Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun cast long, dappled shadows across the training grounds of Jujutsu High as Geto’s cursed spirit, a magnificent scaled dragon with eyes like molten gold, unfurled its leathery wings. Sixteen-year-old Shoko Ieiri sighed, adjusting the strap of her mission pack. Another day, another potentially lethal encounter with things that went bump – and often splattered – in the night. At least she wasn't going alone. The mission briefing had been swift: a cluster of low-to-mid-grade curses terrorizing a remote mountain village. Standard fare, but Yaga-sensei had insisted all three of them go – "a good exercise in teamwork," he'd grumbled, though they all knew it was more about keeping an eye on Gojo’s penchant for collateral damage.

"Ready, Princess?" Gojo Satoru’s voice, already laced with its trademark infuriating confidence, boomed from behind her. He slung an arm around her shoulder.

"Don't call me that," Shoko grumbled, shrugging him off. "And try not to vaporize half the prefecture this time."

Geto Suguru, ever the more composed of the trio, emerged from the shadow of the main building. He offered Shoko a small, reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Shoko. Satoru will be on his best behavior. Won't you, Satoru?"

Gojo just grinned, a flash of white teeth. 

"Best behavior is boring behavior. But fine, for Shoko's sake, I'll try to keep the collateral damage to a minimum. Maybe."

"Alright," Geto said, effortlessly mounting the spirit’s back. He extended a hand to Shoko. "Up you get."

Shoko took his hand, allowing him to pull her up. She settled onto the surprisingly comfortable scales, and then Gojo, with a theatrical leap, landed behind her. As usual.

"Seriously?" Shoko already feels hemmed in. Geto was in front, his broad back a solid presence. Gojo was behind, his chest practically flush against her back. "Do we have to do this every time? I can't see a thing."

“Safety first, Shoko!” Gojo chirped, his voice close to her ear. “Wouldn’t want our precious medic taking a tumble. Think of the paperwork!”

Geto chuckled from the front. “He has a point, Shoko. It’s a long way down. We’re just being responsible.”

“Responsible or just enjoying blocking my view of anything other than your backsides?” 

It was always the same excuse. Shoko rolled her eyes, though neither of them could see it. Small and precious. Right. She could dissect a cursed spirit with her eyes closed and stitch a man back together from the brink of death, but apparently, she couldn’t be trusted not to fall off a giant, magically conjured dragon. The logic was infuriatingly typical of them.

The dragon beat its powerful wings, and with a rush of wind, they were airborne. The ground receded quickly, the school buildings shrinking to toy-like proportions. Shoko always found the initial ascent a little unnerving. The wind whipped around them, tugging at her short hair and clothes, making the world feel vast and precarious.

Thrilling? Yes. Comfortable? Not so much.

The vast emptiness below and the sheer speed made her stomach clench. She wasn't typically a nervous flyer, but today felt different, the air more turbulent, her internal anxieties perhaps a little higher after a particularly gruesome autopsy session the previous day. Every slight dip or sway of the dragon sent a jolt of anxiety through her.

She surreptitiously reached out, her fingers brushing against the fabric of Geto’s dark uniform jacket. Just a light touch at first, a tentative anchor in the buffeting wind. He didn’t react, didn’t shift or comment, his focus seemingly on guiding the dragon spirit. Emboldened, Shoko tightened her grip, her other hand joining the first, her knuckles pressing into the sturdy material of his shirt. It helped, a little, to have something solid to hold onto. Despite her grip, a particularly strong gust of wind slammed into them, making the dragon spirit dip unexpectedly. Shoko gasped, her knuckles turning white as she clung tighter to Geto’s back. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She hated this feeling of being so utterly at the mercy of the elements, of forces beyond her control.

Just as a knot of genuine fear began to tighten in her chest, she felt a sudden, gentle pressure on her right shoulder. Gojo, who had been chattering away about some new cursed technique he wanted to try out, had leaned his head against her. His silver hair, usually a wild halo, was flattened by the wind, and she could feel the surprising warmth of his cheek through her uniform.

“See? Told you we needed to keep you secure. Wouldn’t want you flying off like a little leaf.”

The fear that had been coiling in her stomach loosened its grip. She didn't say anything, didn't acknowledge his comment. He just kept his head there, a silent, steady anchor against the vast, indifferent sky. Geto, too, remained silent in front, though Shoko could feel the subtle shift in his posture, a slight leaning back that seemed to offer even more stability. Sandwiched, yes. Her view is still mostly obscured, absolutely. But also, undeniably, safe.

The designated area was a dilapidated shrine, nestled deep within a grove of ancient, twisted cedars. The air hung heavy with the cloying scent of decay and a palpable sense of dread. As predicted, a grotesque curse – a writhing mass of shadowy tendrils and too many eyes – writhed at its heart.

"Alright, playtime!" Gojo crowed, cracking his knuckles. His cursed energy flared like a miniature sun.

Geto, more methodical, summoned a formidable array of his spirits, their roars and screeches echoing through the trees as they engaged the primary curse. "Shoko, stay back. We'll handle this."

Shoko nodded, already scanning the perimeter. Her role wasn't direct combat, not against something of this magnitude. She was the failsafe, the medic, the one who dealt with the aftermath. Her gaze landed on a small, unmoving figure huddled near the crumbling torii gate – a child, no older than seven or eight, pale and still. A victim caught in the crossfire.

"Not bad, Suguru!" Gojo called out, dusting off his hands as the last vestiges of the primary curse dissipated. "Almost kept up with me there."

"Your definition of 'keeping up' seems to involve me cleaning up the mess you make with your 'Limitless' enthusiasm."

