the devil himself?

you can hear the different voices speaking in low whispers before the secretary has even pushed into the room. you know they must be speaking about you from the way their eyes dart all over your timid form in front of them as they shuffle their papers—reports of every mistake and triumph you’ve ever had laid out in front of them, reducing you to a datapoint. it’s a medical license hearing, but you feel like a freshly hit opossum standing before the vultures just waiting to pick your bones clean. maybe being roadkill was more freeing than this.

this room is much darker than the lobby you waited in, dimly lit by reading lamps positioned to the right of each panelist–five total. three men and two women would decide if your mistake was enough to ruin your career. their desk towered above you, so much so you had to tilt your chin back to be able to take in their disgruntled, disappointed, and disapproving stares. your saliva feels like liquid cement when you go to swallow it down—though it tastes like bile.

“good morning doctor.” the man on the furthest right says. he has the kindest eyes of them all, though your brain catches his deception. he’s just acting. the other panelists give you tight lipped smiles of greeting and head nods of acknowledgement. you clear your throat a little and give them a bow.

“good morning, board of internal medicine. i’ve…prepared a statement?” you clench your jaw at the shakiness you can hear in your voice. it’s the older of the two women that nod at you this time.

“you may present it.” she says, a drawn-on eyebrow raised expectantly. you swallow down that bile-cement flavored spit again, training your eyes on a hairline crack in the tile under your toe. it’s fitting. as time passes, this crack will widen and cause that tile to erode and crumble away. this meeting could be the crack in your foundation. the decision made here today could be the first domino of events to ruin the picture perfect life you’ve carefully put into place.

“..hiroshi nakamura entered the emergency room on november twenty-third at 4:57 pm. he was suffering from an aortic aneurysm. as many of you are former surgeons yourselves, i know you’re familiar with the diagnosis. many of these go unnoticed. symptomatic pain is brushed off, and many times it’s too late to save them, the silent killer.” you shift your weight, doing your best to maintain eye contact despite the haunting memory. “nakamura-san was a patient of mine previously. he was diagnosed with arteriosclerosis three years prior, the exact date escapes me. it was in the summertime. july maybe. later that day i performed an endarterectomy to reduce the atheromatous plaque in his carotid artery. we kept him for the next three days for observation, his vitals improved and he was discharged with instructions to receive regular checkups. when he was brought back in…i knew immediately that the buildup must have returned, making it harder for blood to travel until it turned into a clot. when i opened him up, his pressure started dropping. he had an aortic dissection, which i’ve run into many times. but the size of nakamura-san’s was significant. i hesitated, deciding between a graft or a stent for treatment. i took too long to choose, and nakamura-san…bled out on the operating table.” you grimace, looking down at that cracked tile again. the line was shaped like a lightning bolt, its jagged curve leading straight under your shoe. you can feel your chest tighten, so you close your eyes and try to push back against the wave of emotion sitting in your throat. “i had to tell nakamura-san’s family what happened. his wife of forty years, his thirty-four year old son, thirty year old daughter, and twenty-eight year old son as well as his young grandchildren. i’ll never forget what my mistake has done to their lives, and i believe it is punishment enough.”

you step back once you’ve finished speaking, heart still hammering away in your chest. the members of the board nod, seemingly unaffected by your words. the man in the middle of the massive mahogany table picks up his stack of papers, licking his forefinger before flipping through them. “how long have you been prescribed diazepam, doctor?”

your blood stills. your anxiety was clearly well documented, and you knew it would be on their list of questions. “since i was a teenager, sixteen i believe.”

he hums, eyes focused on the paper before him. “and how would you say it helps you manage your generalized anxiety disorder?”

you would do anything for that ticking clock right about now, for this room is so quiet you swore they could hear your thoughts. “it helps considerably. i’ve stayed on it for over ten years now.”

“your prescription history is spotty. were you trying alternative therapies?” the younger woman asks, manicured red nails clutching your entire life between them via vulturous paper reports.

you open your mouth to answer–no, argue–but realize that won’t help you anymore than the truth will. “no. i…had not.”

she raises her brow just like the other woman did, except her eyebrow was real and also well taken care of. “so what happened? it seems like you’ve forgotten to pick up your medicine three times this year—one of which was during nakamura-san’s surgery?” you are a cardiothoracic surgeon, one that was considered proficient enough to pick her specialty. you are no fool. you can see the trap she’s laid before you even unmedicated.

this is the end. all because of your busy schedule and long hours at the hospital. sometimes you missed pharmacy hours, other times you just forgot about it altogether, mind racing with diagnoses and cases that wait for you the next day. but that won’t matter now, you can feel it before you even answer. they knew what they were going to do before you ever walked in this room. “my business hours are usually reserved for saving lives at this hospital. sometimes i’m not able to make it to pickup.”

