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At the ripe old age of twenty-eight and still blissfully single, Gojo was exhausted. He craved a stiff drink and Shoko’s dry wit, a combination that, in his opinion, could cure almost any ailment.
He’d promised to treat her to a celebratory drink if his students won the Goodwill Event, a promise he intended to keep, primarily because he knew Shoko wouldn't let him live it down if he forgot (again).
He swaggered into the infirmary and fully expected to find Shoko waiting, a sarcastic comment already forming on her lips, a glass of something sweet and medicinal within easy reach.
Instead, he was met with an empty room and a hastily scribbled note on Shoko’s desk: “Urgent meeting. Be right back.”
Gojo let out a groan of frustration.
"Right back," he muttered. "God knows when 'right back' is with those stuffy Higher-ups."
He knew better than to wait. ‘Right back’ with Shoko could mean anything from a few hours to a few days.
Then Gojo wandered over to a nearby cot, intending to lie down for a few minutes, just until Shoko returned. Before collapsed onto the bed, his last thought was a fleeting image of Shoko’s exasperated smile before the world dissolved into blissful unconsciousness.
Then sound of crying, a high-pitched wail that sliced through the fog of his exhaustion.
“Papa!” a small voice cried, the sound echoing through what sounded like a much larger room.
Gojo’s eyes snapped open, his mind still fuzzy with sleep. “Papa?” he mumbled, his brow furrowing in confusion. He wasn’t a father. He wasn’t even sure he was ready to be a plant parent, let alone responsible for a tiny human.
Gojo’s eyes snapped open, his senses instantly on high alert. He wasn't in the infirmary. The room was spacious, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the Tokyo skyline. A king-size bed, covered in luxurious silk sheets, dominated the room, and a faint scent of baby powder hung in the air. The room was large, modern, and decidedly not Shoko’s spartan clinic.
A wave of panic washed over him. Where was he? What had happened? Had he been drugged? Kidnapped? Transported to an alternate dimension by a rogue cursed spirit with a penchant for interior design?
Gojo scrambled out of bed, his bare feet sinking into a plush carpet, and rushed to the nearest mirror, his mind racing.
The face that stared back at him was… his, but older, more mature. The same unruly white hair, the same piercing blue eyes, but the lines around his eyes were deeper, etched by time and experience, and his jawline was more defined, his body larger, more muscular than he remembered.
He looked… good. Disturbingly good.
But that wasn’t the point. The point was, where the hell was he? And who, for the love of all that was holy, was calling him “Papa”?
He was still trying to process the surreal scene when the crying started again, louder this time, accompanied by the insistent patter of tiny feet.
“Papa! Papa!”
Gojo cautiously opened the bedroom door, his senses on high alert, ready to unleash his cursed energy at the slightest hint of danger.
Instead, he was met with a small, white-haired whirlwind who launched herself into his arms with the force of a miniature meteor.
His shirt was instantly soaked with a mixture of tears and snot. He instinctively recoiled, a frown creasing his brow. Gojo wasn't exactly known for his paternal instincts, and the sudden onslaught of bodily fluids was… unsettling.
He gently disentangled the small child from his embrace, holding her at arm’s length, his gaze searching hers. And that's when it hit him.
Her eyes, wide and blue, a perfect replica of his own, stared up at him, filled with tears. Her hair was a messy tangle of white strands. She was his. A miniature, snot-covered replica of himself.
The realization left him speechless, utterly bewildered.
Before he could even formulate a question, the little girl burst into tears again, her sobs escalating into a full-blown wail. Gojo found himself instinctively pulling her close.
“Papa… Papa…”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he mumbled, his words awkward, clumsy. “Don’t cry… uh… little me.”
“Hungry.” As her cries subsided, replaced by hiccups and sniffles, she mumbled.
Just then, his phone buzzed, and a text message appeared on the screen. The contact name was simply "Wife ❤️".
The message read:
"Taking Nacchan to the dentist. You're on Kinchan duty. Food for the baby is in the fridge, just heat it up. Megumi will be by later, give him the meds in the cabinet under the TV. Maki’s dropping off Hicchi’s stuff, put it in his room. That’s all for now. Call if anything explodes (literally or figuratively). Love you."
His heart skipped a beat. Wife? He had a wife?
Nacchan, Kinchan… he had two daughters? Megumi… Maki… they were still around? Who is Hicchi? And he had a wife who loved him enough to sign off with "Love you"?