"Hey! Precision is my middle name! Gojo 'Precision' Satoru! Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

They were bantering, their usual post-mission routine, the adrenaline still singing in their veins. Shoko, though her attention was primarily on the child, couldn't help but overhear. Idiots. But they were her idiots.

"Besides, Shoko looks like she's got everything under control over there. Right, Princess?" 

Shoko didn't look up, her attention solely on the child. "Don't distract me, moron. And I told you not to call me that." 

Shoko ignored their banter, her attention focused on the small, huddled form, pale and still, but breathing. Likely a victim of the curse's draining aura. Kneeling beside the child, Shoko gently checked for injuries. There were none visible, just the profound, unnatural stillness of a curse-induced coma. 

"She's alive. Just deeply drained. I can stabilize her." Her hands began to glow with the faint, warm light of her RCT.

Gojo peered over her shoulder. "Poor kid. Looks like a tiny, sad dumpling."

"Have some respect, Satoru," Geto chided. "Not everything is a food analogy."

"Hey, I'm just saying! Maybe some melon pan would cheer her up when she wakes up. Or a giant parfait! Everyone loves parfaits."

Shoko sighed, concentrating on channeling her energy. "Could you two try to be serious for five minutes? We still need to sweep the area for any stragglers or traps."

"Traps?" Gojo scoffed. "Please. What kind of pathetic trap could possibly catch us?"

It was as if his words were a cue.

From the crumbling ruins of the shrine, a place they’d already deemed clear, a sudden, blinding flash erupted. A concentrated beam of sickly green energy, thin as a needle but crackling with malevolent power, shot out with terrifying speed. It wasn't aimed at the guys, who were standing slightly to the side, still caught in their post-battle bravado.

It was aimed directly at Shoko.

Or rather, at the space she occupied.

"What the—?" Geto tensed, his head snapping towards the crumbling wall of the house.

In the split second she had, Shoko saw it. Her reflexes, honed by countless dangerous encounters, screamed at her to move, to dodge. She could have. Easily. The beam wasn’t moving at a speed that Gojo's Six Eyes or even Geto's heightened senses couldn't track and react to.

But her gaze flickered down to the small, unconscious child beside her. If she moved, the beam would pass through the space she'd just vacated and strike the girl. There was no time to shield her, no time to snatch her out of the way. There was no time for a conscious decision, no time to weigh options. It was pure instinct. The child was vulnerable, defenseless. She was a healer, a protector. And she had her RCT. I can heal it, the thought flashed through her mind. It’ll hurt, but I can fix it.

She didn't move.

“SHOKO!” Gojo’s voice cracked like a whip.

“LOOK OUT!” Geto already lunging forward, his hand outstretched, a cursed spirit forming at his fingertips.

They were fast, incredibly so. The Six Eyes user. The Curse Manipulator. But the beam was faster.

It struck Shoko high on her left shoulder, searing through her uniform and flesh. There was no explosion, no dramatic impact. Just an icy, searing pain that lanced through her, followed by an overwhelming wave of dizziness. The world tilted, colours blurring at the edges of her vision. She felt her knees buckle. The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her whole was the horrified faces of her friends, frozen mid-motion, their eyes wide with a terror she’d never witnessed in them before. Then, nothing. She crumpled, the child still blessedly untouched beside her.

She was vaguely aware of strong arms around her, a familiar scent – something clean, like rain on earth, with an undercurrent of sandalwood. Geto. He was holding her close, his movements urgent. She could feel the frantic thrum of his heartbeat against her ear, far faster than his usual calm rhythm. It was a panicked, rabbit-quick beat. His body felt unnaturally warm, almost feverish. And he was… taller. When had he gotten so tall? The top of her head barely reached his collarbone. The thought was a fleeting, disconnected observation in the fog of her consciousness.

"Satoru!" Geto’s voice was strained. "Take her! Back to school, now! I'll deal with this."

There was a brief, dizzying sensation of being transferred, a different set of arms, a different scent – ozone and something vaguely sweet, like Gojo’s perpetual stash of candy. Then, the familiar stomach-lurching compression of teleportation.

The world, or her perception of it, solidified into the sterile white of the school infirmary. She was on a cot, the cool fabric rough against her cheek. She could hear Gojo’s voice; he was pacing, running a hand through his silver hair, his Six Eyes, usually so unreadable behind his blindfold (which was currently askew), wide.

“Yaga-sensei! Yaga-sensei, you need to get here! It’s Shoko!”

It was strange. She was undeniably unconscious, her limbs heavy and unresponsive, her eyelids sealed shut. Yet, she could see. Not with her eyes, but with some internal sense. She saw Gojo pacing like a caged animal, his silver hair disheveled, his usual blindfold askew, revealing a sliver of panicked, impossibly blue eye. She could hear the frantic beeping of a monitor someone had attached to her, and the frantic thud of her own heart, though she couldn’t feel it.

A moment later, the door burst open and Yaga Masamichi strode in, his expression grim. He took in the scene – Shoko still and pale on the cot, Gojo a knot of barely contained hysteria. Then, Geto was there. Shoko could see the tension in his jaw. They both started talking at once, their words tumbling over each other in a rush of explanation.

“…a trap, after the main curse…”

“…didn’t see it until the last second…”

“…she could have dodged, but the kid…”

“…hit her, green energy…”

Yaga just checked on her, then held up a hand, silencing them. 

"Negligent! Both of you! You are the strongest, yet you allowed this to happen on your watch. Your focus should be absolute on a mission, especially when protecting a teammate with a different skillset!"

Yaga continued his examination, his expression growing more grave. He gently lifted Shoko’s eyelid, peered into her unresponsive pupil. He pressed lightly on the area where she’d been hit, though there was no outward sign of injury now, a testament to her body’s initial, unconscious attempt to heal.