“how long until your death toll matches that of your successes, doctor?” the final man at the left asks, punctuating their line of questioning. he shuffles the edges of his papers against the flat top he sits behind. “i think our decision has been reached. you’re no longer licensed to operate in this hospital or any other, effective immediately. take your medicine.”

he has his doubts, but he supposes that is his nature. it feels strange to organize a meeting between two warring sides, hoping for a somewhat amicable and fortuitous outcome. hope is a foreign concept in this world, in suguru geto’s reality. he runs the west side of tokyo—keeping businesses running and funding local projects as well as controlling the streets with his biggest means of profit—guns for hire. he was a local historic monument. a ghost–everyone knew of him but pretended not to. everyone from bar owners to bakeries, lawyers and school teachers alike all under his influence, his pulse on the town. that’s how he knew the rival eastside head planned to make a move on his territory, and he’s been able to orchestrate a negotiation between them based on the opinion of his mentor and right hand man.

traditionally, suguru would eliminate his problem at the source. there’s no need to play politics when you make your own rules. but he trusts wholly in his sacred few, the ones who have been with him since the beginning of his reign, and even before then. suguru’s best friend, satoru gojo was his best assassin and loudest mouth. choso kamo was a younger pup, but loyal and hardworking—very protective. and then there was toji fushiguro, the most valued of all. he’s shown suguru the ropes of this industry while still respecting and protecting him. geto entrusts his life to toji. if the man believes a meeting would be wise, then they’ll have the meeting.

besides, there was no arguing with his logic. if they were able to pull this off, then his men will have free reign in the east, able to expand their territory into shinjuku, and have a working alliance with their only competition. so why was he having second thoughts? he blames satoru and his creepy blue eyes staring at him in the mirror he’s checking himself over in.

“do you not trust me?” he asks the other man, tugging the top half of his too-long black hair into a neat knot. it reveals the long dragon tattoo that creeps up his neck, eyes glowing with anger at whoever looked. his own golden eyes flicker with unease as they survey the only person in the room. suguru hated how opinionated satoru could be at times, and valued it in others. though he usually didn’t know which way he felt until after the fact.

the arctic-haired boy scoffed, kicking himself into stride from his previous position leaning against the wall. “oh i trust you. i just think it’s weird. i mean–toji’s so gung-ho, let’s slaughter ‘em all, and now we’re supposed to believe he’s become a diplomat?”

“i didn’t know you knew what diplomat meant.” suguru comments drily, sidestepping his friend’s critique of their teacher.

satoru shoves his round sunglasses back up his nose to conceal his eye roll. suguru was technically his boss—though he could get away with more than most. “hey, you asked. i just…have a bad feeling about this.” he shrugs–a knock at geto’s door causing both men to go on high alert immediately. satoru reaches for his weapon, always expecting an ambush. such is this way of life.

“geto–sama, the car is ready.” the driver says from the other side of the wood, and satoru relaxes at the realization that it was just ijichi–a man so weak and cowardly that an ambush at his hands would be impossible. suguru releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding onto. he fastens the final button on his shirt, glancing over himself in the mirror once again. he wanted to appear polished and professional in his all black attire—and it worked. he seemed larger than life and as intimidating as ever.

“perfect. i should get going.” he nods to his best friend–who, due to his abrasive and blunt nature, will not be attending this meeting. suguru adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, strapping his guns to his torso and giving satoru a tight lipped smile. the latter gets the door for him, mockingly saluting.

“i’ll hold down the fort until you get back, boss!” he chirps, nodding to ijichi before making his way back to the data room.

toji meets them in the car. it’s a bulletproof black bronco, a fitting vehicle to cart around a high-profile crime boss. suguru’s confidence is bolstered at the sight of his most trusted companion, and he genuinely smiles as he ducks into the backseat with him.

