Chapter Text
Reika was finally allowed to put on real pants.
That was the first triumph of the day.
The second was stepping outside without Satoru immediately dragging her back in like she was a half-baked casserole.
The city greeted her with its usual chill—Tokyo in late winter was a gray, yawning beast, smelling of car exhaust and conbini coffee. Her legs still felt a bit wobbly, but she refused to show it. After nearly a week of being quarantined and mother-henned to near death, she had earned this walk, this air, this stupid overpriced café latte she was currently stabbing her straw into.
She pushed open the door to Shoko’s clinic without knocking, ignoring the sign that clearly said DO NOT DISTURB. She’d memorized every inch of this hallway in high school. She’d spent enough time in Shoko’s various workspaces—some legal, some not—that she could identify her friend’s presence by the faintest whiff of antiseptic and cynicism.
“Thought you were dead,” she said mildly from behind her desk, surgical gloves on, elbow-deep in something Reika had no intention of asking about.
“I was,” Reika muttered, slumping into the chair across from her. “And then I rose from the grave and discovered my so-called best friend’s been possessed by a tax auditor.”
Shoko arched a brow. “You mean Satoru?”
“He’s being weird.”
“...He’s always weird.”
“No. This is new weird.” Reika dragged her fingers through her hair, clearly unwell in the mental sense now. “He’s not annoying me. He’s not teasing me. He didn’t even try to steal my miso this morning.”
Shoko looked up at that. “That is suspicious.”
“I know. And he keeps not looking me in the eye. You think he’s mad at me?”
There was a beat of silence. Then Shoko said flatly:
“You think he’s mad at you.”
Reika squinted. “...Isn’t he?”
Shoko leaned back in her chair, gave her a long look, and said, “You’re actually blind.”
“Excuse me?”
“Blind,” Shoko repeated. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Romantically. Ocularly, maybe. You should get that checked.”
Reika sat up straighter. “What the hell do you know?”
“More than you, apparently.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Shoko smirked. “Not telling you.”
“You’re the worst!”
“You’re the idiot who came in here convinced Gojo was mad at her.”
“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” Reika threw her hands up. “He hasn’t bickered with me in days. He’s quieter. He’s watching me all the time like I’m about to explode. It’s like he’s holding something in and I don’t know what it is, and I keep thinking—is he going to kick me out or something? Should I be looking for apartments?? Did I say something stupid while I was fevered? What is going on—”
Shoko put a hand up. “Okay. Stop.”
Reika blinked, breath caught.
“You,” Shoko said slowly, “are quite possibly the stupidest person I know.”
Reika recoiled like she’d been slapped with a prescription pad. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I am worried about it!”
“Don’t be.”
“That’s not how worrying works!”
Shoko rolled her eyes and peeled off her gloves. “Just… let Satoru be Satoru.”
Reika slumped back into the chair again, scowling. “You’re being very unhelpful.”
“That’s because the answer is standing in your apartment every night holding a damp washcloth and making you soup and you still haven’t noticed.”
“What does that mean—”
But Shoko was already turning back to her desk, files opened, gloves back on. Conversation closed.
Reika stared at her.
Then huffed.
Then muttered, “He better not be dying or something.”
And with that, she stood, coffee still in hand, mystery unresolved.
She’d figure it out herself.
Eventually.
Probably.
…Maybe.
Reika left the clinic still scowling.
Shoko’s maddening lack of answers echoed louder than any diagnosis ever could, and she stomped down the steps like each one owed her an explanation. The air outside was cool, sharp with the tang of early winter. A breeze cut through her coat, but she barely noticed it.
Whatever. She needed something normal.
Yaga, for instance. Gruff, practical, more emotionally attuned than he let on. She could always count on him to talk sense, or at least give her something to focus on that wasn’t the emotional minefield of Satoru being weird.
She found him in the courtyard behind the main building at Jujutsu High, surrounded by a small group of second-year students and a trail of splintered practice dummies. He looked tired. Less gray in the beard than she remembered, but the bags under his eyes had sunk deeper.
“Don’t tell me you’re out already,” he called as she approached.
“I’m a medical miracle,” she deadpanned, tucking her hands into her coat pockets. “Satoru cleared me with only mild threats and a long sigh.”
Yaga snorted. “Sounds about right.”
They exchanged a short nod—just enough to acknowledge that a lot had happened since the last time they talked like this. Then they settled into stride together, walking slowly toward the edge of the courtyard as students resumed training behind them.
“So,” Reika said, “who’s trying to die under your watch this week?”
“Everyone, as usual.” Yaga crossed his arms. “Takamoto took a cursed wound last night—clean cut, but the kid panicked and let the energy backlash. Shoko patched him up, but I’m keeping him off the field until next week.”