"We're sorry, Sensei," Gojo and Geto chorused. She could "see" them both bowing their heads, a rare display of humility.

"Why isn't she waking up?" Gojo asked. "She can heal herself, right? Her RCT…"

"That's what's concerning. Her physical wounds are healing, albeit slowly. The cursed energy from the attack is… unusual. I've never encountered anything quite like it. It seems to be suppressing her consciousness directly, not just through physical trauma."

"A new type of curse?" Geto questioned. "But the main curse was fairly standard…"

"Perhaps a secondary effect, or a specialized technique embedded within the trap," Yaga mused. "We'll need to run more detailed diagnostics. Monitor her closely. This isn't a simple injury, boys. Her life might not be in immediate physical danger, but a prolonged coma… the effects are unknown."

Shoko "watched" as Gojo’s form seemed to deflate, his shoulders slumping. Geto stood rigidly, his fists clenched at his sides. The worry radiating from them was a palpable force, a heavy blanket in the sterile room. She was trapped in this strange, silent observation, a ghost in her own body, witnessing their fear and guilt, unable to offer a single word of reassurance. The only thing she could do was wait and hope that Yaga, or perhaps her own resilient body, could find a way to pull her back from this silent, watching darkness.  

***

The disorienting swirl of the coma-dream shifted, coalescing into a scene of quiet intimacy. Teen Shoko found herself an invisible observer, hovering near the corner of a sun-dappled bedroom. The room was soft, bathed in the gentle light of a late afternoon filtering through sheer curtains. It was a bedroom, tastefully decorated, with a sense of calm and quiet order. On a large, comfortable bed, lay a woman. Shoko recognized her instantly, yet she was different. Older, yes, the lines around her eyes a little deeper, her dark hair perhaps a touch thinner, but the most striking change was an aura of gentleness that radiated from her. 

Kneeling beside the bed, his small hand resting carefully on the duvet near her arm, was a boy. He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten. His hair was a stark, glossy black, cut neatly, falling just above his ears. But it was his eyes that made Teen Shoko’s breath catch. They were long and narrow, framed by dark lashes, and their color was a distinct, beautiful lavender-purple. A miniature Geto Suguru. Those eyes, though, were currently glistening with unshed tears, his small jaw tight as he fought to maintain composure. He was holding Future Shoko’s hand, his small fingers clasped gently around hers.

“Mom?” the boy’s voice was soft. “Mom, can you hear me?”

As Teen Shoko watched, Future Shoko’s eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened. Her gaze, hazy at first, focused on the boy.

The boy’s reaction was immediate. A small gasp escaped him, and the tears finally spilled, tracing shining paths down his cheeks. But his voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly steady, imbued with a gentle care. “Mom! You’re awake!” He leaned closer, his small hand tightening its grip. “How are you feeling? Are you okay?”

The woman offered a tired smile. “Yoru…” 

“You’ve been sleeping for three days, Dad and I… we’ve been so worried,” the boy said, his voice trembling slightly despite his efforts. He quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand. “I’ll get you some warm water. Dad said it’s important to stay hydrated.”

Without waiting for an answer, he carefully disentangled his hand and hurried out of the room, his small footsteps light and quick. Teen Shoko felt a strange pull, a desire to follow, but she remained rooted, watching her future self, who seemed to be slowly reorienting herself.

The boy returned moments later, carefully carrying a glass of warm water. He helped mother sit up a little, supporting her back with a small pillow he fluffed with surprising efficiency. He held it to her lips, supporting her as she took a few sips.

“Here, Mom. Is that better? Do you need anything else? I… I made porridge. Dad helped a little, but mostly I did it. It’s still warm. Would you like to try some?” His lavender eyes searched hers, anxious for her approval, desperate to be of help.

A wave of emotion washed over Future Shoko’s face – a tenderness, a deep, loving pride. Teen Shoko felt it too, a mirrored ache in her chest.

“That’s… so kind of you.” She reached out a trembling hand and gently brushed a stray lock of dark hair from the boy’s forehead. A name escaped her lips almost unconsciously. “Suguru…”

The boy’s face brightened. “Dad? Do you want to see Dad? I can go get him! He’s just downstairs, he was so worried he hadn’t left the house.”

It was then, as the boy spoke of "Dad" with such innocent affection, linking him directly to this gentle, caring child who was so clearly his, that the pieces clicked into place for the observing Shoko. This was a life with Geto. And this beautiful, kind-hearted boy…

"Yoru," Teen Shoko whispered, though no sound escaped her in the infirmary. Night.

The future Shoko on the bed smiled. "Yes, tell your Dad I'm awake, Yoru."

Yoru’s small feet padded quickly out of the room, his earlier quiet demeanor momentarily forgotten in his eagerness. She could hear his light footsteps receding down a hallway, followed by his clear, excited voice, "Dad! Dad, Mom's awake! She woke up!"

Future Shoko on the bed watched the doorway with a soft, expectant look. Teen Shoko, still an unseen observer, felt her own spectral heart quicken.

A brief silence followed, then the distinct sound of a second set of footsteps – heavier, longer-strided, undeniably adult. They approached the bedroom with a measured, yet urgent pace. The doorknob turned, and the door swung open.

A tall figure filled the frame, momentarily silhouetted against the light from the hallway before stepping into the room. Teen Shoko’s breath hitched again, though she had no breath to catch.