“hey kid, big day.” the older man says gruffly, his gravelly voice making it sound like he were sixty years his senior instead of a mere fifteen. suguru was no child, and didn’t appear to be one either. the twenty-eight year old man towered over six feet, thick with muscle and riddled with scars of experience, but to toji—suguru was a helpless kitten.

suguru hums, eyes already scanning for potential danger as the car rolls out of the garage. “big day indeed. you’ve spoken to him already this morning?”

toji claps his broad hand down on suguru’s even broader shoulder, chuckling. “we wouldn’t be headin’ out if i hadn’t. sukuna’s ready for us.” he assures, noting how strong and steady suguru looked. toji was proud, geto has grown quite bit from the scrappy little boy he once was. if he was nervous, he was keeping that close to his chest.

“good. i think he’ll find my proposal beneficial for us both.” he nods, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. sukuna’s crew mostly pushed petty crime and even pettier drugs—suguru’s bunch could elevate their product and offer more riches for the notoriously greedy ‘cursed king’ ryomen sukuna.

toji snorts a little, amused by his arrogance. “let’s hope so.” he nods, checking the rearview and windows before they fall into silence.

the ride is smooth due to the expensive tires and ijichi’s careful nature, leaving geto plenty of peace and quiet to brainstorm all of the ways this could go down. he’s doing a genuine good for japan–sure, he has to break a few laws to do it, but the people of tokyo—well, his half anyway—are prospering. he hopes that even the arrogant man that ryomen is can see what banding together would do for them both. then, it could be just a matter of time before he can branch out into the rest of japan.

there’s that word again. hope. he feels silly each time he catches himself using it. it’s akin to faith to him. something ideal in entirety, hardly true to the touch. he only believes in what he can see–things like optimism and god are lost on him, they are only fantasies.

“ijichi! watch the right side—” toji commands gruffly, sitting up straighter in his seat to get a better look. suguru is grounded with a shot of adrenaline, leaning over to peer at the black suv hot on their tails. this highway is busy—civilians in their own cars without a clue in the world littered all over the roads at various speeds. it could be nothing–except geto knows better than to hope that the tinted windows on the car were meant to block out the sun instead of concealing identities. the large suv switches into the left lane, speeding up to catch them. “idiot! step on it!” he calls, and suguru draws one of his guns to be prepared ahead of time, a lesson he learned from the man sitting to his right.

“is it one of sukuna’s?” he asks aloud, cocking his .45 as the first shots ring out from the vehicle beside them. they bounce right off his armored car, but one knicks the tire. geto curses under his breath, cracking the window enough to pop off a few returning shots of his own. the cadillac is impenetrable too–though he had hoped to flatten one of their tires in return or even get one under the hood.

ijichi starts to lose control on the vehicle as the tire blows—just the metal rim scraping against the concrete with a deafening hiss. the bronco starts to fishtail, the car beside them only furthering the inevitable by nudging the rear quarter panel into the median ahead. “i’m losing it! we’re gonna flip!” ijichi cries out in panic, prompting suguru’s eyes to widen.

there’s a loud crunch of metal on concrete before they’re airborne. geto feels a sense of finality wash over him as they turn, his seatbelt the only thing keeping him from breaking his neck. there’s another gross sounding scrape of the driver’s side scraping on the road briefly before they rotate again—heartbeat erratic. this is it. all of his hard work would end in a fiery car accident. he can’t even feel it as his head bounces off the window, only thinking about how satoru was right. he should have appreciated his friend more—he’s probably the only person who will mourn him when he’s gone. the roof caves in when they fall onto it this time, shrapnel scratching his face and making him realize they had stopped. they’re on their back–he’s hanging upside down, but he’s alive. he can smell oil and gas and the inevitable smell of fire, so his numb fingers fumble for the seatbelt’s release button. the car alarms are going off—and he knows if he doesn’t get out soon, the relief of being alive won’t even have time to sink in before it’s ripped away again. he looks around the car—toji’s door ripped off in the accident and his body nowhere to be seen.