“She’ll love that.”
“She already yelled at me.”
Reika smiled faintly. “Some things never change.”
They were quiet for a few steps.
Yaga sighed, rubbing at his temple like just being near teenagers gave him a migraine.
Reika glanced sideways at him. “So. Are there any missions I can take on right now? Something light? Medium-light?”
“No.”
She blinked. “No?”
“Wait a week or so.”
“That’s a long time to be bored.”
“Good,” Yaga said flatly. “Be bored. Be incredibly bored. I’d rather deal with your boredom than your corpse.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Bit dramatic.”
He gave her a look. “You barely made it through your fever without collapsing into the floorboards. Shoko said your cursed energy was bottomed out.”
“Was. I’m fine now. Just a fever.”
“No.”
“Yaga—”
“I’m not risking a headline like ‘Jujutsu Sorcerer Dies of Stubbornness in Supermarket Parking Lot.’”
Reika made a noise of protest, but Yaga kept walking, unmoved.
“And besides,” he added, glancing back at the training field, “I’m not trying to have the high school blown up before the term ends.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Wait, wait. What does that mean?”
Yaga grunted, clearly regretting having spoken at all. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“Yaga.”
He didn’t answer. Just adjusted his sleeves and started shouting something vaguely instructional at a pair of dueling students. A high-pitched yelp rang out as one of them fumbled their grip and accidentally flung their weapon across the courtyard.
Reika stood beside him, arms crossed. “You think I’m gonna let that go?”
“I think,” he said without looking at her, “that you should stop prying.”
She narrowed her eyes. “This is about Satoru, isn’t it?”
No response. Just the faint twitch of his jaw.
Reika groaned. “Oh, come on.”
She didn’t know what annoyed her more—Satoru’s weird mood, Shoko’s smug dodging, or the fact that apparently everyone but her knew what was going on. Whatever it was.
Yaga, professional that he was, simply called out for the second years to switch partners and began lecturing on curse detection range without another word.
Reika stood there a moment longer, scowling.
This was starting to feel like a conspiracy.
Reika stormed off the training field like it had personally offended her.
A whole week.
A week of enforced idleness, of sitting on her hands, of pretending to fill out mission reports and post-encounter statements and threat assessments without stabbing the pen through the table. Paperwork was fine in small doses. It was fine when it was a way to wind down, fine when it came after something—after blood and sweat and motion. But now it was the only thing she was allowed to do, and that grated.
By the time she reached the admin wing, she was already drafting a list of all the ways she could passive-aggressively sabotage Satoru’s next few lesson plans. Just out of principle.
The office was nearly empty—just one second-year scribbling furiously over a stack of expense logs and a half-asleep clerk sipping cold coffee. Reika claimed a desk near the window, slapped her folder down, and got to work.
For a while, it was fine. Stamps, signatures, digital uploads, skimming through mission debriefs. The soothing, mechanical rhythm of bureaucratic rot.
Then her phone rang.
She didn’t recognize the number, not even close. Some random european area code, by the looks of it. Not that she knew anyone there. But she knew the tone, and she knew exactly the sort of person that would be calling her on a burner.
Reika blinked.
The phone kept ringing. She stared at it a moment longer, then answered.
“About time,” came the familiar, dry drawl. “Was starting to think you’d fallen into the Pacific.”
Reika exhaled. “Yuki.”
“Hey, partner,” Yuki said, and for a second the cold edge in Reika’s body thawed.
“Changed your number, huh?”
“I’m still on enough watchlists to have a few favors in the right places,” Yuki said breezily. “You don’t answer texts. Thought I’d try something new.”
“I was sick.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
Reika squinted. “Huh?”
Yuki laughed, the sound crackling through the speaker. “Relax. I’ve been off the radar, not brain-dead.”
Reika rubbed her forehead. “What do you want?”
“Oh, is that how you greet your ex-partner now?”
“When the ex-partner calls me after months, yeah.”
“Damn. You are cranky.” A pause. Then, softer: “You doing okay?”
The change in tone disarmed her more than the question. She leaned back in the chair, let her eyes drift over the empty hallway outside the window. “…Sure.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’m still figuring it out.”
Another pause. Reika heard a distant creak, the howl of the wind, and the slam of a door.
“Gonna tell me where you’re at now?”
“Slovenia,” came the gruff reply, a grunt punctuating her words.
“Hmm?” Reika asked, kicking one foot up onto the edge of her chair. “Quit the Middle East? What happened, did the desert get boring?”
“Didn’t quit,” Yuki replied, the amusement still lingering in her voice. “Just rotated. Got sick of sand in my boots and surveillance in my tea. Besides, Europe’s got its own mess. Curses are getting smarter, or maybe people are getting dumber—it’s hard to tell sometimes.”
