Chapter Text
The image of Geto, weary and wounded by her bedside, began to fray at the edges, the scent of blood and his tired voice receding. Shoko felt the familiar pull, the gentle tug of the dream-future, and a flicker of anticipation, almost comfort, sparked within her. She braced herself, expecting the gentle pull back to the peaceful, sunlit home with Yoru and the older, softer Geto. She longed for that quiet comfort, for the reassurance of that loving future.
But this time, the transition was jarring. Before any cohesive scene could form, a sound pierced her consciousness – a high-pitched, wailing cry, so loud and insistent it felt like tiny needles pricking at her mind. It was the unrestrained sobbing of a small child, a sound that bypassed all her usual professional detachment and went straight to a primal nerve. It gave her a throbbing behind her eyes.
A blinding white light seared her vision, and when it receded, the scene had shifted dramatically. Gone was the sun-dappled bedroom or the moonlit festival path. Now, Future Shoko lay not in a Western-style bed, but on a soft futon spread neatly across clean, pale tatami mats. The room was spacious, traditionally Japanese, with shoji screens filtering a soft, diffused light. It felt serene, a stark contrast to the auditory chaos. And the source of that chaos was right beside the futon. A small child, a little girl this time, perhaps four or five years old, was kneeling beside Future Shoko, her tiny hands tugging insistently at the sleeve of her mother’s yukata.
This was not the child she had come to expect, not the quiet, thoughtful Yoru. This little girl was a whirlwind of distress. Her hair, pure white, was meticulously braided, adorned with small, colorful Kanzashi hairpins. She wore a vibrant, intricately patterned yukata, the kind reserved for doted-upon children. With her perfectly arranged hair and beautiful clothes, she looked like an exquisitely crafted Hina doll.
But this doll was anything but serene.
Tears streamed from her wide, luminous eyes – eyes that, even through the blur of tears, Shoko could see were a shade of blue. Her tiny nose was red and running, and she hiccuped between sobs, her whole small body shaking.
“Mama! Mama, wake up!” the little girl wailed, her voice cracking. “Please, Mama! Don’t sleep so much! Wake up and play! Papa said… Papa said you’d wake up soon!” She tugged harder at Future Shoko’s sleeve, her small fists bunching the fabric.
“Mama, why won’t you wake up? Are you mad at me? I’ll be good, I promise! Just wake up, Mama!”
Teen Shoko watched, a strange mix of emotions swirling within her. There was the immediate, instinctive pang of empathy for the crying child, a desire to soothe her distress. But there was also a sense of disorientation, a jarring shift from the quiet, introspective world she had just experienced. This was a different future, a different family, and a very, very different child.
The little girl's desperate sobs seemed to finally penetrate the heavy veil of Future Shoko's slumber. Her eyelids fluttered, then slowly, with visible effort, opened. Her gaze, hazy at first, focused on the small figure beside her.
“Sora…?” Future Shoko’s voice was a mere whisper, but it was enough.
The little girl – Sora – froze mid-sob, her tear-filled blue eyes widening. She hiccuped, then sniffled loudly.
“Shhh, my little sky,” Future Shoko murmured, her hand, trembling slightly, lifting from the futon. She tried to comfort Sora. “Don’t cry. Mama’s awake now. See?”
The child stared, her lower lip still trembling. The sheer relief that began to dawn on her small face was palpable, chasing away some of the stark terror.
The effort to speak, to even open her eyes, seemed to drain what little energy Future Shoko possessed. Lazily, her hand fumbled on the small table beside the futon, fingers brushing against a box of tissues. She managed to pull one free.
"Come here, baby girl," Future Shoko gently beckoned Sora closer.
Hearing mother's voice, Sora's cries hitched, she obediently leaned into her mother.
“There you go,” Future Shoko gently began to wipe away the tears streaming down Sora’s face, then carefully tended to her runny nose.
As she dabbed away the tears, Sora’s eyes, now fully open and fixed on her mother, though still glistening and red-rimmed, were revealed in their full, startling glory. They were a brilliant, crystalline blue. Not just blue, but that blue. The exact, unmistakable, almost supernatural azure of Gojo Satoru’s. Framed by her tear-dampened white lashes, it was like looking into miniature versions of Gojo’s eyes, staring out from this tiny, doll-like face.
The sight of those eyes, so achingly familiar, seemed to momentarily jolt Teen Shoko, the observer. Gojo’s child. This vibrant little doll was Gojo’s child. It hit Teen Shoko with the force of a physical blow. Sora. Sky. Of course. A name as bright and expansive as her father.
With a wail that was part relief, part lingering fear, Sora launched herself at her mother. She threw her small body into Shoko’s chest, her arms wrapping tightly around her neck, burying her tear-streaked face in her mother’s yukata.
“Mama!”
Future Shoko gasped, the sudden impact and the tight embrace momentarily stealing her breath. “Oof! Sora… sweetie… can’t… breathe…” She tried to pat Sora’s back to soothe her, but the little girl was clinging with all her might.
Teen Shoko watched, a whirlwind of emotions churning within her. This vibrant, emotional, undeniably Gojo-like child… her daughter. The contrast with the quiet, gentle Yoru was stark, yet the love radiating from Future Shoko was just as profound, just as all-encompassing.
“Shhh, it’s alright, little one, it’s alright,” She crooned, finally managing to get an arm around Sora’s shaking shoulders. “Mama’s here. You cried so much, you poor thing.”