“goddammit–” he growls, clicking the button on his seatbelt over and over, unable to get free. there’s a million alarms going off—the car’s sensors, the airbags, the bitter hum of gunshots ringing in his ears still, maybe even faint police sirens heading this way. none as loud as the one in his head telling him that he had to get out soon–fighting until the button finally releases him and he lands with a thud on the sunroof portion of the now mangled bronco. he crawls toward the only exit, toji’s exit, grimacing at the sickening sound of crunching glass digging into his side as he drags himself through it. he thought dying would be more peaceful—that he would be ready for it, even if he hadn’t finished his work yet. in this business, there is no tomorrow, yet he found himself fighting for one. this wouldn’t be the end of him, some sort of voice in the back of his head told him so. it wasn’t his own, in fact he didn’t recognize it—but it made him take the pain and push forward, out of the car and onto the street beside.

the sunset would be prettier under better circumstances, but he’s grateful to see it irregardless. his head hurts, and he can’t look around as fast as he wants to without getting dizzy, that ringing deafening his senses. he sees the cadillac–still on the scene– with a group of men huddled outside of it talking.

he sputters out a cough, clearing his lungs of some of the debris he’s inhaled. it catches their attention—and all geto can process is a pair of dark boots stomping over rubber scraps and glass shards until they’re inches from his face and the legs attached are squatting down to get a better look at him.

“eh, shoulda known you’d survive it if i did.” he grumbles, a voice so unmistakable suguru’s blood stills in his veins. the sole of the man’s boot shoves into suguru’s shoulder, kicking him to his back. “you trust too much kid. why would sukuna negotiate when he could just take from you instead? shame. you coulda been great.” he says, fumbling behind his back for a 9mm piece, the sobering click of the safety and familiar cock of the gun clearing out all the other noises. geto’s too devastated to speak—though he knows there’s nothing he could say. he lived through the accident just to die with the truth: his mentor betrayed him.

bang!

getting shot doesn’t feel like you think it does. it’s white hot and instant, a blistering intensity that tells you you're dying. suguru’s hand flies to cover the damage to his chest, eyes wide in disbelief still. he must have already died and gone to hell. he can’t hear anything now but the ringing of the gun and toji’s sigh.

“meh–just to be sure.” toji yawns, scratching his head with the barrel before turning it back to suguru’s chest.

bang!

it hurts to breathe, but he has to gasp for air either way—bleeding out on the pavement below. the ringing in his ears is replaced by tires spinning out—signifying that the rival crew had left before the cops could arrive. suguru holds his crimson soaked hand up above his face, clenching his jaw. the pain was hitting him in waves, the clawing feeling of glass embedded in his skin mixed with the burn of being shot, the inability to take a deep breath and his growing weakness, he really was dying this time.

no.

that voice again. he’s annoyed by it, but intrigued. why? why not give up? he asks himself, coughing despite the excruciating pain it puts him in and the wetness that seeps out of his mouth—something even he knows is blood.

there’s so much life to live. fight. revenge, love. there’s more for you.

he stares up at the pale outline of the moon hanging in the sky, growing brighter as the sky darkened. revenge. that was something he’d like to see. he didn’t know about the rest of it–but was confused by this…guardian angel of his. is this god? he was a born sinner—far away from anything holy. this must be an imagination of his—yet it was motivating enough to get him to move again. they wrecked just outside of harajuku. he knew of a dive bar under his business portfolio that he could try to get to–he could hang on until satoru found him and got him to the hospital, though that was a whole new set of problems. he had to get moving, the ringing of sirens getting closer by the second.

his vision is blackening and he doesn’t even know how close he is to the bar. his breathing is ragged, everything screaming and aching, body telling him to give up but that voice urging him to keep going. night has settled in fully by now, and he’s thankful for that cover. this area of town is avoided by anyone with good intentions, hence its emptiness at this hour. it couldn’t be too late, 8 pm at the latest, but the only traffic moving through this district are giggly college students and no good drug pushers meeting up with customers in the dark. but it’s reassuring to him, it means he’s getting closer. that’s when the reminiscing hits him. he’s able to see some bright flashing lights—a telltale sign that the bar was just ahead. the shelter of the alleyway gives him some reprieve. maybe if he stops just stopped for a second to catch his breath he’d be able to get to his feet and walk inside, or just getting a phone call in would be enough to save him. he thinks about satoru, how he’d come running as soon as he picked up the phone all while cursing him out for not listening to his warnings sooner. he feels embarrassed that the only person he has to think about is his sarcastic best friend, left to wonder if things would be better or worse if he had a family to think about instead. the last thing he thinks about is that mysterious voice calling out to him to stay awake—but his body is done fighting. all is black.

