Chapter Text
Satoru is stood centre of the smoking crater, scratching his head like he's just as befuddled about its existence. Though there's no way he hasn't sensed her presence, Shoko still clears her throat to announce it. Slow movements, nothing sudden. It's just Gojo.
She tells herself, anyway.
“And here I was starting to think you didn’t do house calls," Satoru says as he turns, like he didn't just flatten an acre of protected forestry.
It’s the lack of a smile that puts Shoko on edge. He’s been all business and very few jokes since he wandered back onto the school grounds; doesn’t even bully Ijichi—not that anyone should, that poor man— but it has to be an ill omen if Ijichi’s tense about the lack of torment. He’d stayed in the car while Shoko made the trek, picking her way through the shattered foundations of a multi-million yen property, nose wrinkled at the stench of rotten eggs flowing downwind of her destination.
“Can it really be considered a house call if there’s no house?” Shoko deflects, trying to inject some levity into the situation.
Satoru looks at her expectantly.
“It’s out of the way for me.” Shoko shrugs.
“But not today, apparently.”
Shoko fights the urge to pinch his cheek at the petulance. “I’m here now, Gojo.”
“I had some expensive wines for you—you’d have liked them.”
“‘Had’,” Shoko points out, charitably leaving out the fact that pre-death he’s never once offered them to her.
Satoru stares at her.
Shoko stares back.
“Is Gakukanji-sensei worried?” He says eventually.
Sensei, Shoko repeats with a scoff. “He’d be here if he was. Do you have reason to think he should be?”
Satoru’s jaw sets. “I know this looks bad. If you need to report me, I won’t stop y—and there it is again,” he goes, frowning at her.
“There ‘what’ is?”
“You get this sort of— there, again,” he points, when Shoko tilts her head at him. “That. You do that every time I say the wrong thing, like you’re waiting for me to say something else.”
Shoko exhales through her nose.
It’s not necessarily a bad thing; an overly serious Satoru who doesn’t crack lame jokes, doesn’t try to rope her into mischief, doesn’t bully Ijichi or try to rile up Utahime and is punctual to literally everything for the first time in his second life. It’s peace on earth for everyone, being able to reliably get a hold of him.
And yet, Shoko can’t stop being leery about it. It could still be an imposter getting the lay of the land in the nuclear weapon equivalent of sorcerer bodies before they decide to completely decimate it. Today, an acre in a mountain range that no one will notice from space. Tomorrow, another Shinjuku. A sorcerer must draw these uncomfortable extrapolations after Tsumiki.
“Tell me what happened,” she says, deflecting again.
“Was making breakfast. Turned on the stove and the house exploded.”
Satoru gestures calmly to the broken pieces of a mixing bowl sitting in a puddle of waffle batter nearby. Also in the vicinity are strawberries chopped into little hearts. Shoko can’t stop herself from chuckling. He always did like cute food.
She notices Satoru watching her and casually looks away, crouching when her interest momentarily shifts to the shattered remains of a misshapen mug she’d made from that one time she went to a pottery class.
He’s been doing that a lot lately since he’s gotten back; the staring, gaze always finding hers through the throng of Windows and students and clients constantly demanding his attention. If he’s pissed about her going along with Yuta's idea, he should take it up with Yuta. But he hasn’t; all he's done is watch and say nothing, and today the lack of a buffer does nothing for her nerves.
“So. An actual gas leak,” Shoko says, breaking the silence.
It’s plausible, given the rotten egg smell. Satoru’s residuals are also everywhere, thickest in the epicentre of the blast, Infinity wrapping around him before he was even aware of the danger. He’d woken up, not smelling sulphur in the air and tried to make pancakes with little strawberry hearts to wash down with tea in an ugly mug.
“You believe me then?”
“It is less paperwork for me,” Shoko admits, touching her chin. Satoru snorts. “There’s no denying that this is a unique situation only you could walk away from.” Even if it was an imposter failing to control Unlimited Void, there’s no chance they would have survived the blast.
“I know you’re stating facts, but I somehow still feel insulted from the way you say it,” Satoru says. Still he grins, and it abruptly throws Shoko back in time: Tokyo Jujutsu High’s last bastion sending him off like he was going on holiday instead of marching to his death.
“What?” Satoru says, smile vanishing.
“Nothing,” Shoko says. “I think you should worry more about the exploded house.”
“The exploded house is a blessing. Now I know I have a gas leak.”
Shoko bursts out laughing, taking both herself and Satoru by surprise.
That, is something the Satoru she knew would say.
Something in Satoru’s gaze shifts as he quietly watches her, sliding down her throat, lingering at her chest before drifting down, taking inventory of her hips, the length of her legs and back up again.
That is something the Satoru she knew wouldn’t do.
Shoko clears her throat. “Right. I’ll tell Gakukanji there’s nothing to worry about.” She turns and starts climbing out of the crater, Satoru following, two steps behind.
“Will there be a follow up visit?” He asks.
“No.”
“I’ll visit then.”
“Why? You’re not sick.”
Shoko slips on some loose gravel but an invisible buffer materialises briefly against her back, keeping her from free falling backwards into the dirt. When she blinks, she finds herself eye level with Satoru’s bare feet on the mouth of the crater, then his hand extended out to her.
He pulls her up and out like she weighs nothing, and lets go once she steadies herself.
“I’ve still got some wine at my other place,” he says while Shoko dusts herself off. Mostly Shoko does it because her fingers still tingle from the warmth and strength of his grip. Going from visiting him to holding hands is too many firsts for one day. It's already a lot being ogled at. “It’s less out of the way.”
The penthouse he owns. Two streets down from her tiny apartment. Shoko’s seen him walk a few of his dates through the doors on her trips to the convenience store. The Satoru she knew never made the time to date people. Now it’s like the man has a revolving door, frantically trying to make up for lost time.
“You don’t have to,” she says.
“You’re right. I’ll call Ijichi to deliver it.”
Shoko’s mouth twitches. Perhaps a little of the Satoru she knew is still in there after all. “Leave Ijichi out of this.”
“Done. See you when my next place explodes.” He says all of it with such complete conviction and utter seriousness that a traitorous smile spreads across Shoko’s face. “Yes?”
“No. Don’t blow up your house,” she says, and she power walks back to the car, steadfastly ignoring the tingling in her stomach.