Reika snorted. “That’s always been the debate.”
Yuki hummed. “But yeah. Slovenia for now. Quiet town. Forest perimeter. Locals won’t even say the word curse out loud. Perfect little pocket for something to go horribly wrong.”
“And yet you sound thrilled.”
“I’m always thrilled when I get to do something useful. Unlike some people,” Yuki added, pointedly. “Filing paperwork. Drinking soup. Living in domestic bliss with Tokyo’s most insufferable man.”
Reika groaned. “You’re never going to drop that, are you?”
“Not when you make it so easy. Come on, I saw the mission roster. You’ve been posted in Tokyo for months. And don’t lie—you haven’t bothered to find your own apartment.”
“I’m helping out with Megumi and Tsumiki,” Reika said defensively.
“Oh, sure. And I’m just out here in Slovenia for the weather.”
Reika rolled her eyes and slumped further in her chair. “It’s not like that.”
There was a pause.
Then, a quieter voice. “Okay. So what is it like?”
Reika hesitated.
On the other end of the line, Yuki waited. Not pushing, but present in that way only Yuki could be. Reika stared down at the stamped form in her hand, at the blank line where she was supposed to sign.
“It’s...” She exhaled. “It’s comfortable.”
“Huh.”
“But not in a bad way,” she added, rushing the words. “I mean, yeah, he’s annoying. And nosy. And he steals all the hot water and acts like I’m a fragile antique that’ll crack if I breathe wrong. But. I don’t know. It works. Sort of.”
“‘Sort of,’” Yuki repeated, amused. “Reika. That man used to make you grind your teeth just by breathing in your direction.”
“Yeah, well,” she muttered, “he still kind of does.”
Yuki laughed again. “You’ve changed.”
“Don’t start.”
“Too late.”
Reika bit the inside of her cheek, gaze drifting again out the window. The afternoon light was dull, but steady. She watched two third-years shuffle past in training gear, loud and laughing.
“Slovenia’s a long way off,” she said finally.
“Mm.”
“You staying long?”
“Not sure yet. Depends on what I find here.”
“Still chasing the same theory?”
“Yeah. Though I’ve got a new hypothesis now.”
Reika sat up a little. “Yeah?”
Yuki’s tone turned sly. “That when two powerful sorcerers live together long enough, it causes a metaphysical event called emotional repression resonance.”
Reika made a strangled noise. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Reika smiled despite herself. “Fine. I don’t. When are you coming back?”
“Dunno. Depends on the funding and how long I can keep conning local officials into thinking I’m a UN researcher.”
“I’ll keep the couch warm.”
“Please don’t. I’ve seen the way you sprawl. I’m not fighting you for cushion rights.”
“Coward.”
“Always,” Yuki said, almost fond. “Don’t get your hopes up though.I’m not much wanted in Tokyo right now.”
Reika blinked. “Huh?”
“I mean,” Yuki drawled, mock-casual, “your boyfriend might just kill me if I try and steal you away again.”
Reika stared at the phone like it had grown a second screen. “Since when do I have a boyfriend?”
Yuki hummed, far too pleased with herself. “Tall. White-haired. Looks like a walking fashion crisis but somehow still pulls it off. Likes blindfolds. You know—that one.”
Reika groaned. “Oh my god, not Satoru.”
“Ding ding ding.”
“You’re hallucinating,” Reika said flatly. “You’ve spent too long breathing foreign air. That’s not even funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“It’s a lot wrong,” Reika snapped. “We’re just—roommates. Coworkers. Friends.”
“Very close friends who live together, raise children together, and have matching coffee mugs,” Yuki said dryly. “My mistake.”
“We do not have matching mugs.”
“Sure. He just happens to use the one with the moon on it every morning, and yours has the sun.”
Reika actually paused. “Wait. How do you even know that?”
Yuki’s voice went suspiciously innocent. “Lucky guess.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“Debatable,” Yuki said, and Reika could hear the grin. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your forms or mission logs or whatever mind-numbing admin work they’ve saddled you with.”
“You still haven’t answered the question,” Reika said, suspicious narrowing in her voice. “How do you know that?”
There was a beat of silence. Just one. But it was enough.
“Yuki.”
“I didn’t say I’d never visited while you were gone,” Yuki said, all faux-innocent. “He and I have… talked.”
Reika sat back, scandalized. “What the hell did you two even talk about?”
“You.”
“What?”
Yuki just laughed. “Bye, Reika. Don’t forget to drink some tea, you sound a little wound up.”
“Yuki—!”
But the line had already cut off.
Reika stared at the phone again, a little betrayed, a little horrified, and very, very confused.
Satoru and Yuki. Talking. About her.