Gojo didn’t know how, didn’t know when, didn’t know why, but he had a family. And he was, apparently, responsible for keeping them alive, fed, and relatively unexploded. He was a family man.
He looked down at the little girl in his arms, her tear-stained face now streaked with a tentative smile.
“Papa,” she repeated, her voice small but insistent, “Kinchan hungry.”
He took a deep breath, a strange sense of calm settling over him amidst the chaos.
The kitchen, a sleek, modern space filled with gleaming stainless steel appliances and gadgets he couldn’t even begin to identify, was Gojo Satoru’s newest battlefield. Armed with a jar of baby food and a spoon that seemed suspiciously large for the task at hand, he embarked on his latest mission: feeding a miniature version of himself.
The results were… messy.
This man had never reheated anything more complicated than instant ramen, and the beeping microwave, with its array of buttons and cryptic symbols, felt like a high-tech torture device designed to test his patience. After fumbling with the microwave, managing to set off the smoke alarm twice before he successfully reheated the jar of mushy carrots, sweet potato, and salmon.
He managed, after several near-disastrous spills, to transfer the mushy concoction to a small bowl and attempted to feed the little girl, who was perched on a high chair.
His first attempt resulted in a dollop of sweet potato puree landing squarely on her forehead. His second attempt, slightly more successful, managed to deposit a spoonful of carrots in her hair.
The child’s patience clearly wearing thin, let out a frustrated squeal, grabbed the spoon from his hand, and proceeded to scoop up the spilled food from her highchair tray, shoving it into her mouth with a gusto that both impressed and slightly horrified him.
He studied her face, her features a miniature mirror image of his own, and wondered, for the umpteenth time, who her mother was. What kind of woman could tame the great Gojo Satoru, tie him down with not one, but two children? He racked his brain, trying to recall any romantic entanglements that might have resulted in such a… striking resemblance, but his memories were shrouded in a frustrating fog.
“She’s definitely mine, though,” he muttered to himself, a flicker of pride, however misplaced, warming his chest. “My genes are truly invincible.”
As if sensing his scrutiny, the little girl, her mouth smeared with a mixture of sweet potato and carrots, scooped up a spoonful of the remaining puree and offered it to him, her expression expectant. Gojo, caught off guard, hesitated for a moment. He wasn’t sure he was ready to partake in the culinary delights of pureed vegetables and fish. But her unwavering gaze, those big, blue eyes mirroring his own, he couldn't refuse.
He opened his mouth, and she deposited the spoonful of mush into his mouth with a triumphant giggle. His eyes widened in surprise. It wasn't… bad. Actually, it was quite good. The sweetness of the sweet potato and carrots balanced the savory flavor of the salmon, the texture was surprisingly smooth and palatable. It seemed his future wife, whoever she was, possessed some serious culinary skills.
Once the girl had devoured the remaining contents of the jar (with minimal spillage this time), Gojo, feeling slightly more confident in his newfound role as caregiver, decided to gather some intel.
“So, little one,” he began, “what do you usually do after eating?”
Without a word, she pointed the small hand towards an embroidered towel hanging on the back of her chair, her expression conveying a mixture of impatience and the unspoken expectation that he, as the apparent “ Papa ” in this scenario, should know exactly what to do.
“Right,” Gojo mumbled, grabbing the towel and gently wiping her face as if he were handling a delicate piece of porcelain.
“uhm..Kinchan,” he began, “what year is it?”
“Two thousand and thirty-one,” she replied, her voice muffled by the towel.
“And how old are you?”
“Three.” she announced, holding up three chubby fingers.
“And your name, like another name…?”
“Hisaki,” she chirped as if stating the obvious. “Papa, play?”
Gojo stared at her, his mind reeling. 2031? That was… years in the future.
This was beyond complicated. He needed answers, and he needed them now. But first, it seemed, he needed to entertain a three-year-old miniature version of himself.
Seizing the opportunity, Gojo decided to gather some more intel.
“So, Hisaki, tell me… what’s Mama like?”
“Candy,” she declared, holding out her hand expectantly.
"Deal. Candy for information. I like your style, kid."
Amused by her audacity, he readily agreed while crossing his fingers behind his back, mentally calculating how much sugar a three-year-old could consume before spontaneously combusting.
Now satisfied with the terms of their agreement, the toddler revealed a vague description of her mother.