what better way to end the worst day of your life than getting shitty at the shittiest bar in town? there were probably lots of better options, like conserving your money since you didn’t know where your next source of income would stream from—but that was tomorrow’s problem. tonight’s problem was drinking your sorrows away next to the attractive man buying all your drinks. he was tall and his hair was spiky to look at but you knew it would be soft to the touch–or maybe that’s the vodka talking. his smile was more akin to a smirk rather than a genuine grin. he was trouble. but trouble was buying, so you’d keep batting you lashes and whining about your sorrows so the shots kept coming. the top-shelf vodka the man offers each time is working to its desired effect, numbing the ache in your heart and the bickering thoughts in your brain. it almost cloaks the mildew scent in the air—rose-colored glasses making the nasty blue carpet and hideous wood paneled walls of the bar look like a dream come true. you finally feel light. you almost forget about the man eyeing you like a predator in wait to your left, consciousness floating high in the clouds.

you used to hate drinking. as a surgeon, you need a clear mind at all times. who knew when you’d be called in for an emergency case. well, needed. plus, you’ve always been an angry drunk, overly emotional and yelling constantly. it wasn’t a pleasant sight. not to mention the hangovers, ugh—your long-term psyche had always beaten out the short-term pleasure, but tonight you owed it to yourself to feel as bas as possible tomorrow. that’s why the clouds clear—your light-hearted joy short-lived as the bartender slides you another shot before muttering.

“that’s your last one, doctor.” he tilts his head down, used to serving your fellow surgeon friends when you did have a well-timed night off, though he’s never seen you drunk as the most responsible member of your group, you were always designated driver. not anymore, you’d be lucky to get a text back from any of them now that you were disbarred. maybe that’s what actually makes you mad instead of being cut off. it’s the realization of all the things you’ve really lost–-including the right to drown your sorrows out with a swollen liver.

“what the fuck?? and i know ya heard me talkin’...not a doctor anymore!! so let me have my vodka, i deserve it!” you whine, stretching your upper body over the scratched and chipped wooden bar keeping you from jumping across at his dumb stupid fat neck—

“no can do, miss. you’re over served as is, ‘s my job on the line.” he shakes his head, eyeing the man next to you to get you under control, assuming he knew you better than a few hours of tipsy talking. you scoff at his insinuations–both that you’re too drunk to handle yourself and that this wallet has any sway over your motor-mouth.

“don’t look at him—fucking look at me! i’ll kick your goddamn ass, you know that?” you’re fuming. this is the proverbial straw that broke the hypothetical camel’s back. after the day you’ve had, you’re surprised it took this much to get you this rowdy. how much was one person meant to take anyways? venting out your anger would help you plenty, you think to yourself as you lift your knee up, prepared to crawl over that wooden plank saving that man’s life.

“security!! come get ‘er. she’s wasted.” he scoffs, taking your shot away and making your blood boil even more. “they’ll get an uber for ya. take it easy, doc.” he shakes his head, making you feel remarkably judged all of a sudden, every eye in the place was on you as a guard even bigger than the man next to you drags you off the bar as carefully as he can. you don’t make it easy, kicking and screaming out despite the burning sensation in your cheeks.

“you’re scared of a girl? that’s fucking embarrassing!” you bellow to cloak your own, getting tossed on your feet gently— outside of the dingy building.

“come on, little lady. let’s get you a ride home.” the security guard says, another one of them making their way outside as some sort of backup–like you were some genuine threat. you scoff, folding your arms.

“fuck off—don’t need your shitty help, i’ll get home on my own!” you kick his shin, throwing your hair over your shoulder before marching off into the dead of night.

in one of the worst parts of town.

the cold shocks you awake, the fear putting you on edge and pushing back the drunkenness that fought so hard to claim you. every rustle of the bushes, each twig snapping has your head on a swivel. you just need to make it to your car, though it was daytime when you foolishly parked it a few doors down to avoid the traffic of drunk people leaving later in the evening. you’ve already made half the distance, the connecting alleyway just up ahead.

you don’t make it two hundred feet before everything hits you again—and you’re bawling at your own stupidity. you should have made time to pick up your pills. you wouldn’t have to be worried about being kidnapped or murdered in the middle of the night if you had just taken your medicine. your life if over—and you couldn’t blame anyone but yourself. you’re a mess. you’re nearly gasping for breath already—the dark alley mocks you with long shadows reflecting from the moon and stray cats that hop out of the dumpster just to make you fear the worst. you wipe at your cheeks, desperately sniffling to try to regain your senses, eyes aching from the downpour. you’re constantly looking over your shoulder to make sure you’re not being followed, entirely too focused on what’s behind you to notice the log in front of you—you’re sent flying over it and towards the pavement. luckily you take the impact on your shoulder, nothing more than a shocked, “ow–” leaving your lips before you realize you’re not hurt at all thanks to your coat absorbing the brunt of it.