Sora’s sobs gradually subsided into sniffles and hiccups, though she still clung to her mother fiercely, as if afraid she might disappear again. The child loosened her grip a fraction, lifting her tear-stained face. Her blue eyes, though still wet, were shining now.
“I am scared! Papa said you were just very, very sleepy, but you slept for so long!”
“I know, baby, I know,” She let Sora cry for a few moments, letting her release the pent-up fear and worry. “Mama was very tired. But I’m awake now. Everything’s alright.” She wiped a stray tear from Sora’s cheek with her thumb.
“Sweetie, that’s enough crying now, alright? You’ll make yourself sick.” Future Shoko tried to ease the child back a fraction, so she could see her face. " Now, can you be a big, brave girl and go call Papa?"
The kid still clings to her mother. “But I am Mommy’s little girl.”
"Then can my little one go call your Dad for Mom?"
Sora sniffled again, her face still pressed against her mother’s chest. She nodded mutely, her small body still clinging tightly, not quite ready to let go. But the instruction, the task, seemed to give her a new focus, a way to channel her overwhelming emotions.
The moment Sora wriggled out of her embrace and darted from the room, the strength that had momentarily surged through Future Shoko evaporated. With a weary groan, she collapsed back onto the futon, every muscle aching with profound exhaustion. Her breathing was shallow, a faint wheeze accompanying each exhale. She turned her head, burying her face in the cool fabric of the pillow.
But the peace was short-lived. She heard them before she saw them. First, the frantic, pattering footsteps of a small child, almost a stampede. Then, a second set of footsteps, longer-strided and impossibly fast. They were practically running down the hallway.
Future Shoko let out another weary sigh into the pillow. She didn’t even have to look. She knew what was coming. Before she could even lift her head, she heard the chorus of approaching chaos. Sora’s excited, high-pitched twittering – "Papa, hurry! Mama's awake! She really is!" – was punctuated by a man's equally booming voice – "I know, Sunshine! I'm coming! The Strongest is on his way!"
The shoji screen door didn’t just open; it was thrust aside with such force that it rattled in its frame, threatening to fly off its hinges.
A tall figure burst into the room, a whirlwind of blue and white. It was Gojo Satoru, the Future one, and from Teen Shoko's viewpoint, she was struck by how little he had fundamentally changed. He was taller, certainly, his shoulders broader and more powerful beneath the folds of a vibrant blue yukata patterned with stylized white clouds. But his face… it was still boyishly sharp, almost ageless, devoid of the soft, settled lines that had marked Future Geto. If anything, he seemed even more charged with an irrepressible energy. He was not calmer; he was simply a more potent, more concentrated version of the chaotic teenager she knew.
"Shoko! You're awake! I knew it! You couldn't resist my charming presence for too long, could you?"
The man didn’t walk into the room; he practically exploded into it, rushing towards the futon with the unrestrained enthusiasm of a golden retriever. He was about to flop down and envelop her in a crushing hug. But Future Shoko, without even fully looking up, lifted a protesting hand.
"No," she groaned, trying to push him away weakly. "I'll break."
He skidded to a halt, though his eyes still blazed with excitement. Sora, meanwhile, had darted around him and was now trying to climb back onto the futon beside her mother.
Future Shoko managed to push herself up onto one elbow, glaring at him with all the tired frustration she could muster. "Satoru. You had one job. One. Single. Job. Keep Sora entertained so I could get five minutes of actual rest."
Gojo had the decency to look slightly sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck – a gesture Teen Shoko knew well. "Ah, well, about that… We were playing hide-and-seek! Super intense game. I was counting, and she's gotten really good at hiding, you know? Didn't even realize she'd snuck in here."
He beamed at her, clearly expecting praise, or at least for her to share in his elation. Sora, meanwhile, had succeeded in snuggling close to her mother again, patting her arm gently.
"She ran in here crying her eyes out because she thought I was dying."
"I missed Mama! I wanted to see if she was awake yet!" Sora giggled, tugging on Gojo’s yukata sleeve.
"She must have missed you terribly." Gojo gently took her hand, his large fingers enveloping hers.
"But hey," he added, "maybe it was her loud, heartfelt cries that did the trick, huh? My little Sora, waking up her Mama with the sheer power of her love! You can thank her – and me, by extension, for creating such a powerfully loving child – for your miraculous recovery!"
And unfazed by Shoko’s exasperated groan, the man immediately shifted gears from self-congratulation to earnest concern. He knelt beside the futon, his large frame folding with surprising grace, his voice softening just a fraction. "Okay, okay, jokes aside. How are you really feeling? Dizzy? Nauseous? Do you need me to call someone? Do you need a hug? I give excellent, medically-approved hugs." He leaned in closer, attempting to put his hand on her forehead. Even as a husband and father, Gojo Satoru was still, fundamentally, Gojo Satoru. This was… a very different kind of family dynamic.
While he was engrossed in his rapid-fire questioning, a mischievous glint appeared in Sora’s bright blue eyes. Seeing both her parents occupied, she tiptoed silently out of the room, her earlier mission from her father completely forgotten. A moment later, she returned, her small arms laden with a precarious tower of snacks. There were boxes of Pocky, bags of shrimp crackers, and several brightly colored candy bars. She carried them with the triumphant air of a successful jewel thief.