It was Geto Suguru, but not the Geto she knew. This Geto was undeniably older, his frame broader, more filled out than the lean, almost wiry strength of his youth. He wore a simple, plain black shirt that stretched across his wide shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. Lines, fine as spun silk, crinkled at the corners of his eyes when he blinked, testament to years lived, to laughter and perhaps sorrow too. His features, while still strikingly handsome, had softened, losing some of the sharp intensity of his teenage years, replaced by a deep, settled composure. His purple eyes, though, seemed even darker. The long, dark hair was still present, perhaps a little longer, tied back loosely at the nape of his neck.

He moved towards the bed, there was no hesitation in his steps, only a gentle purpose. He didn't rush, but there was an undeniable pull, a magnetic draw towards her. He reached the bedside and knelt, bringing himself level with her. Future Shoko’s eyes, already soft, seemed to melt as she looked at him.

“Suguru.” 

Future Geto reached out, his hand, larger and more weathered than the one she remembered, gently cupped her cheek. His thumb stroked her skin softly.

He leaned in and carefully, tenderly, helped her sit up a little more, adjusting the pillows behind her. Then, he settled beside her on the edge of the bed, allowing her to lean against his solid chest. He wrapped an arm around her, holding her securely, but with infinite gentleness. The scent of him, sandalwood still, but now mingled with something else – the faint, clean scent of open air, a hint of old books perhaps, and something uniquely his, something settled and comforting – enveloped Future Shoko, and by extension, the observing Teen Shoko.

"You're back with us," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble, deeper and richer than the Geto she knew.

"I'm so sorry I wasn't here the moment you woke. I was just… checking on the garden," he said, and held her a little tighter, as if to make up for his momentary absence. “Yoru came running… he was so excited, practically flew down the stairs.” A fond smile touched his lips as he spoke of their son.

Teen Shoko is a bit sad. It wasn't just sadness for the woman's illness, but a longing for this peace, this tenderness, this future where Geto Suguru was simply 'Dad', tending a garden, his eyes soft with love as he held his wife. It was a glimpse of a path she hadn't known existed, a possibility that resonated deep within her comatose mind. His purple eyes, when they met Future Shoko’s, seemed a shade darker, more intense than she remembered, yet they held an ocean of tenderness.

Future Shoko smiled radiantly. She reached out a hand, and he took it, his larger hand enveloping hers. Then mumbled into his shirt.

"It's alright. Yoru… he took such good care of me."

"He's a good boy. He was so worried." He tightened his hold slightly. "We both were."

While her future self rested against Geto's chest, their quiet murmurings a soft counterpoint to the room's gentle ambiance, the patter of small footsteps returned. Yoru appeared in the doorway again, his small face a mask of serious concentration. He was carefully carrying a tray, upon which sat a steaming bowl of porridge, a spoon, and a glass of water. His brow furrowed as he tried to keep the tray level. It was a little too heavy for him, his small arms straining slightly.

"Dad, Mom," he announced quietly, his lavender eyes bright. "I brought Mom's porridge." He was clearly proud of his accomplishment, but also mindful of his mother's delicate state.

Seeing his son’s earnest struggle, Geto gently eased Shoko back against the pillows, though he kept a supportive hand on her arm. He rose and met Yoru halfway across the room.

"Here, let me get that for you, little man," Geto said, easily took the tray from Yoru, his large hands steady where Yoru's had trembled slightly, and ruffling Yoru’s dark hair. "You did a wonderful job, son. Mom will really appreciate this."

Yoru beamed up at his father, his chest puffing out slightly with pride. "I made sure it wasn't too hot."

"I'm sure it's perfect." He carried the tray to the bedside table, placing it down with care. He then picked up the bowl of porridge and the spoon. Instead of just handing it to Shoko, he settled back onto the edge of the bed, positioning himself so he could comfortably feed her.

He dipped the spoon into the porridge, then blew gently on the contents to cool them. Teen Shoko watched, mesmerized. This powerful sorcerer, a man who could command legions of curses, was now tending to his sick wife with such patient, tender care.

He offered the first spoonful to his weak wife. She opened her mouth weakly, accepting the nourishment. Geto continued to feed her, slowly and patiently, his movements unhurried, his attention solely on her. He'd murmur something soft between spoonfuls, and she'd respond with a faint smile or a nod. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation. It was an act of love performed with an ease born of long practice, a quiet ritual of care.

Yoru’s gaze flickered between his parents. His lavender eyes, so like his father's in shape but uniquely his own in their gentle hue, were filled with a pure, unadulterated admiration. He watched them – his capable father tending so gently to his beloved mother – and in his small, serious face, Teen Shoko saw a reflection of the deep love and security that clearly defined this family.

The warm, sunlit afternoon of the dream began to fade, the light in the room softening, mellowing into the deep blues and purples of twilight. Teen Shoko felt the subtle shift, the day in this future home drawing to a close. Her future self was now propped up against a mound of pillows. She looked tired, her eyelids heavy, but a peacefulness had settled over her features. The room was dimmer, a soft lamp casting a warm glow.

The door creaked open just a fraction, a sliver of hallway light spilling in. A small, dark head peeked around the edge – Yoru. He was in his pajamas, his black hair slightly tousled, as if he’d already been in bed. Seeing his mother was awake, he tiptoed into the room, his bare feet making almost no sound on the wooden floor. He clutched a storybook to his chest.

The mother's eyes opened, a soft smile touching her lips as she saw him. "Yoru, sweetie. What are you doing up? It's late."

Yoru approached the bed. "I couldn't sleep, Mom. I worried about you."

"Oh, sweet boy, I'm feeling a little better, truly. But I'm still not quite well enough to have you and Dad in here with me tonight. You need to go back to your room and sleep with Dad, alright?" There was a hint of longing in Shoko's voice, a wish that things were different, but also a mother’s firm gentleness.