“Mama is beautiful,” Her voice filled with adoration. “And gentle. And she smells like… flowers and… and medicine!”
Gojo chuckled. Flowers and medicine? An intriguing combination. He tried to picture the woman who smelled like a walking pharmacy-slash-botanical garden, but his mind remained stubbornly blank.
“What about Nacchan?” he asked, hoping to glean more information about his mysterious offspring.
“Nacchan is mean. Papa always plays with Nacchan. Papa likes Nacchan more. She always gets to sit next to Papa at dinner!”
A wave of exhaustion washed over him. He had absolutely no memory of this Sana, let alone any preference for one daughter over the other. This whole “fatherhood” thing was proving to be far more complicated than he’d anticipated.
“Really? What’s she like?"
“She just like me. Same age. Same everything.”
Twins. He had twins.
The Gojo clan elders, with their antiquated beliefs about the "Twin Curse" would be horrified. He himself had always considered twins a statistical improbability, something that happened to other people, not to someone with his superior genetics.
But as he looked at Hisaki, her small hand gripping a crayon, her brow furrowed in concentration as she attempted to draw something resembling a cat on a piece of paper, his perspective shifted. Maybe having twins wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Before he knows, the child stumbles towards him, her arms outstretched, her eyes shining with a mix of excitement and a touch of anxiety.
"Kinchan's birthday… soon!"
"Ah? Um, yes. So… what does Kinchan want for your birthday?"
"Cake! My cake!"
“Of course, you’ll have cake,” Gojo added. “We’ll have a big party, with lots of presents and…”
"No. My cake. Not shared with Nacchan. My cake."
"You want your own cake?" Gojo kneels to her level. "Then I will buy you a whole cake. Just for you. But… why don't you want to share with your sister?"
Hisaki's eyes welled with tears.
"She always gets to blow candles first, she eats cake first. I want… my candles. My cake."
“I see. A cake and candles just for you. No sharing. What else does my Kinchan want for your birthday gift?”
She pulled back slightly, her blue eyes, so much like his own, searching his face.
"Kinchan wants… you see me."
"But I am seeing you now." Gojo confused.
"No, not like that. Papa always sees Nacchan… not me." Hisaki shook her head, her tears finally spilling over.
At that moment, Gojo feels a wave of guilt wash over him.
“I'm sorry, kid,” he whispered a promise he intended to keep. “I will see you. On your birthday, and every day after that. I will buy you a cake, and you’ll blow out your own candles, and I will watch, just you and me. Is that good?”
Hisaki wrapped her small arms around his neck, her tears soaking into his shirt, but this time, he didn't mind.
“Promise?” she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest.
“Promise."
Hisaki, her smile radiant, her eyes shining with newfound confidence, suddenly darted off, her small feet padding softly against the wooden floor. She disappeared into her room, returning moments later, her arms outstretched, a small juice box clutched in her tiny hand.
“Papa drink?” she offered, her voice filled with a childish generosity that warmed Gojo’s heart.
“Are you sure, Kinchan? Don’t you want it?”
She nodded enthusiastically, but then, just as quickly, shook her head, her brow furrowing in thought.
“No,” she declared, her voice firm, “for Papa. So Papa keeps promise.”
Gojo can't help but laugh out loud. He took the juice box, carefully inserting the straw. Just as he was about to drink, he noticed Hisaki’s expectant gaze, her small mouth slightly open, her throat bobbing in anticipation. So he only took a small sip before offering the juice box back to her.
“I'm full now. Can Kinchan help me finish it?”
Her innocent face lit up, her smile radiant as she reached for the juice box, her small hand closing around his. He carefully adjusted the straw to her mouth, and as she took a long, satisfying sip.
Suddenly sharp knock echoed through the apartment, pulling Gojo from his quiet contemplation of fatherhood and juice boxes.
“Looks like we have a visitor.”
He rose to answer it, but Hisaki held him back.
“Papa carry.”
He scooped her up into his arms, and opened the door, his brow furrowing slightly as he recognized the familiar face standing on his doorstep.
It was Megumi, older, more mature, but his stoic expression and those piercing dark eyes were unmistakable. A smile softened Megumi’s features as he saw Gojo and Hisaki. He reached out, his hand ruffling the little girl’s hair.
“Hi, sensei. I came to get some medicine. Are you and Kinchan alone at home today? Where’s your wife?”
“She took Nacchan to the dentist,” Gojo replied, still trying to process the sheer normalcy of the situation, the casual mention of his “wife” and another daughter. “What kind of medicine?”