“Mama! I got you treats! Papa hides them in the top cupboard, but I used the little stool!” She beamed, oblivious to the storm clouds gathering on her father’s face.
"Hey! That's my emergency sugar supply! You're not supposed to know about that!" Gojo looked betrayed, pointing an accusing finger at his daughter. “Those are my limited-edition sour gummy curses! And my super-salty senbei! You little thief!”
Sora just stuck her tongue out at him. "It's for Mama! She needs cheering up!"
“Now, now, Satoru. Sharing is caring.”
“But these are my cares!” Gojo protested, though he was already being swarmed by Sora, who was trying to offer a slightly squashed cookie to her mother.
“That’s very sweet, Sora, but maybe later.” Future Shoko smiles at her daughter’s earnestness.
“Papa’s being mean, Mama! You need snacks to get better! And juice!” With that, she grabbed a small juice box from the pile, one with a cheerful cartoon animal on it. “Here, Mama! Drink this! It’s a yummy grape! It’ll make you super strong again!”
She fumbled with the tiny straw, then, with a determined grunt, managed to poke it into the box. However, in her enthusiasm and with her small, uncoordinated hands, she squeezed the box a little too hard. A jet of purple juice shot out, arcing through the air and landing squarely on her father's face, who leaned in to protest.
Silence descended for a beat, broken only by the drip-drip-drip of orange juice from Gojo’s silver hair and the tip of his nose. Sora giggled, clapping her hands, clearly finding the accidental splashing hilarious, hiding slightly behind Future Shoko’s futon. The mother let out a weak, sputtering cough that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh. Gojo slowly, deliberately, wiped the juice from his face with the sleeve of his yukata, looking from the juice box, to his daughter, to his laughing-coughing wife, and back again.
"Alright," Shoko orders. "That's it. Both of you. Out."
The man could only sputter, "But—the betrayal!"
"Out," Shoko repeated, pointing a finger towards the door. "Satoru, take our daughter, clean your face, and let me have ten minutes of quiet before my head explodes."
"Right," he said. "Okay. New plan."
He stood up, scooping the giggling Sora, “You, little agent of chaos,” tucking her under his arm like a sack of particularly wriggly potatoes, “are coming with me.”
He held Sora in place with one arm while using his free hand to deftly gather the scattered snacks. "These are being confiscated for… evidence."
Sora wriggled in his grasp. "But Mama needs them!"
"Mama needs her husband not to be covered in juice," he juggled Sora, who was now trying to stick a chocolate Pocky stick up his nose, and managed to glance at Shoko. His expression, for a moment, was stripped of all its usual theatrics. It was just gentle. "Okay. I'm taking this one for re-education. I'll get you some warm water, your actual medicine, and I will personally stand guard to ensure no more tiny snack thieves disturb your royal slumber."
With that, he backed out of the room, still trying to fend off Sora’s playful attacks, his voice already starting a negotiation ("Alright, alright, two cookies, but then you have to promise to be quiet as a sleeping kitten, deal?").
Future Shoko watched them go, a tired but fond smile on her lips. The room, suddenly much quieter, felt both empty and full. Teen Shoko, observing it all, felt a strange sense of exhaustion herself, as if she’d lived through the whirlwind alongside them.
A few minutes later, Gojo returned alone, carrying a tray with a glass of warm water and a small cup containing what looked like actual medicine. His yukata was still damp with juice, and his hair seemed even more dishevelled, but his expression was now more focused, albeit still a little manic.
He helped Future Shoko sit up, carefully supporting her as she drank the water and took the medicine. He didn’t try to hug her this time, just leaned down and pressed a quick, gentle kiss to Future Shoko’s forehead, his lips still faintly sticky with juice.
“Get some sleep, Shoko. For real this time. I’ve got this.”
That evening, a sense of peace had finally settled over the traditional room. The medicine had worked its gentle magic, and the earlier exhaustion had receded into a manageable weariness. Future Shoko felt significantly better. She was just adjusting her pillows, preparing for what she hoped would be a restful night. Naturally, that was when the door slid open again. A small, white-haired head peeked in.
Sora stood there, no longer the meticulously dressed doll from the afternoon. She was now in a simple cotton yukata, pale blue like the morning sky. Her striking white hair, freed from its intricate braids, cascaded around her small shoulders like a waterfall of moonlight. She looked softer, sleepier, but her blue eyes held a familiar glint of determination.
"Mama, I can't sleep."
Before Shoko could respond, Gojo appeared in the doorway behind his daughter.
"Sora, come on. We talked about this. Mama needs to rest."
"Papa reads it all wrong." Sora ignored him, marching straight to Shoko's futon and holding up a storybook, her blue eyes wide with displeasure. "He makes the princess sound like a grumpy troll, and he does all the voices too loud."
Gojo put his hands on his hips. "They were dramatic interpretations! It adds flavor!"
"It's bad flavor. I want Mama read to me."
"Sunshine, Mama is tired," Gojo's voice softening as he tried to reason with his daughter. "I promise I'll use my quiet voice this time. We can even whisper the whole story."
Sora just shook her head, her silver hair flying. "No. Only Mama." She looked at Shoko with pleading blue eyes.
Shoko sighed, kid had certainly inherited her father's stubbornness. "Alright. Come here." She looked at Gojo. "But you're carrying her back to her room when she falls asleep."