Yoru shook his head, a determined set to his small jaw that was pure Geto. He held up the storybook. 

"When I was sick last winter, Mom, you read stories to me. Even when you were tired. You said it made the bad feelings go away." His gaze was unwavering. "So, I want to read to you tonight. To make your bad feelings go away."

A tender smile spread across her face, illuminating her tired features. Teen Shoko, watching, felt that familiar ache in her chest for this thoughtful child. 

"That is the sweetest thing I've ever heard." She shifted slightly, making a little space beside her on the edge of the bed, patting it. "Alright. One story. Just one. And then you promise me you'll go straight to sleep with Dad?"

The kid's face lit up. He scrambled onto the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her, and opened the book. He positioned it so the light from the lamp fell on the pages. His voice, when he began to read, was soft and melodic, echoing the gentle cadence Teen Shoko had sometimes heard in Geto's voice when he was trying to be soothing or persuasive.

As he read, Shoko became aware of another presence. Peeking from her spectral vantage point, she saw Geto’s tall, familiar figure leaning against the doorframe, just outside the room, bathed in the hallway's muted light. He wasn't intruding, merely observing, his arms crossed over his chest, a soft, almost imperceptible smile on his lips as he watched his son’s earnest efforts. He’d clearly been there from the moment the kid had slipped out of their room.

After a while, Yoru’s voice began to slow, his eyelids drooping. He was fighting sleep, determined to finish his task of comfort. Halfway through a sentence about a slumbering dragon, his head nodded, his small body slumping slightly against the edge of the bed. The book slipped from his loosening grasp. The woman smiled softly, reaching out to steady him.

At that moment, Geto pushed himself off the doorframe and entered the room silently. He moved with a practiced ease, scooping up the sleeping Yoru into his strong arms. The boy mumbled incoherently, nuzzling into his father’s shoulder without waking. Geto carefully retrieved the fallen storybook, placing it on the nightstand.

"He has your heart, you know." 

"And yours entirely, Suguru."

Geto looked down at his son, then turned to Future Shoko. He leaned down and pressed a lingering, tender kiss to her forehead. "Goodnight. I'll take this little storyteller."

"Goodnight, Suguru," she murmured.

With Yoru cradled securely in his arms, Geto turned and quietly left the room, presumably taking their son back to their bed. The soft click of their bedroom door closing echoed faintly.

Future Shoko watched the doorway for a moment longer, then her eyelids fluttered closed. A peaceful sigh escaped her lips as she finally succumbed to sleep.

***

The peaceful, dream-spun twilight of Yoru’s bedroom dissolved, the image of Geto carrying his sleeping son fading like mist. Shoko felt a jarring lurch, a dizzying sense of being pulled, and then the muffled, familiar sensations of her own unresponsive body returned. She was back in the infirmary, a silent prisoner once more, the warmth of the future dream clinging to her like a phantom limb.

A faint sound pricked her awareness – light, almost hesitant footsteps. Then, the distinct, sharp click-clack of a lighter, repeated.

With an effort that felt monumental yet yielded no physical movement, she focused her dream-sight. Geto was there, sitting on a stool pulled up close to her bed. He wasn’t looking at her, not directly. His gaze was fixed on the small, dancing flame he conjured with a simple, disposable lighter, flicking it on and off, on and off. The usual composed mask was slightly askew, revealing a hint of the worry and exhaustion that had been eating at him since she’d been hit.

After a few moments, he sighed, the sound barely audible. He let the disposable lighter fall silent in his hand, then reached into his pocket. He pulled out something small and metallic. It glinted in the dim light of the infirmary – a delicate, elegantly crafted silver lighter. It looked expensive, tasteful, something chosen with care.

He rose from the stool and moved even closer to her bed and stood there for a long moment, just looking down at her still form. Then, very gently, he took her limp hand and carefully pried her fingers open to place the silver lighter into her palm, before closing her fingers around it. The metal felt cool and smooth against her dream-senses.

“This was supposed to be for your birthday, Shoko.” He smiled. “I know it’s still a few months away, but… I saw it, and it reminded me of you.”

“Right now… I don’t care about birthdays. I just want you to wake up. Wake up and… take it. Properly.” He sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to carry the weight of his worry. "Just open your eyes. You can tell me it’s a terrible gift. You can throw it at my head. I don’t care."

"I was thinking," he continued. "Maybe I'd start. You know. I’ll practice smoking. Properly, I mean. Not just stealing one of yours when Satoru’s being particularly insufferable. You’d probably tell me off. But then we’d have something else. Another thing in common."

"You wouldn't be so solitary then. With your cigarettes. It wouldn't just be you, alone, on the balcony. We could… I don't know." He trailed off, looking lost.

He let out a shaky breath. “Satoru’s driving himself crazy. Yaga-sensei is concerned. And I…” 

He squeezed her hand gently around the lighter. “Just wake up, Shoko. That’s all I’m asking.”

He thought she was lonely. No. She wants to tell him. No, I was never alone, as long as you and Gojo were there.

He lingered for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on her face, a silent plea in his eyes. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the past three days, he gently squeezed her hand around the lighter, turned, and walked slowly back to the chair, sinking into it with a weary sigh, the rhythmic click-clack of his own Zippo starting up once more, a restless, lonely sound in the quiet room.

***

The infirmary, Geto's earnest, slightly desperate words, the cool weight of the silver lighter – it all began to recede, like a tide pulling away from the shore. The comforting darkness returned, but this time, it wasn't empty. It swirled, then solidified, painting a new scene, vibrant and alive. Shoko found herself an observer once more, walking along a darkened, tree-lined path. The moon was a silver sliver in the inky sky, and the only light came from the occasional paper lantern strung between branches, remnants of a nearby festival.