“Pregnancy medicine,” Megumi replied, his gaze flickering towards Hisaki. “Nobara hasn’t been feeling well lately, so I asked your wife to pick some up for her.”
Gojo’s jaw dropped. Megumi and Nobara? A couple? Pregnant? His mind, already struggling to comprehend the reality of his own twin daughters, nearly short-circuited.
“Oh, uh, yes,” Gojo mumbled, still trying to wrap his head around the Megumi-Nobara-baby situation. “How far along is she?”
“Three,” Megumi replied, his brow furrowing slightly as if sensing Gojo’s confusion. “Do you know where the medicine is?”
“Of course I know. Wait here for a second.” He turned towards the living room. “Want to come in and sit down, Megumi? We haven’t seen each other for a while.”
“No, thank you. Nobara’s waiting in the car.” He paused. “Are you alright? I just saw you at school earlier this week.”
Gojo winced. Right. This week. He'd apparently been present, teaching, interacting with… future Megumi… while simultaneously being completely oblivious to the fact that he had a wife, twin daughters, and a former student who was expecting a child with another former student.
“Oh, right. I forgot. Been… busy.”
He quickly retrieved the medicine from a neatly organized cabinet under the TV, a stark contrast to the chaotic mess that had once been in his dorm room. Having a wife, it seemed, had its perks.
“Here,” He handed it to Megumi. “Be careful on your way home.”
“Yes. Please give my regards to your wife. When Nobara feels better, you and your wife should come over for dinner. I’ll invite Maki, Yuuta, and the kids.”
“Huh? Yuta and Maki? Wait…” A new wave of questions surged through Gojo's mind. But Megumi, with a final wave, had already turned and headed back to his car, leaving Gojo standing in the doorway.
He sighed, closing the door and turning back to Hisaki, who was patiently waiting, the juice box still clutched in her tiny hand.
Hisaki’s earlier exuberance gave way to an overwhelming weariness as she leaned against Gojo’s chest. Her eyelids drooped, and her breathing became shallow. Despite battling sleep, her small body fought to stay awake, though her grip on his shirt weakened with each passing moment.
“Sleepy?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Want Papa to carry you to your room?”
“No… with Papa. Me stay… with Papa.” Hisaki just shook her small head and buried her face deeper into his chest.
Gojo sighed then carefully lowered himself onto the living room sofa, adjusting his position so that the child could lie comfortably on top of him, her head nestled against his chest, her small body rising and falling with each gentle breath.
He reached for his phone, hoping to find answers about his strange new reality. But as he scrolled through the photo gallery, searching for images of his "wife", he was met with blurred faces, obscured by a haze as if some force was blocking his access to the memories.
Frustrated, he opened his messaging app, hoping to find some answers there. He saw a string of messages from contacts labeled “Geezer 1,” “Geezer 2,” and “That Annoying Windbag Yamamoto,” names that sent a shiver of annoyance down his spine. Something never changes.
Geezer 1: Hikaru’s performance at the Trial Meeting was exemplary. A true Gojo. You should be proud.
Gojo blinked, surprised. Hikaru? Is that the same Hicchi from his wife's message? Trial Meeting? He had a son old enough to participate in those archaic rituals? He vaguely remembered the Trial Meetings from his own youth, a series of grueling tests designed to assess a potential heir’s worthiness. He’d hated them, found them utterly pointless and ridiculously tedious.
Geezer 2: When do you intend to enroll the twins in the clan’s training program? Their limited cursed energy must be nurtured, and cultivated for the benefit of the Gojo lineage.
He closed the messages without replying. He wouldn’t let them near his daughters, not now, not ever.
Another knock echoed through the apartment, a persistent rapping that threatened to wake Hisaki. Gojo was about to rise and answer when felt Hisaki stir slightly.
He carefully reached for his phone and opened his messaging app. A new message from "Maki" flashed on the screen.
"You home?"
He typed a quick reply:
"Yeah. Door's unlocked. Just let yourself in."
He heard the click of the lock, the soft creak of the door opening, and the sound of footsteps, one set heavy and purposeful, the other smaller, more hesitant.
He looked up, expecting to see future Maki. But the first person to enter the apartment wasn't Maki, but a young boy, his dark green hair a familiar shade, his eyes, however, had a look of worry that Gojo couldn’t quite place. He looked older than Hisaki, perhaps five or six.