Gojo's face lit up in victory, as if he'd won the argument himself. Instead of leaving, however, he ducked out of the room for a moment and returned with another futon and a blanket, which he spread out on the tatami mats a respectable distance away from her, ensuring she still had her space to rest undisturbed.
"What are you doing?" Shoko asked.
"Providing moral support," he plopped down onto the futon. "And supervising. To make sure the story is read with the appropriate level of bedtime calm."
Sora, triumphant, snuggled down onto her father’s futon, propping her head on her hands and looking expectantly at her mother. She began to read, her voice soft and even, a soothing melody in the quiet room. She read about a lost star searching for its constellation, her words weaving a gentle spell. Gojo lay on his futon, his head propped up on his hand, watching them. After a few more pages, the room fell completely silent. Shoko finished a paragraph, then paused, listening to the quiet rhythm of her daughter's sleep.
"Satoru," she doesn't look up from the book. "I think she's out. You can take her now."
There was no response.
"Satoru?" She whispered again, a little louder. Still nothing.
Finally, she lifted her gaze. And then she saw it. Both father and daughter were fast asleep. Gojo was sprawled on his back, one arm flung out, his silver hair fanned out on the pillow, his expression completely relaxed, almost boyish in sleep. And Sora, curled up on her side facing him, was a perfect miniature echo. Her white hair was similarly spread, her small face serene, her breathing synchronized with her father’s. They even had the same slight pout to their lips in repose.
The sight was so ridiculous, so utterly exasperating, and so profoundly endearing that Teen Shoko felt her eyes prickle with tears. She observed as her future self carefully, silently sat up, reached for the blanket Gojo had brought in, and gently draped the blanket over them, tucking it around Sora’s small shoulders and then covering Gojo’s much larger frame. As she smoothed the blanket over Sora, the little girl stirred slightly in her sleep, her small hand reflexively reaching out, her fingers brushing against Shoko’s. Without thinking, she let her fingers intertwine with Sora’s tiny ones. After a while, Future Shoko just froze, looking at their joined hands. She could pull away, slip back to her futon and her much-needed rest. But she didn't.
She didn't remove her hand. Instead, she knelt there for a long moment, watching the two most chaotic and precious people in her world sleep. The moonlight filtering through the shoji screens cast a silvery glow over the two slumbering figures. Then, with a soft sigh, she settled onto the edge of their futon, her hand still held fast by Sora's, and let her own eyes drift closed, content to fall asleep right there, a guardian watching over her two beautiful messes.
**
The peaceful, slumbering image of her impossible family, their hands linked in sleep, began to fade, the warmth receding like a dying ember. Shoko felt the familiar, cold pull back to the present. She returned to the sound of rustling. Not the gentle rustle of leaves or a yukata, but the sharp, crinkling sound of plastic convenience store bags. Her gaze shifted, focusing on the figure moving about the dimly lit room. It was Gojo. He must have just returned, as he was emptying several bags onto the small table beside her bed. A cascade of colorful packages tumbled out – bags of chips, chocolate bars, sweet buns, and, incongruously, several sky-blue packs of Mevius cigarettes, her preferred brand.
He pulled up the lone visitor’s chair, scraping it slightly against the linoleum floor, and sat down, his long legs folded under the small piece of furniture. He didn’t speak. Instead, with a strange, almost meditative focus, he began to stack the items he’d bought. A bag of chips formed the base, followed by a chocolate bar, then a pack of cigarettes, another snack, another pack of cigarettes. He built a small, wobbly tower of junk food and nicotine.
He stared at his creation for a moment, his head tilted. Then, with the careful precision of someone playing Jenga, he began to pull items out from the middle of the stack. A chocolate bar here, a bag of gummies there. Inevitably, the whole tower collapsed, scattering across the tabletop with a soft clatter. Without a word, he patiently gathered the items and began to build it again. He repeated this strange, solitary game two, three times. It was a pointless, repetitive action, a way to occupy his hands, to channel the restless energy that always seemed to hum beneath his skin. Finally, he seemed to tire of it. With a deep sigh, he slumped forward, laying his arms on the table and propping his chin on his hands, his gaze fixed on her motionless form on the bed.
After a while, the guy stirred. He reached out and picked up one of the Mevius packs. He tore off the cellophane wrapping with a flick of his thumbnail, then slid the box open. He brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply. His face immediately scrunched up in a grimace of distaste. The scent was clearly not to his liking.
"Ugh. Still smells like burnt leaves." He snapped the box shut and tossed it back onto the table.
He then rose from his chair and walked to her bedside and reaching for her hand, his fingers enclosing hers. His hand was different from Geto’s. Where Geto’s had been warm and calloused, Gojo’s was cool, the skin smooth, almost soft, despite the immense power it contained.
“Hey, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you smoke. Feels weird.” He paused. “It’s boring without you. And Suguru’s even more broody than usual. It’s a real downer, you know?”
He glanced back at the mess on the table. “I bought you a whole bunch. So when you wake up, you can smoke to your heart’s content. I won’t complain about the smell, or tell you it’s a gross habit.”
"And," Gojo looked back down at her.
"I'll even let you blow smoke in my face, how about that? A special, one-time offer. A welcome-back gift." He squeezed her hand. His grip was light, hesitant, as if he were afraid of disturbing her too much, or perhaps, afraid of the lack of response.
His voice dropped, intense. "So you gotta wake up, Shoko. You hear me?" The playfulness faded as quickly as it came. His cool fingers tightened around hers.