Future Suguru was dressed in a jet-black yukata, stark and elegant, with a few subtle, straight silver lines woven into the fabric that caught the lantern light. It made him look even taller, more distinguished. Future Shoko, beside him, wore a yukata of pale, luminous green, the color of new spring leaves, a gentle contrast to his darkness. She looked healthier than in the previous dream, though a certain fragility still clung to her. Her hair was styled a little differently, perhaps a touch longer, with a delicate silver pin glinting in the moonlight.

Running a little way ahead of them, a whirlwind of joyful energy, was Yoru. He, too, was in a Yukata, a deep forest green that made his dark hair and lavender eyes stand out even in the dimness. He carried a small, makeshift net fashioned from a branch and some gauze, his attention utterly captivated by the dancing fireflies.

"Mom! Dad! Look!" Yoru exclaimed, his voice bright with excitement as he made a clumsy, laughing lunge for a particularly bright firefly and missed, but his enthusiasm was undeterred. "I'm going to catch the prettiest one for Mom! To light up your room!"

"Just watch where you're going," Shoko called out.

No sooner had the words left her mouth than Yoru, in his exuberant chase, tripped over an unseen root. He went down with a small yelp, disappearing for a moment into the shadows.

Shoko gasped, taking a step forward. "Yoru!"

But before either parent could rush to him, Yoru was already scrambling back to his feet, a little dusty but seemingly unharmed. He brushed himself off with a determined frown, then, undeterred, immediately resumed his pursuit of the flickering lights, albeit a little more cautiously.

"See?" Shoko turned to her husband. "I told him so. He never listens when he's excited."

"This reminds me," He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, "of those chaotic festival nights back in school. Remember that time Satoru got so caught up in the goldfish scooping game? We ended up with about fifty of them, and then had to spend the rest of the night trying to find someone – anyone – willing to take them off our hands."

Shoko laughed at the memory. "We had to beg Utahime to take half. She only agreed because Yaga-sensei said he would make Satoru clean the training grounds for a month."

A sudden, cool breeze rustled through the trees, making the lanterns sway and Future Shoko shiver slightly, pulling her yukata closer. Without a word, Geto shrugged off the haori jacket he wore over his yukata – a darker, richer black – and gently draped it over her shoulders. 

Yoru, meanwhile, had finally managed to cup a firefly between his hands. He ran back to them, his face beaming. "Mom! Dad! Look!" He carefully opened his hands just a crack, revealing the tiny, pulsing light within. "It's for you, Mom! To make your room bright!"

"Oh, Yoru, it's beautiful," Shoko knelt to get a closer look, her borrowed haori pooling around her. "But you know, fireflies are happiest when they're free, flying with their friends."

"But… I wanted you to have it."

"And I do," Suguru interjected, "Your Mom has the memory of you catching it for her, and that's the best kind of bright. And look," he pointed to the sky, where a few more fireflies were winking, "he has friends waiting for him."

Yoru considered this gravely, then nodded. "Okay! But this one can be a special wishing light too!" 

He carefully peeked into his hands. “I’m going to wish for Mom to be super-duper healthy forever!”

Geto reached down and ruffled Yoru’s hair. “That’s a good wish, son. A very good wish.”

Future Shoko reached out to gently touch Yoru’s cheek. “Thank you, my little firefly catcher.”

The kid looked around. "Where should we let him go, Dad? So he can find his friends?"

"How about over by that big camphor tree? He'll have lots of friends there."

Yoru’s face fell for a moment, then he looked at the glowing insect in his hands, then back at his mother. "Oh, Okay." He walked to the edge of the path, opened his hands wide, and the firefly blinked once, then darted off into the darkness, joining its brethren. "He went to find his family, Mom!"

"He did. Just like we're going home to ours."

Yoru, his adventure concluded, was suddenly hit by the late hour. He yawned widely, rubbed his eyes, "Dad, my legs are tired."

Without hesitation, Geto crouched down. "Hop on, little warrior."

Yoru scrambled onto his father’s back, his arms looping around Geto’s neck, his head immediately lolling onto his shoulder. He was asleep within moments, his small, even breaths a soft counterpoint to the night sounds. Geto rose easily, Yoru a light, precious weight. He adjusted his hold, then offered his free hand to Shoko. She took it, their fingers lacing together.

"I wouldn't get tired of it. Going with you." He squeezed her gently. "Yoru loves them too. He was talking all week about the goldfish scooping and the candied apples." 

He paused, "We both hope we can go with you again next year. And the year after that. And for many, many years to come."

Future Shoko nodded slowly, a deep contentment settling on her features. She tilted her head up, pressing a soft kiss to his jawline. "Me too, Suguru. Me too."

As they continued their walk home, Yoru’s sleepy murmurs about glowing insects blending with the soft sounds of the night, Suguru kept his arm securely around Shoko. The weight of his haori, the warmth of his body, the easy presence of their son – it was a portrait of quiet, domestic bliss, a future so tangible, so deeply desired, that Teen Shoko felt a profound ache of longing. This peace, this simple, shared happiness, was a world away from the constant danger and loss of her present. 

And yet, for these precious, dream-spun moments, it was hers.

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the soft crunch of gravel under their feet and Yoru’s even, sleepy breathing against Geto's back. The firefly Yoru had briefly captured was long gone, a fleeting spark in the vast night.

Yoru seemed completely asleep now, his small body limp and relaxed against his father. One of his hands, which had been loosely holding onto Geto's yukata, had slipped down and was now dangling by his side. Shoko, walking close, reached out instinctively and took his small hand in hers. It was warm and soft, the skin still baby-smooth in most places.