it’s just another strike of your famous luck then, something annoying enough to inconvenience you on a day chock full of them, but not enough to take you down. you push to your hands and knees, looking back towards the offending log—only to realize it’s breathing and has long dark hair strewn about its head. you gasp–the fog muddying up your senses clearing instantly at the realization that this was no log, but some severely injured man! you can hear his struggling breaths, springing into action immediately. it’s nearly second nature to you as you push his hair out of his face and away from his neck. it’s much too dark for you to make out specifics–but his chin shines with something you can only imagine is blood, the same wet liquid pooling in front of his torso, the man laying on his side in an almost fetal position.

“sir–can you hear me?” you try, placing your fingers where his heartbeat should be. it’s weak and much too slow, but it’s there. you can save him. “sir what happened to you? what’s your name?” you ask loudly, trying to get him to wake up. you groan when he doesn’t respond, blindly fumbling around for the wounds. your heart is racing, any slowness from the alcohol was killed by the adrenaline consuming you now. you gasp out again when you feel glass shards and bullet holes, a good fifteen minutes away from home even if you step on it. you’re not sure if this man has fifteen minutes left in him—the reasonable part of your brain telling you to call the emergency line to get him helped. though, they’d take just as long to show up despite how serious his wounds are. “you’re gonna have to help me a little, big guy.” you groan even louder, trying to put him on his back. it would jostle him less and was the only shot you had at getting a man of his size back to your vehicle on your own.

you swear you hear him chuckle, but perhaps you were still a bit tipsy. you grab his hands, trying to be careful of the one riddled with glass, situating them in your own at the best leverage point. you’re strong—you can do this. you need to feel useful again–and this man needs to be saved. he’s so heavy, nothing but dead weight as you tug him along behind you. you have to bend a little and pray that your legs can make it to your car, just a final push to get to safety.

you’re grateful when you see your mom-mobile waiting for you. this was your ambulance, and you were running out of time and the strength to keep pulling, gnawing nervously on your lip. what if he died anyway? what if you couldn’t save him at all, and were only chasing highs you’d never feel again?

no. you’re skilled. if you couldn’t save this man then… the truth was that no one could. so determination overrides your anxiety for the time being, and you pop the trunk of your sporty suv, looking down at the man with a heart sigh. “okay–i can do it. what are ya, 200, 220?” you muse, squatting down and fixing him over your shoulders as best you could—a fireman’s carry of sorts. your hips and thighs should support you more than your exhausted arms, so you heave up with a strangled grunt. you throw him in a little harder than intended, grimacing. “sorry!” you huff, circling to your driver’s side. at least he’s in, even if your arms are jello and you know you’ll have to get him in the house somehow. you aren’t even thinking about how his blood will stain your tan interior—the rush of saving a life quieting any background noise in your mind. “you gotta hang in there. hang in there, please.” you mumble, weaving through traffic.

you back up as close to your garage as possible, trying to think ahead for anything that could make this easier on yourself. you throw the car in park, hurrying to get him out of the back. he’s running out of time, and a surgical god you may be–but there’s only so many miracles you can call in. you get him in the same hold from earlier yet you let his feet touch the ground, muscles burning at the exercise. you have to breathe in short bursts, crushed by his heaviness, adrenaline helping you accomplish something you normally wouldn’t be capable of. you stumble with him, still half dragging him. it’s a battle you’re worried you might lose, but you get him on your dining room table, splayed out like a gurney. then you’re prepping your OR, getting the lights on, all the tools and dressings you would need, and most importantly—scrubbing in. infection would kill him if you weren’t careful now.