A hand landed on that boy's shoulder, the grip firm but surprisingly gentle. “Shh, there are children sleeping.”
“Your wife out today?” Maki asked, her voice low, her gaze fixed on the sleeping child in Gojo’s arms. “Can’t believe she trusted you enough to leave Kinchan alone with him.”
“Yeah, well, babysitters are hard to come by these days."
“Tell me about it,” Maki sighed, her gaze softening as she looked at the boy standing beside her. “Yuuta’s on a mission, so I’m stuck playing single parent. Have you said hello to your Uncle Gojo, Shun?”
She gave the boy a playful shove towards Gojo. He recognized the look on the boy’s face, the mixture of anxiety and forced politeness, the same look he’d seen on his Special grade student’s face on his first day at Jujutsu Tech.
“Hello, Uncle Gojo.”
“Oh, and I brought Hikaru’s homework. Where should I put it?” Maki asked.
“Uh, just leave it in his room,” Gojo replied, his tone casual, as if he knew exactly where his son’s room was located in this unfamiliar apartment.
“His room is…” He trailed off.
“Don’t tell me, you lost in his own house?”
“I… uh… just haven’t been paying attention to the… feng shui,” he stammered, hoping she’d buy his lame excuse.
“Right. Second room on the left, upstairs. Same as always.”
She brushed past him, her footsteps echoing on the wooden stairs as she ascended to the second floor.
Gojo watched them go, a strange mix of emotions swirling within him. Maki, in this future, seemed… different. Softer, somehow. More… maternal.
As Maki walked up to the second floor, Shun was captivated by the sight of the sleeping child in Gojo’s arms.
He’d never seen anyone quite like her. Her hair, as white as freshly fallen snow, framed a face that was both delicate and strangely familiar. Her eyelashes, also white, rested against her rosy cheeks, creating a halo effect that made her seem almost… ethereal and cute at the same time. It reminds him of the delicate white blossoms of the cherry trees surrounding the Gojo estate.
Shun, his curiosity piqued, edged closer, the longer he looked, the more adorable this child seemed. As she stirred slightly, her small nose wrinkling in a gesture of unconscious protest, Shun felt an overwhelming urge to reach out, to gently brush his fingers against her soft cheek.
But before he could make contact, the temperature in the room seemed to plummet. A sudden chill, sharp as broken glass, sent a shiver down his spine.
Then his gaze met Gojo’s.
Gojo’s eyes were now narrowed, their blue depths blazing, which made Shun’s breath catch in his throat: I dare you go any closer…
Shun swallowed and instinctively stepped back, his small body stiffening under the weight of Gojo’s intense gaze.
“Alright, homework delivered,” Maki reappeared at the bottom of the stairs, her expression betraying a hint of the weariness Gojo was starting to recognize as a universal sign of parenthood. “We’re heading out.”
“What’s wrong, Shun?” She turned to her son.
Shun hesitated for a moment, his small hand fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.
“Mom,” he mumbled, “can I… can I play with her?”
Maki followed his gaze, her eyes softening as she looked at Hisaki nestled in Gojo’s arms. “With the little one? Sure. When she wakes up, we’ll have her over for a playdate. She’s sound asleep right now.”
A flicker of disappointment crossed Shun’s face, but he nodded obediently. Maki smiled, then turned to Gojo.
“We’re off then. No need to see us out. I’ll lock up.” She paused, her lips curving into a rare, genuine smile. “Oh. And when you’ve got a handle on the whole parenting thing, bring the girls over. Shun would love to play with them.”
“Okay,” Gojo replied, relieved by the prospect of her departure. He was one step closer to interrogating the creepy kid who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off his daughter. “See ya.”
As the door closed, the man let out a sigh of relief, the tension that had coiled tight in his chest slowly dissipating. He’d been mere seconds away from challenging a five-year-old to a duel, a scenario that would have been both ridiculous and highly satisfying. That kid needed to learn some boundaries, some respect. His daughters were off-limits, even to mini-Yuta with unsettlingly familiar eyes.
When those girls get older, Gojo thought, I'm going to need a whole arsenal of cursed techniques just to keep the brats away. The thought, both terrifying and strangely endearing, brought a smile to his lips.
Hisaki stirred in his arms, her small body shifting slightly, her soft white hair brushing against his chin. Gojo can't resist stroking her hair. Suddenly her eyes fluttered open, her gaze meeting his, her smile widening as she recognized him.