She blinked, muttered “What the fuck,” and then, just to feel grounded, went back to stamping mission forms with unnecessarily aggressive force.
Reika stamped another form.
And then another.
And then a third, which she was pretty sure she’d already filed weeks ago, but it didn’t matter because the system was so laughably redundant that no one would ever notice.
She leaned back in the chair with a sigh loud enough to make the half-asleep clerk two desks down twitch awake.
The silence in the admin wing was oppressive. No cursed spirits. No chaos. No Satoru barging in to disrupt the peace with some half-baked excuse for why his training roster was two weeks late. Just paperwork and the low hum of a flickering fluorescent bulb above her head.
Reika groaned, rubbed her eyes, and flicked her pen across the desk.
“I’m going insane,” she mumbled, to no one in particular.
Reika was considering the merits of faking her own death just to escape the paperwork when a familiar ripple of cursed energy slid under the door.
Subtle.
Too subtle.
Which meant it wasn’t Satoru.
Satoru did nothing subtly unless he was trying very, very hard.
The door creaked open a second later, not with the dramatic swing he usually favored, but with a slow, cautious push—like whoever was on the other side expected the room to explode.
Reika glanced up, pen between her teeth.
Satoru stood in the doorway.
Well—half stood. Half hovered. One foot inside, one foot out, like she was a live wire and he wasn’t sure touching the threshold would get him electrocuted.
He looked…odd.
Guilty? No.
Concerned? Maybe.
Weird? Absolutely.
His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, shoulders drawn in a way that was not cocky so much as… uncertain. He wasn’t wearing a blindfold today—just his regular sunglasses—but he still wasn’t looking at her. Sideways, maybe, or at the stack of forms next to her elbow, anywhere but her face.
Which, statistically speaking, was suspicious as hell.
“Hey,” he said, too casually. “You, uh… done?”
Reika squinted. “With what.”
Satoru blinked. “The… work?” he tried. “The… stamping?”
“That depends,” she said, leaning back in the chair. “Are you asking because you need something, or because you’re about to confiscate my pen for ‘recovery purposes’ again?”
“Hey,” Satoru huffed, hands coming up defensively, “that was one time. And you were delirious.”
“I was delirious because you took my pen while I was halfway through a report and made me dictate it from bed like a Victorian invalid.”
“You were an invalid!”
Reika stared.
Satoru winced. “I mean—you were sick. Not an invalid. Gross word. I retract that word.”
Reika raised an eyebrow.
Satoru shifted like her silence was physically painful.
“Anyway,” he said quickly, “I, uh… checked in with Yaga. He said you wandered off somewhere. So I came to see if you were—”
He stopped.
Reika waited.
Satoru tried again.
“I came to see if you were fine.”
“You already asked me that this morning.”
“Well, maybe you became un-fine,” he snapped, too loudly. “I don’t know how illness works, Reika!”
“I was sick. Not dying.”
“You almost died.”
She blinked. “…That was an exaggeration.”
“No,” Satoru said, and the word was soft enough that she felt it. “It wasn’t.”
That shut her up.
Which, unfortunately, only seemed to make Satoru more nervous, because he immediately looked away again like eye contact was now a Class-A felony.
Reika exhaled. “Satoru. Why are you being weird?”
“I’m not being weird.”
“You’re being extremely weird.”
“I’m being normal.”
“No, I’m being normal. You’re being…” She gestured vaguely. “Whatever this is.”
“This is nothing.”
“Liar.”
Satoru bristled. “Well—maybe you’re being weird.”
“I’m not being weird.”
“You walked out this morning without breakfast.”
“I bought coffee.”
“Coffee is not breakfast!”
“It has calories.”
“That’s not—”
He broke off, frustrated, running a hand through his hair like arguing with her physically hurt.
Reika threw up her hands. “See? Weird!”
Another silence.
“You should sit,” he said abruptly. “You look tired.”
“I’m standing perfectly fine.”
“Exactly,” he said, as if that made sense. “That’s when people fall over.”
“That’s not—Satoru, what is wrong with you today?”
His mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost not.
“Nothing,” he said. “I just haven’t seen you sick in a while. It’s weird.”
“That’s why you came?”
He shrugged, pretending to examine the ceiling. “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe you’ll never know.”
Reika stared at him, exasperated and slightly warm in the chest.
He shifted again under her gaze, lifting a shoulder like the movement could hide the fact that he kept glancing at her.
“Why did you tell Yaga to keep me off missions for the next week?” Reika grumbled, looking intently at the paper in front of her, signing it viciously. If Satoru had the mind to ask what that file said, she would have been unable to answer.
“You’re sick,” he replied plainly.
Reika sighed. She debated the merits of arguing with Satoru Gojo. She saw loss.
“Miso soup for dinner today.”
“Deal.”