“you stumbled into the right hands, mister. or well…i guess i stumbled over you–but you get the point.” you roll your eyes at yourself and glove up, stretching the vinyl over your fingers and flexing them, all part of your pre-op routine. you get your first good look at him then. he’s terribly hurt, it really is even worse than you thought. bullet holes and all this blunt trauma–he must have endured something horrific. but beneath all the bruising marring his olive skin, you can tell that he’s a beautiful man. his inky hair gleams under your bright dining room lights, somehow looking silky despite the tangles bunched up throughout the mane. you sigh, turning your attention to the blood soaked shirt he had on–two perfectly round entrance piercing his front, but no exit wounds. in his case, it was probably saving his life, those bullets possibly lodged in important arteries—scary, but better than bleeding out. he’s already lost quite a bit of blood–and it’s not like you have any history on him to know what type he is. there’s no time to worry about tests–you’d have to get your emergency stash of o negative. it was universal–your own blood that you kept on hand in case of the worst. it looks like this is it. you flawlessly install the iv, watching the slow stream shoot through the clear iv catheter and into his body. it helps with his paleness after a few minutes, and you smile in relief. this was a good sign. you rip his shirt with the last remaining strength you’ve got left, buttons flying to expose extremely bruised ribs and those gaping bullet wounds. “this isn’t gonna feel great, i’m sorry.” you grab your cheap bottle of house vodka, taking another shot from it to steady your nerves before pouring a decent amount over his chest. “i have to get in here—i’m happy you can’t feel it–now, anyway.” you take a deep breath and reach for your scalpel. you decide to perform a sternotomy—cutting between his breast plate to the web of arteries beneath. “i can see the bullets. you’re gonna make it.” you whisper, more encouragement for yourself than for him. your retractors keep his chest open for you wide enough for you to get your forceps in, aiming to pull out a bullet out of a vein close to his heart. “it missed the aorta. you’re actually really lucky.” you chuckle humorlessly.

you wedge your forceps in and take a deep breath. it’s not the aorta, but it will spew blood anyway. “not my preferred method of grafting—no catheters here but. i gotta fix it somehow.” you growl a little in annoyance. you have to squint and move slowly, but you’re able to repair the first leak with a shifty little graft. you’re onto the next one, dropping the offending metal into a bowl—complete with a little clink. “we’ll get you to the hospital just to check my work, yeah?” you sigh, hoping that this would be good enough to save his life. your hands steady over the second bullet, and you repeat the same motions as before. you’re relieved at the sight of his heart literally beating underneath your working hands, knowing that he’s still fighting for his life. you remove the second one and get out of his body—sewing up his chest, letting the blood bag refill his own supply until the bag is drained. you push some saline to clean out the line before hanging a bag of morphine, the pain this mystery man would wake up to would be excruciating.

once you’re done with the intense life-saving measures, you sit in a chair to pluck the glass from his skin and apply ointments to the road rash on his face and arms. it takes another hour or so of work, but you don’t mind. it’s strangely relaxing to feel like you’re doing your job, and it’s so rewarding when you check his pulse every ten minutes to find it getting stronger and stronger. you hate that you hadn’t invested in a stat monitor, having to check his blood pressure the old fashioned way, but that looked like it was perking up too. you grin, proud of yourself. losing your license didn’t mean you lost your touch. you decide to get the glass and rubble out of his hair, pulling it back away from his face for a second time tonight. you take another lengthy look at the man you’ve saved, still grimacing at the ugly bruises and scrapes when something else catches your eye. the man had several tattoos that seemed unremarkable at first, different dark lines tangling into patterns you didn’t recognize. but the dragon creeping from his collarbone to peek over the collar of his shirt—it’s a yakuza trademark. this man wasn’t a poor soul caught up in a tragic accident—this was a dangerous man. you just saved the life of a war-monger, countless lives ended due to his line of work. part of you wants to open his chest back up and make your grafts fail—but the other part of you wants to feel the success course through your veins when he wakes up. besides, what makes a surgeon and what makes a gang lackey? is it a good childhood? morals? options? who’s to say this man had killed anyone? god knows you wouldn’t want to be judged based off of a few sneak peeks. you sigh, piddling off to your room to get him some new clothes.

it’s invasive, changing a stranger. but you’re at fifth base already right? saving his life gave you a get out of jail free card, even if he was in the most dangerous crime syndicate in japan. you get his matted jeans off, making yourself look up at the ceiling in modesty and respect. you shimmy the plaid pajama pants up his body–thankful that your ex never came back for his stuff. you decide against wrestling a shirt around all the bandages on his arms and chest—knowing you could hurt him just as much as you’ve helped. you decide to try your luck one last time, pushing your table the short distance to your living room to let him rest on something more comfortable than the cold marble slab. it’s an easy shove to get him onto the couch, and you finally take a deep breath and sigh it all out. success is sweet–surgery is exhausting. you pull a little blanket over him, setting hourly alarms to check on your patient until he wakes.