"This isn't funny anymore. Get up. Don't just lie there. Come back."
**
The cool touch of Gojo's hand and his voice began to fade, replaced by a wave of intense, shimmering heat. Shoko's consciousness was pulled away from the dim infirmary once more, thrown into a dreamscape so bright it was almost blinding.
The scene that formed around her was one of a quintessential summer afternoon. It was a bright summer afternoon, the kind where the heat shimmers above the ground and the cicadas drone their relentless song. She was sitting on a wide, polished engawa overlooking a meticulously manicured garden. This was… opulent. Grand. Future Shoko was dressed for the heat in a simple, light green two-strap dress, the fabric thin and breathable. Her hair was tied up, though a few tendrils had escaped to cling to her neck, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead as she fanned herself non-stop with a bamboo uchiwa.
A woman in a neat, formal kimono, bearing the unmistakable five-branches crest of the Gojo clan on her sleeve, approached silently. She knelt, placing a platter of perfectly chilled, artfully arranged fruit—glistening slices of watermelon, perfectly peeled orange segments, and translucent globes of kyoho grapes—on a low table beside Shoko.
"Okusama," the servant said as she bowed deeply. "Please have some fruit to cool down."
Future Shoko, this grand "Gojo-okusama," simply nodded in acknowledgment. The servant bowed again and discreetly withdrew. Shoko picked up a slice of watermelon, its vibrant red a welcome sight. As she took a bite, her gaze drifted out towards the expansive, meticulously kept garden. Her attention was fixed on the source of the joyful shrieks and splashes coming from the center of the lawn. A large, inflatable swimming pool, garishly blue and shaped like a giant donut, had been set up. Inside, a scene of pure, chaotic energy was unfolding.
Future Gojo Satoru, looking for all the world like he was ready for a tropical beach vacation, was in his element. He wore a pair of ridiculously bright light blue swim shorts and a garish floral shirt, unbuttoned and flapping open to reveal his toned torso, and was armed with a massive, neon-colored water gun, laughing boisterously as he engaged in a fierce aquatic battle with his daughter. Sora, in a cute, frilly swimsuit, was surprisingly agile, darting around the pool, her own smaller water pistol firing wildly. Water flew everywhere. Gojo, despite his Six Eyes, seemed to be taking more hits than he landed, mostly because he was too busy laughing and making dramatic diving dodges that soaked everyone within a ten-foot radius. After a few more minutes of boisterous chasing and splashing, which left Gojo thoroughly soaked and Sora shrieking with laughter, he seemed to decide he'd had enough.
"Alright, champ. Tag out! Papa needs to refuel!"
He called over another servant who was standing discreetly by the edge of the garden, handed the man his water gun with a grin, and gestured towards the pool.
"Your turn! Keep the princess entertained!" Gojo commanded with a grand wave before vaulting effortlessly out of the pool. The servant, looking slightly bewildered but resigned, dutifully took the water gun and engaged the giggling Sora in a new round of play.
Now dripping and grinning, Gojo headed towards the engawa where his wife sat. He didn't bother to towel off, just shook water from his silver hair like a wet dog, sending a spray of water droplets in all directions. Then the guy vaulted onto the wooden veranda with his usual athletic grace, water dripping from his silver hair and tracing paths down his chest. He reached Shoko, without a word, he promptly collapsed, laying his head directly in her lap, his long legs stretching out across the veranda.
Shoko, who had just taken another bite of watermelon, paused mid-chew. Her fan stilled. The cicadas buzzed. She squinted down at the man using her thighs as a pillow. A droplet of water from his hair dripped onto her bare leg.
"Satoru."
He just hummed contentedly, his eyes closed, nuzzling his head slightly against her thighs.
"You're getting me all wet," she said.
"Mmm," he mumbled. "You make a great pillow. Best pillow. Five stars." He just wiggled a bit, getting comfortable, completely oblivious – or perhaps deliberately ignoring – her slight discomfort.
Future Shoko let out a small, put-upon sigh, the kind that was more habit than genuine annoyance. Then, she shifted slightly, adjusting her position to make him more comfortable, even though his wet head was undoubtedly making her dress damp. She then picked up her fan again, her fanning motions now a little more vigorous, perhaps trying to dry him off as much as cool herself. Then took another bite of her watermelon, the cool sweetness a welcome contrast to the summer heat and the warmth of his head in her lap.
Gojo quickly noticed the glistening platter of cold fruit. His eyes lit up like a child spotting a candy store. Without lifting his head, he simply opened his mouth in a clear gesture.
"Ahhhh," he's like a baby bird waiting for a worm.
Future Shoko looked down at him, her expression a perfect blend of "you've gotta be kidding me" and weary resignation. She then put down her watermelon slice, picked up a plump, dark purple grape, and dutifully popped it into his waiting mouth.
"Mmm, thanks," He mumbled around the fruit, chewing contentedly.
"Man, it's really hot today. But look at her," he said, gesturing with his chin towards the yard where Sora was now enthusiastically drenching the poor servant with her water pistol. "Still full of energy. A bottomless well. Takes after her old man, you know." He puffed out his chest with pride.
"She looks like she's about to boil," Shoko mumbled, resuming her fanning. "Be careful. You'll both get heatstroke if you keep this up. Then I’ll have two children to look after."