“Sorry, little star, Papa was just… thinking.”
“No sorry,” Hisaki beamed up at him. "Kinchan likes Papa best today."
“Oh?” Gojo's brow raised in amusement. “And why is that?”
Her eyes squinted as her smile widened.
"Cause Papa always looks at Kinchan. No one else.”
Before Gojo could ask more, a voice cut through the lingering tension of the afternoon, echoing through the house.
“Where are my lovely husband and my cute princess?”
The effect on Hisaki was instantaneous. She bolted upright in Gojo’s arms, her sleepiness vanished as if dispelled by a powerful exorcism. She wriggled free of his embrace, her small feet pounding against the wooden floor as she raced towards the source of the voice, her cries of “Mama! Mama!” echoing through the house.
So much for “Papa’s my favorite.” Kids, Gojo thought, were fickle creatures. One minute they’re showering you with affection, the next they’re abandoning you for the promise of maternal comfort and… well, whatever treasures their mother had brought home this time.
“There’s my little star! Where’s your dad?” The voice was closer now, accompanied by the sound of footsteps and the rustling of plastic bags.
“Satoru,” the voice laced with a playful exasperation that made Gojo’s heart skip a beat, “I bought you Anmitsu from Mihashi Honten. I had to queue for ages, you know.”
Anmitsu. From Mihashi Honten. The words hit Gojo like a shot of pure caffeine, jolting him from his contemplative state. He’d been craving their Anmitsu for weeks, ever since he’d stumbled upon a food blog that raved about their signature dish. He’d even made a mental note to drag Shoko there, despite her usual protests about sugary treats and his insatiable sweet tooth.
Gojo, his earlier cynicism forgotten, scrambled off the sofa, and nearly tripped over the coffee table in his haste to reach the door, his heart pounding with an anticipation that bordered on giddiness. This future wife of his, whoever she was, clearly knew the way to his heart (and his stomach).
He rounded the corner, his vision focused on the hallway, on the promise of finally seeing the woman who held the key to this bewildering new reality…
And then, just as he was about to catch his first glimpse of her, the world dissolved into darkness, his vision blurring, his consciousness fading, the promise of a reunion snatched away just as it was within his grasp.
Gojo awoke with a gasp, his mind still reeling from the fragmented images of a future he couldn't quite comprehend. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights of the infirmary.
A woman in a white blouse sat beside him, scrolling through her phone with a look of utter boredom, a cigarette dangling from her lips, its smoke curling lazily towards the ceiling.
“Finally awake, Sleeping Beauty?” she continued, her gaze not lifting from the screen. “Took you long enough. You promised to buy me a celebratory dinner after our students won. Get your lazy ass up, I haven’t got all day.”
He frowned, the smell of smoke suddenly grating on his nerves, the remnants of a dream, a future, where he’d held his daughter, Hisaki, in his arms, her small body warm and soft against his chest, still vivid in his mind. A strange sense of loss washed over him.
Suddenly, he remembered an article he'd read recently, something about the harmful effects of secondhand smoke, the increased risk of respiratory illnesses, heart disease… the list went on and on.
Without a word, he plucked the cigarette from Shoko’s lips, tossing it out of the window.
“Hey! What was that for?” She shrugged, her usual nonchalance quickly returning. “Never mind. I was almost done with that one anyway.”
Shoko then reached for a fresh pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Gojo acted before he could even think. He snatched the cigarettes and lighter from her grasp, tossing them out the window to join their discarded companion.
“Are you crazy?!” Shoko shrieked, her voice echoing through the clinic. “I just bought that pack! I’d only had one!”
“Smoking ruins your appetite. Save your stomach for later. And besides,” he added, “all that smoke… it’s not good for you and … uh… for your future children, you know?”
“What the hell are you talking about, Gojo? A child kicked you in the head or something? I’m not planning on having any damn babies. Even if I do, what does it have to do with you? Forget it, I’m not going. You’ve clearly lost your mind.”
“Yes, you're going! It’s a celebration!” He pleaded. “Okay, how about this: after we eat, I'll buy you the most expensive pack of cigarettes you can find. Deal?”
Shoko’s lips curved, considering his offer.
“Fine. But I want the imported kind. The ones with the fancy packaging.”
“Done,” Gojo replied, sighing inwardly.
He shook his head, watching as Shoko elegantly retrieved her medical bag. This woman, he thought, was going to be the death of him.