But as her fingers gently closed around his, she felt something unexpected. Small, distinct ridges. Calluses . They were faint, new but definitely there, a subtle roughness against her palm.

She frowned slightly, her thumb tracing over the small, hardened patches of skin on his tiny fingers and the base of his palm. 

She looked up at her husband. "Suguru, these calluses on Yoru's hands… they're new."

His stride didn’t falter, but Teen Shoko, who knew him so intimately, sensed a fractional pause, a flicker in his otherwise calm demeanor before he responded. It was almost imperceptible, but it was there.

"Is that so?" he replied, his tone carefully neutral.

"You know it is," Shoko pressed gently. "Have you… have you been taking him for training?"

Another slight pause. This time, he glanced at her, his eyes unreadable in the moonlight for a moment before he looked forward again. "Yes," he said, his voice still calm, almost too calm. "Just some basic movements. Stances. A little karate-enforcement."

"When?" Shoko asked, a thread of unease weaving its way into her voice. "And why didn't I know about it?" It seems like in their shared life, they were usually open about such things, especially concerning Yoru.

"Oh, it's just been a few times," Geto replied, still looking straight ahead. "Sometimes when I pick him up from school, if we have a little extra time before heading home. He was curious, asked a few questions. I thought it wouldn't hurt to show him a little. It’s really not a big deal, Shoko."

The casual dismissal didn’t sit right with her. "If it's 'not a big deal' ," she pressed gently, "then why keep it from me? You know I wouldn't… well, I might have questions, but I wouldn't forbid it if it’s what he wants, and if it’s safe."

Geto was silent for a few steps, the only sounds their soft footfalls on the path and Yoru’s gentle breathing. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, a note of weariness creeping in. "I know," he said. "I just… I was afraid you'd worry."

He turned his head then, meeting her gaze. In the moonlight, she could see the familiar concern etched in his features, the protective instinct that was so deeply ingrained in him. "You've been unwell.And perhaps… perhaps a part of me knew you might not approve just yet. He’s still so young." He paused, then added, “But he's a bright boy, curious. And he sees things , hears things . It's natural for him to want to understand… to be able to protect himself. To protect us. I just wanted to give him a small foundation, without alarming you."

His words were meant to be reassuring, protective, but for Shoko – both Future Shoko and Teen Shoko watching – they landed with a more complex resonance. It was the familiar pattern: Geto trying to shield her, to make decisions he thought were in her best interest, sometimes without fully including her in the process. It came from a place of love, she knew, a deep-seated desire to protect. But it also, sometimes, felt like being kept at arm's length.

"I wouldn't endanger him. You know that." He looked down at the sleeping child on his back, "I was afraid you'd see it as me pushing him, and I didn't want to fight with you about it, especially not now."

Future Shoko gently withdrew her hand from Yoru's, her touch lingering for a moment on the small, tell-tale calluses. She let go of Geto’s hand as well, her steps slowing until she came to a halt on the moonlit path. Geto, sensing her pause, stopped a few paces ahead, half turning to face her, the kid still sleeping soundly on his back.

"It can't wait, Suguru? He’s a child. This ," she gestured towards Yoru's small, dangling hand, "This is consistent, hard work. What exactly have you been teaching him?"

He turned to face her fully. The moonlight cast sharp shadows on his face. "Shoko, I'm just being realistic. The world is full of dangers. Cursed spirits are an ever-present threat, yes, but even the ordinary world, the one you want him to inhabit so freely, has its own perils.  Accidents happen. Malice exists. Why not let him learn early? Why not equip him with some means to defend himself, to be aware?"

Future Shoko stared at Geto, at the unwavering conviction in his dark purple eyes, and then at the sleeping form of their son, his small face peaceful, oblivious to the storm brewing between his parents.

She had no answer.

He took a deep breath. "Shoko, please try to understand—"

"Understand what?" she cut him off. "That you're training our son for a life we fought so hard to shield him from?"

"You're being idealistic," Geto countered, his tone gentle but firm, the voice of someone who had long wrestled with harsh realities. "Think broadly. We can't shield him from everything forever. We won't always be there to stand between him and the world. Being overprotective won't serve him in the long run. It will leave him vulnerable."

She took a step back as if the haori he had draped over her shoulders feeling suddenly heavy. "He's eight . He should be learning about fractions and history, not how to throw a punch or channel cursed energy."

"And what happens when a curse wanders into his schoolyard?" Geto's voice is quiet but intense. "What happens when some thug decides to target him because he looks like an easy mark? Will his knowledge of fractions protect him then? I'm not training him to be a sorcerer, not yet. I'm training him to survive."

Teen Shoko understood his fear. The Future Shoko wanted to build a shield around Yoru, while Geto, it seemed, wanted to build the shield within him, even if it meant sacrificing some of that precious, fleeting innocence.

"All the sacrifices, all the horrors we've seen and endured – wasn't it for this ?" She continued. "So that Yoru, so that our children, could have a childhood? A real one?"

Tears welled in her eyes, shimmering in the moonlight, but she didn't let them fall. 

"And he will have one, Shoko, I promise you," Geto stepped closer, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more earnest. "But the world doesn't care if he's innocent, Shoko. It will come for him eventually, in one form or another. I just want him to be ready, even a little."

He took a slow step towards her, then another, until he was standing directly in front of her. He gently, carefully, reached for her hand. It was clenched into a tight fist at her side, her knuckles white. He didn’t try to pry it open, just covered it with his own larger, warmer one.