“Nah, we’re invincible! Besides, all this activity means she'll sleep like a log tonight. Win-win." Then his tone softened. "So? You feeling better today? Properly better?"
She nodded slightly. “I’m alright. The shade helps.”
"If you are, I was thinking… beach trip! The three of us. "
Shoko raised an eyebrow. “Beach?”
"Yeah," He propped himself up slightly on an elbow, his excitement bubbling to the surface again. “It’ll be Sora’s first time seeing an actual beach! Can you imagine? Her little face when she sees the ocean! We gotta build a massive sandcastle, find seashells, maybe even teach her to surf! Well, I’ll teach her to surf. You can supervise from a shady spot with a fancy drink.” He was already planning it out, his energy infectious.
“I went to the beach with Suguru, back in the day. He buried me in the sand up to my neck and then pretended he couldn't find me. The jerk. Got ridiculously sunburned. But never… never with you, Shoko. Not as a family.” A flicker of something almost nostalgic in his expression.
His eyes then drifted back towards the garden where Sora was now gleefully drenching the poor servant with the water gun. A fond look entered his expression. "Our girl, she’s growing up so fast, isn't she? Still just a little sprout, but… there’ll be so many things. Her first day of school, recitals, graduations, maybe even her first crush – though I’ll have to thoroughly vet anyone who even looks at my princess." He paused. "And then, way, way down the line, maybe even her wedding…"
“And I want you there, Shoko. For all of it. Every single important moment, every silly little thing. I want us to be there together, watching her.”
He paused, waiting for a response. Future Shoko, however, wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on Sora, a soft, almost wistful smile playing on her lips as she watched her daughter. Sora, having tired out the servant, was now attempting to teach a fluffy white cat (presumably a Gojo clan pet) how to use the water gun. The gentle breeze stirred the ends of her hair, and the summer sun made her squint slightly.
"Shoko? You listening?" He asks.
"Hey. You look a little dazed." Noticing her distraction, Gojo frowned slightly.
He reached up, and with a familiar motion, he slid his signature dark sunglasses off his face. The world, for a moment, seemed to sharpen, to brighten, as his impossibly blue eyes were fully revealed. Then, gently, he placed the sunglasses on her face, the dark lenses immediately cutting the glare of the bright afternoon sun. They were far too big for her, but they shielded her from the glare. From her experience, Teen Shoko just knew her future self was comfortable as the glasses were cool against her skin, and they smelled faintly of him. She reached up, her fingers lightly touching the frame of the glasses.
"Now you're just as cool as me," he was closer now, his face just inches from hers, his blue eyes earnest, "So, what do you say? You'll be there? I don't want to do any of it alone, you hear me?"
This time, his words broke through her reverie. Shaded by his glasses, looking at the world through his lens, Shoko finally turned her gaze from her daughter to her husband. The harsh glare of the sun was gone, and all she could see was his hopeful face. Her fingers gently brushed his damp silver hair back from his forehead.
"I wouldn’t miss a single moment of her life. Or ours. Satoru," Shoko's voice was clear. "And of course, we’ll go to the beach.”
"Good. Because I never go anywhere without my best girl." He beamed, a grin so wide and bright it could have rivaled the sun. Then reached up and gently booped Sora's distant, splashing form with his finger, then booped Shoko's nose over the top of his glasses. "My two best girls."
Then, Future Shoko simply watched Sora play for another moment, a thoughtful expression settling on her face. The servant was being exceptionally indulgent, letting Sora "win" their water fight with dramatic splashes and playful surrender. It was sweet, but something in the scene seemed to trouble her.
Shoko adjusted the oversized sunglasses on her face, the world taking on a cool, dark tint, and watched Sora for another moment before her expression grew more serious. She looked back down at Gojo, her fingers gently tapping on his forehead.
"Satoru, I don't want Sora spending all her time here, at the clan compound."
Gojo blinked, genuinely surprised. "Huh? Why not? This place is great! Huge garden, plenty of space to run around, servants to cater to her every whim – what's not to like?" He pushed himself up slightly on his elbows, looking at her with a questioning frown. "Besides, it's her birthright, isn't it? She's a Gojo."
Shoko set the fan down for a moment. She gestured towards the servants, who were still doting on Sora, one now meticulously drying her hair with a fluffy towel, another offering her a fresh, chilled juice.
"That's exactly the problem. Everyone here treats her like a tiny deity. She's 'Sora-hime' this, and 'Ojousama' that. The servant you just handed your water gun to looked like he’d have jumped off a cliff if she’d asked him to. And you…" she gave him a pointed look, "you spoil her rotten."
"Hey!" Gojo protested, though there was a hint of a pleased smirk on his face. "I do not spoil her! She is the Gojo clan heiress, after all. It’s practically in her job description."
"It's sweet, I know they mean well, but… You know, the world isn't going to bow to her every command just because she has snow-white hair and your eyes."
"Why wouldn't they? She is a little princess!" He then reached up to poke her side playfully. "And you're my princess, Shoko, and you turned out fine. Not spoiled at all. Mostly."
Shoko’s brow furrowed. She poked his forehead a little harder. "I'm not a princess. I'm her mother. And I had to fight for everything I have. Sora needs a stricter education than this. I can't effectively discipline her if every time I try to set a boundary, five different clan elders are rushing in to tell her she's perfect and can do no wrong."