No sense of self-preservation, no regard for her future health… What kind of man would willingly tie himself to such a chaotic, nicotine-addicted force of nature?
Poor bastard, he thought, pitying the future husband of this exasperating, utterly captivating woman. He’ll need all the luck he can get.
Then he pictured himself, years from now, a successful sorcerer with a loving wife (definitely not Shoko, obviously).
But he couldn't just leave Shoko to navigate this crazy world alone. He’d look out for her, he decided. From a distance, of course. He’d be the cool, supportive friend, the occasional confidant, the guy who bought her ridiculously expensive cigarettes after a hard day’s work.
He was, after all, Gojo Satoru. He saved people. Even the exasperating, chain-smoking, ridiculously stubborn ones. So he just shoved all the thought aside, his mind focusing on the present, on the celebratory dinner, on the woman who was simply his friend, his colleague, his occasional drinking buddy.
And if, in the future, she found herself alone, childless, and still addicted to nicotine, he'd make sure his future kids adopted her. She'd have a family, whether she wanted one or not. He'd make sure of it. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that he would have a family, and a house full of healthy, well-behaved children. At least three. Maybe even four. A mini-Gojo army. He just hadn't met their mother yet.
The night air was cool against Gojo's skin as he and Shoko walked towards the familiar glow of their favorite dive bar, a haven of cheap drinks and greasy food that had witnessed countless post-mission celebrations and philosophical debates fueled by copious amounts of alcohol.
Normally, Gojo would be leading the charge, weaving through the crowds with effortless grace, his laughter echoing above the din, his attention flitting from one distraction to the next. But tonight, the usual anticipation was muted, replaced by a strange unease that he couldn't quite shake as he walked beside Shoko, their shoulders occasionally brushing, a familiar comfort that did little to soothe the turmoil brewing within him.
His mind still reeling from his vision of the future, couldn't shake the image of the little girl. He replayed the conversation, the cryptic messages, the surprising revelations, a jumble of puzzle pieces that refused to fit together.
Wife. Children. Megumi. Maki. Yuuta. Nobara. It was a chaotic mix of familiar names and unfathomable scenarios, a future he couldn't quite comprehend, a life he couldn't quite imagine. It was a life so drastically different from his current reality, a life he hadn’t even considered, let alone desired.
He’d always envisioned his future as a solitary path, a journey defined by his strength, his mission to protect the world from the threat of curses. He’d never imagined himself as a family man, a husband, a father. But the warmth of Hisaki’s embrace, the love that shone in her eyes, the whispered promises he’d made… those feelings, those memories, they felt real, too real to be dismissed as a mere figment of his imagination.
So he stole glances at Shoko, her profile illuminated by the neon lights of the passing store. He wondered, with a mixture of curiosity and a strange, unfamiliar apprehension, what role she played in this future he’d glimpsed.
Oblivious to the internal tempest raging within Gojo, the woman was lost in her own thoughts, probably contemplating the best brand of sake to order and whether or not her friend would actually remember to buy her that replacement pack of cigarettes. They walked in silence for a few blocks, until his foot caught on an uneven paving stone, jolting him back to reality.
"Oi," Shoko called out, "watch where you're going, big guy."
"I'm... fine."
“You’re quiet tonight,” She asks. “Did that nap fry your brain cells?"
He hesitated, unsure how to even begin explaining the bizarre experience he’d just had. He couldn’t very well tell her he’d dreamt of a future where he had children, could he? She’d laugh in his face, call him delusional, and probably recommend a strong dose of antipsychotic medication.
“Just… thinking,” he mumbled, his voice evasive.
Shoko raised an eyebrow. “About what? The existential dread of being the strongest sorcerer alive?”
"Nah, just… thinking about the mission. Ya know, curses, paperwork, the usual," he muttered, hoping she’d drop the subject.
She didn’t.
“You’re being weird. Distracted. Like your head’s in the clouds.”
"It's nothing," he mumbled, his gaze avoiding hers. "Tired, I guess."
"Absent-minded idiot," she then teased, giving a light tap to his chest.
Gojo didn't argue. He knew he was being an idiot. Or acting like one. Little did he know, of course, that the "absent-minded idiot" comment was closer to the truth than he could possibly imagine. He was a supremely powerful, incredibly fortunate idiot who had somehow managed to stumble into a future where his children were also hers. He just hadn't realized it yet.