he wakes up to the smell of something cooking. the light pouring in from the curtain makes him squint–definitely a sharp adjustment from the darkness that consumed him before. he hears a woman humming a few rooms away, only furthering his confusion. he didn’t die? but how…he didn’t call anyone, and he knows no one in that area would willingly bring the sirens in to help him–and where exactly was he? all of these things hit him at once, but nothing harder than the deep ache in his bones. he couldn’t describe it, something so sharp and throbbing he could hardly get his body to obey his mind’s orders to move.

sitting up is pure hell. every red flag and stop sign goes off, making him grunt in agony. but he knows he has to get going–get out of whatever trap he’s got himself into. he doesn’t recognize the room–for all he knows, sukuna’s men followed him and have him here to torture.

but that woman’s voice, he knows it. that doesn’t mean this isn’t a trap still. the humming stops, and footsteps pad closer until a bright face pokes into the room, an ‘o’ shape forming on her face before she enters–complete with a plate of food.

“you’re awake–” you gasp in surprise. you had just come to do your rounds, deciding that eating with him would help you better watch out. you weren’t expecting him to already be up and at ‘em, he must be very strong. though you still notice how rigid he’s holding himself. “you really should lie down, you…” he cranes his sore neck, flashing you a glimpse of that black ink. you suddenly remember just how dangerous he is, and he looks like a dog backed into a corner, narrow black eyes sizing you up—distrust all over his feline features.

“who do you work for?” he tilts his head to one side, and your brows furrow in confusion, oh–he was worried you worked for a rival. you shake your head, eager to defend yourself.

“n-no one, no one right now!” you blurt out, anxiously shifting your weight foot to foot. you look down at the breakfast in your hands, holding it out for him to take instead. “here! eat, as a sign of my goodwill.”

he analyzes the plate, then looks back up at you–peacocking his shoulders back and hissing at the pain the stretch brought him. now you know just how weak he is—and he can’t make another target out of himself. “i hope you know i will have you killed if you’re lying.”

despite the way his glare makes your skin crawl and the hair at the base of your neck stand up, you can’t help but laugh at that. “i wouldn’t lie. i saved your life, why would i waste my time?” you shove the plate out further, basically putting it in his hands–one still heavily bandaged from dragging himself through the wreckage.

he takes the plate from you. if he’s shocked by that, he doesn’t show it. he only watches you as he eats your food, grunting in pain every so often. you took the iv out while he slept, not sure how he’d react when he woke up to wires. “i uh…i have medicine…for the pain.”

“who are you?” he returns without a second passing. he takes another reluctant bite of food, stomach growling in thanks.

you tell him your name, stealing a few glances at the heavy furrow of his brow. “you were badly hurt. i am a doctor..so i helped repair what i could. you should recover. i imagine you need to lay low?” you ask with a raised brow, betraying your intellect. he knows you must have some idea of who he is. “you can stay here as long as you need. you might want to shower–but you’ll…probably need some help.”

his expression shifts before your very eyes. his clenched jaw and steel brow relaxes into a soft look of…gratitude? truthfully, he was baffled. a doctor stumbled upon him, realized that he’s a criminal, saved him anyway—and now offers her home? he almost worries about how naive you really must be—but he owes you a debt he can never repay. you have given him a second chance—made revenge possible when he had given up completely. “thank you, little ebi. i will take up your gracious offer.” he nods, smiling kindly.

you smile, heart going awol inside your chest. it was the right thing to do, he was injured and needed to be cared for. you’re a doctor who suddenly has a lot of time on her hands. it means nothing–but that you still have empathy left in you. you know you’re close to shaking, but you turn to leave before it can show. “i’ll grab you a change of clothes. don’t move too much until i get back.” you hum, and he hums in acknowledgement.

he’s rather polite for a yakuza, his refined calmness even in the most dire of situations rubs off on you easily—you hold your head high as you pilfer through the tote of clothes your ex left behind, trying to find something for the big scary man in the living room. you finally decide on a plain black t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. you even nab some of those painkillers you offered earlier, hoping to ease that stiffness he carries himself with to mask his suffering.

but when you get back to the living room the only thing waiting for you is the empty breakfast plate and a few hundred dollar bills—your curtains blowing in the harsh wind. your heart sinks for an unknown reason, and you tell yourself it’s because your patient wasn’t dressed for the cold.

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