She gestured towards the garden where Sora was now happily directing the servant in a complex game. "Look at her. She's adorable, she's bright, but she's already got a touch of your… overwhelming confidence. If we're not careful, that'll backfire."
"But she's just a baby. What's the harm in a little spoiling now? Just let her be happy."
"She's four, not an infant," Shoko corrected patiently. "And these are formative years. Happy is one thing. Entitled is another. I want her to be strong, yes, like you. But I also want her to be kind, considerate, and grounded."
Gojo chewed on his lower lip, actually looking contemplative for a moment. "But... I... "
Shoko sighed again, a sound of maternal exasperation that Teen Shoko was beginning to recognize as a staple in this particular future. "Satoru, 'harsh realities' are what we deal with every day. The sooner she learns resilience and a sense of proportion, the better equipped she'll be. Being the daughter of Gojo Satoru is already a heavy enough burden for her to carry. Being a spoiled one on top of that won't do her any favors."
"Okay, okay, I see your point. Maybe a little less princess treatment. But she's still so young. Can't we let her enjoy being doted on for a bit longer? Like, until she's… seven? Eight?" He looked hopeful.
Shoko leveled him with a look that clearly said 'try again'.
"Alright, six then," he conceded quickly. "Six is a good, responsible age. Plenty of time to learn about… chores, and… not getting everything you want."
"I’m not saying we should throw her to the wolves," Shoko's voice firm but not harsh. "It might start with small things. Understanding that 'no' is sometimes an answer, a bit less ‘princess treatment’ wouldn’t go amiss. Or having to wait for things."
The playful light in Gojo’s eyes softened slightly as he saw the real conviction in her face. He knew that look. It was the same one she got when she was determined to save a patient everyone else had given up on. He let out a soft sigh and reached up to catch her hand, stilling her finger-poking.
"I know, I know. You're right. You're always right about this stuff." He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. "Maybe… maybe they do go a little overboard sometimes. The old fossils in the clan get particularly sycophantic around her. It’s kinda gross." He then suggested. "But maybe just a little bit spoiled? For now? For me? "
Future Shoko looked at her husband. She knew he understood, on some level. But his instinct was always to indulge, especially with Sora. It was a battle she knew they’d have many times. She had to admit he wasn’t entirely wrong. Sora was still very young.
"Fine," she relented, clearly this was a temporary ceasefire, not a surrender. "Until she starts school."
"Deal!" he chirped. "See? We're great at co-parenting." He then promptly closed his eyes, flopping his head back down, ready for a nap in the shade.
After a while, thinking that his wife had relaxed (which he was wrong, again), Gojo looked up at Shoko through his lashes, blinked. "You know, you're really hot today."
"It's thirty-five degrees. Everyone is hot," she fanning herself.
"No, I mean... Hot."
Shoko simply ignored her husband and picked up another chilled grape, intending to pop it into her mouth this time. But Gojo leaned up again, his mouth already open, a playful glint in his blue eyes.
"One more for the road?" he wheedled.
Shoko rolled her eyes at his blatant flirting but complied, picking up another plump grape from the chilled platter. She held it above his mouth, about to drop it in.
SPLOOSH!
A well-aimed stream of water from Sora’s water pistol hit Shoko’s hand squarely. Her fingers spasming, and the grape, dislodged from her grip, flew directly into Gojo’s still-open mouth, lodging itself firmly in his throat. He shot upright, his eyes bulging. He clutched at his neck, making horrible, choking, gagging sounds. His face, already flushed from the heat, began to turn a worrying shade of purple.
“Papa!” Seeing her father’s distress, the kid immediately dropped her water gun.
"Satoru!" Shoko cried, scrambling up, her previous languor forgotten. She thumped him hard on the back, once, twice.
Gojo continued to cough, great, racking heaves that shook his entire frame. Finally, with one last, forceful expulsion, the whole grape shot out of his mouth and landed unceremoniously on the engawa. He collapsed back against Shoko, gasping for breath, his chest heaving. Once Shoko, sure Gojo was breathing again (albeit raggedly), rounded on her daughter.
“Gojo Sora! What did I tell you about playing with water guns near the veranda? And aiming at people? That was dangerous! Look what you did to your father!”
The little girl visibly shrank. She whispered in a tiny voice. "I just wanted to cool you down…"
But her mother’s frustration, not yet abated, shifted its target. "And you!" She turned back to the still-gasping Gojo. “She mimics everything you do! See? At this rate, with this kind of behavior, you won't live long enough to teach your daughter anything, because she'll accidentally take you out first!"
Gojo, having finally caught his breath, patted his chest. “Almost… saw my life… flash before my eyes…” he wheezed.
"Okay… point taken. She's going to kindergarten… cough… Tomorrow. And staying there. Until she's thirty." He took another deep breath. "Now. Lesson time for the little water sniper."
He pushed himself to his feet, looking slightly wobbly, a determined glint in his (still slightly watery) eyes. He strode towards Sora, the kid looked up at him with a mixture of fear and apprehension.
For a moment, Teen Shoko thought he was going to deliver a stern lecture. He knelt to Sora's level, his expression serious.
"Sora-chan," he began. "We need to talk about weapon safety, even with water guns."
He started with a stern lecture about safety and listening to Mama, but within moments, Teen Shoko could see the resolve crumbling. Sora’s tearful face was too potent a weapon. Gojo instantly raised the white flag.
"Right then, young lady! Since you're so eager to 'cool people down,' let's see how you like it!"