"Shoko, do you truly think I want this for him?" He shook his head. "I want him to chase fireflies until he drops from exhaustion. I want his biggest worry to be whether he’ll get the toy he wants for his birthday. I want him to live a peaceful, joyful life, more than anything in this world."

He paused, his thumb gently stroking the back of her clenched hand. "But life is rarely as peaceful as we wish it to be. You know that better than anyone. And my greatest fear…" He looked directly into her eyes then. "My greatest fear is not being able to protect you both."

His voice dropped even lower, laced with an emotion that made Teen Shoko’s spectral heart ache. "I want to protect you. With Yoru by my side, if need be. And one day… one day, if something were to happen to me, if I were to leave you…" – he rushed on, seeing the protest forming on her lips –  "Which I never, ever want to do, Shoko, you must believe that… I would want to know that our son could stand beside you. That he could protect you in my place. That he wouldn't be helpless."

"Don't say that," She bit her lip hard, "Don't even think it. You're not leaving. You won’t."

A gust of wind, cooler now, swept down the path, rustling the leaves and lifting strands of her hair. It carried the scent of damp earth and distant rain. Shoko shivered, and as she raised a hand to push a strand of hair from her face, she realized her cheeks were wet. Tears had been streaming down her face, silent and unnoticed until the wind kissed them cold.

Suddenly, a small, warm hand touched her cheek, gently wiping at the moisture.

Shoko blinked, startled, her gaze dropping. Yoru . He wasn’t fully asleep anymore. His lavender eyes, heavy-lidded and sleepy, were open, looking up at her with a child’s pure, uncomplicated concern. He must have woken at the shift in their tone. He was still on Geto's back, but he’d managed to lean around enough to reach her face.

“Don’t cry, Mom.” He reached out again, his little fingers clumsily trying to dry her tears. “Dad told me… he said real men don’t make their mothers cry. I promised him I wouldn’t. Please don’t cry.”

It shattered the last of his mother's composure. A sob escaped her, and she reached up, her trembling hand covering the child’s. Geto’s expression softened completely, the earlier tension in his jaw easing. He looked from his crying wife to his earnest, comforting son, and a quiet love filled his eyes. 

"Suguru," Shoko said softly, "he's our son. Our Yoru. I worry, yes . What mother wouldn't? But I would worry more not knowing, not being a part of it." She squeezed his hand, the one still linked with hers. "His path is our path. We walk it with him. Together ."

"You're right. I'm sorry, Shoko. It wasn't my intention to exclude you," he admitted, his voice regaining some of its earlier warmth. "We'll talk about it. Properly. About Yoru, about everything. No more secrets, I promise."

Future Shoko searched his face and nodded slowly. "Okay then. I believe you."

***

The idyllic scene of the moonlit festival path, the warmth of Geto’s arm, the sleepy weight of Yoru, all began to shimmer and dissolve like mist in the morning sun. The comforting weight of the haori, the scent of summer grass, faded away, replaced once more by the sterile chill of the infirmary, pulling Shoko from the sweet ache of the future dream. Her phantom gaze refocused on the dim reality of her hospital bed. The silver lighter Geto had placed in her hand earlier was gone, likely removed by a nurse or perhaps by Geto himself. The quiet of the room was different now, heavier.

The door creaked open, and Geto Suguru stepped in. The Geto she knew, the teenager, though he looked anything but youthful at this moment. His dark hair, usually so meticulously kept, was messy, falling across his forehead in disarray. His uniform was disheveled, creased in places, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. He looked tired, but it was the weariness of battle, not the soul-deep exhaustion she'd seen in him earlier. He’d clearly just returned from a mission.

“Hey, Shoko,” he said, his voice a little breathless. He pulled the chair closer and sank into it, not taking his eyes off her still face. “Just got back. Mission was… a bit of a pain. Some annoyingly resilient curses down by the coast.”

He reached out and took her hand. His hand was warm, almost hot, and surprisingly large, clasped around hers. She could feel the distinct, rough texture of calluses on his palm and fingers – the hands of a fighter.

He squeezed her hand gently. “It’s… weird, you know? Not having you there. Turns out, I’m still not used to it. Got so used to you being there to patch us up. Satoru too, though he’d never admit it. Went in a bit too enthusiastically, I guess. Got myself a scratch.” He paused. “If you were here, it’d be gone already. You’d patch me up in two seconds, and then lecture me about recklessness.”

Shoko, from her trapped state, tried to focus. A scratch? She could smell it now, a faint, coppery tang in the air, a scent she knew all too well – blood. Her gaze drifted to his left arm. The sleeve of his dark uniform was darker still in one patch, damp and clinging slightly. It looked more than just a scratch.

A pang, sharp and painful, went through her. He was being careless. He was always a little reckless, relying on her to be his safety net, his immediate fix. But without her there…

“It’s nothing. Just annoying. Guess it’ll take a few days to heal on its own. Slow. Inefficient.” He sighed. “Makes you appreciate what you have, right? Or, what you had.” 

He was downplaying it. Just like he always did. Just like Gojo always did. They’d come back from missions, battered and bruised, insisting they were fine, only for her to find deep gashes or fractured bones hidden beneath their bravado.

A wave of something akin to heartbreak washed over her. He was hurt, more than he was letting on, and he was being careless with himself because she wasn’t there to be his safety net. The thought was a sharp, painful pang. He was relying on her, and she was… absent. Useless.

A desperate, overwhelming urge surged through her – the instinct to heal, to mend, to take away pain. She tried, with every ounce of her trapped consciousness, to move her hand, the one he was holding. She strained to channel her RCT, to send even a flicker of healing energy towards him. She wanted to feel the familiar warmth spread from her fingertips, to see the wound on his arm close, to erase the pain from his eyes.