Sora just looked at him, her teary eyes wide, before breaking into a giggle and darting away. "You can't catch me, Papa!"
"Oh, can't I?!" Gojo's brief attempt at fatherly discipline vanished in an instant. He snatched his water gun back from the bewildered servant and took off after her. Soon, the chase was back on, loud, chaotic, and utterly undisciplined. Shoko watched them, then picked up the errant grape, flicking it into the garden.
**
The bright, chaotic energy of the summer garden, the sound of Gojo and Sora’s playful shouts, began to fade like a receding tide. The warmth of the sun on her skin, the scent of chlorine and sunscreen, dissolved, replaced once more by the cool stillness of the infirmary. Shoko was back, a prisoner in her own unresponsive body.
She hadn't been "back" for long when the infirmary door burst open with a distinct lack of subtlety. Gojo Satoru, the teenager, stormed in, looking harried and indignant.
"Shoko! You will not believe the day I've had!" he began, not even waiting for a response she couldn't give. He started pacing at the foot of her bed, running a hand through his silver hair. He rambled on, recounting a litany of perceived injustices and minor catastrophes that had apparently befallen him in the few hours since his last visit. He complained about the quality of the coffee in the staff room, the obtuseness of a particular higher-up, and the general incompetence of everyone who wasn't him.
"—and then Yaga-sensei said it was a dereliction of my duty as 'the Strongest' to let my partner get blindsided, and that my risk assessment was 'appallingly juvenile'! Can you believe that? Juvenile! And then Nanami gave me that look, you know the one, like he was mentally calculating the cost of my incompetence. I swear, he enjoys it. And Ijichi just kept apologizing, even though it had nothing to do with him! And Suguru just stood there, looking all stoic and 'responsible.' Traitor. It's been a nightmare, Shoko, an absolute nightmare while you've been taking a nap."
He finally stopped pacing and practically flung himself into the visitor's chair, running a hand through his already messy hair. "And then," his voice rising, "as if that wasn't enough, I went to grab a soda from the vending machine – because a guy needs a sugar boost after being unjustly berated, right? – and some idiot first-year wasn't looking where he was going and bam! Head-on collision! Right into my beautiful, perfect face!"
"Here, feel it? The devastation?" He took her limp, unresponsive hand and, with great gentleness, brought it up to his face, pressing her fingers against his temple.
"It's bad, Shoko. Really bad. It's probably a massive gash. If you don't treat it right now, it's going to leave a scar. A hideous, disfiguring scar! I can't have a scar like Utahime's! No offense to Utahime, but that's her look. I might lose my title! 'The Most Handsome Man in Jujutsu Society' – gone! Poof! Replaced by… I don't know, probably some second-rate sorcerer with symmetrical eyebrows!"
Shoko focused her senses on the point of contact. His skin was, as she well knew, ridiculously smooth. It was flawless, like polished marble, probably smoother than her skin even on a good day. There was no cut, no gash, no wound that would ever result in a scar. There was, however, a small, distinct lump. A bump. She knew that lump. It was the kind of lump one acquired from, say, not paying attention and walking into a doorframe, or perhaps from an overly enthusiastic but poorly aimed celebratory headbutt with a lamppost after a successful mission (something she wouldn’t put past him). He hadn’t been seriously injured; he’d been an idiot.
Annoyance, a familiar companion when dealing with Gojo, welled up within her. This man. Screaming about a scar when it was just a bump. No wonder Sora acts like that. The apple hadn't just fallen from the tree; it had bounced off every branch on the way down, picking up extra theatrics. So she tried, with a surge of frustration, to pull her hand away. You're fine, you giant baby, she thought, pouring all her willpower into the simple act of retracting her arm. But her body remained stubbornly inert. She couldn't move, couldn't give him the satisfying shove he so richly deserved.
Perhaps sensing her (entirely mental) lack of sympathy, or maybe just tiring of the theatrics, Gojo finally let out a deflated sigh. He gently lowered her hand back to the bed.
"It's no use if you're not awake, is it?" he murmured, more to himself than to her. He pulled the chair closer, slumping into it. He looked down at their hands, his larger one still loosely covering hers.
“Ah, who am I kidding? You’d probably just tell me to put some ice on it and stop being a baby. Yeah. That’s exactly what you’d say.”
“Maybe it’s not that bad. But it still hurts.” He sighed, running a hand through his silver hair, wincing slightly as his fingers brushed the lump on his forehead.
“Fine. Be like that. Neglect your duties as my personal, on-call physician. But just so you know, when you do wake up, this is priority number one. Before coffee, before cigarettes, before you even ask what fresh hell has broken loose while you’ve been napping.” He squeezed her hand once more, a brief, firm pressure, before letting it go.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on her. The silence in the room returned, broken only by his quiet breathing and the rhythmic beep of the monitors, each one a reminder of the fragile thread that still connected her to this world, and to the guy beside her.
"Just… wake up, Shoko," his voice quiet again. "I'll wait. We'll all wait... You’ll wake up. And then you can fix my wound. It’ll be just like old times.” The guy then picked up one of the snack packages he’d left on the table earlier, tore it open with his teeth, and began to munch on it, his gaze fixed on her still form. The earlier boisterousness was gone, replaced by the quiet, anxious vigil he and Geto seemed to take in turns, or sometimes, together. Waiting. Just waiting.