#dad!jo

“You don’t look so good,” he says quietly, the playfulness missing from his voice. His fingers curl around your hand and he rubs your knuckles gently.

Your skin is still a bit clammy. Melted ice packs have slipped off somewhere under the sheets.

Satoru feels so stupid now. He has the Six Eyes, hasn’t he? He should’ve seen something.

“God, baby bug.”

How can these things happen to the sweetest people? Call Satoru naive this once, but despite you being a sorcerer, he never thought of you as anything less than an angel.

So if you’re an angel, how much of a sin is it to pluck your feathers? Satoru isn’t a man of God, but he is willing to do the Devil’s work if it means Heaven’s ambassadors get to stay untainted.

And yet, you’re unconscious in a hospital bed, dancing on the line between life and death.

The man behind Satoru shifts, his lips parting to speak up, but Satoru is faster.

“We’re talking.”

Yaga’s mouth closes. He’s never seen Satoru this uncomposed.

“You stayed in the car.” There is a pause as Satoru leans closer. “Why’d you do that, angel?”

Your hand is lifted to Satoru’s nose and he brushes the tip against a knuckle gently.

“Such a silly baby.”

He lowers your hand back.

“I want Itadori with her,” he speaks to Yaga this time. Yeah, an angel for an angel. Satoru himself isn’t good at the affectionate stuff. But to Yuji, it’s the default. Your body became severely dehydrated, not just of water but of love too. You need all the happy hormones you can get.

“Isn’t she perfect?”

At that, Yaga picks up his head. Satoru, of all people, idealizing someone to the point of calling them perfect? For a while, he watches the white-haired man. Then you. Technically, you are not perfect.

You aren’t a very strong sorcerer. You have messy handwriting and you forget to return books to the library sometimes. You doodle on your arm in class and the ink smudges into your clothes. You get distracted during missions when you focus on building rapport with non-sorcerers too much.

And a long time ago, Satoru declared a man with an attitude similar to yours self-righteous.

Maybe that’s the point. Satoru has a weird definition of perfect. Or maybe it’s less about who you are and more about the dynamic.

“Yeah. She’s perfect,” Yaga replies finally, not wanting to derail the moment. “She’s yours.”

Satoru doesn’t really believe that. He doesn’t think he deserves to call you his kid. He failed you, over and over. He tries not to imagine what you might have looked like in that car, but his traitorous mind supplies him with the image anyway. You, panting, sweating, and crying while being boiled alive.

How ironic that the one who sees everything couldn’t see this.

“What the fuck do I do now, Yaga?”

Satoru, asking for advice? He really must be devastated. Yaga sighs and settles on the other side of the bed. He has his own regrets about missing signs in students. Your exposed hand, the one with the vein catheter connecting your bloodstream to fluids, shivers. Satoru rubs a finger over the fine little hairs of your wrist.

“You stay. Don’t punish yourself by keeping her away from you. Won’t do any good,” Yaga replies finally.

Satoru suppresses the urge to scoff; he did want to punish himself in some way.

“Do you think when she was in there… did she call out my—”

“Satoru.”

“Did she cry for Gojo-sensei?”

“Satoru.”

The room falls into silence again. Down the hall, someone’s shoes squeak against the tiles. Satoru sniffles and rubs your knuckles with his thumb, one by one. His cursed energy gives your skin gentle licks. He hopes that presence makes you feel safer, that it gives you peaceful dreams.

“You must have a trick up your sleeve,” Satoru speaks again, to you this time. “You… you’re smarter than we give you credit for. Yeah, you’re secretly a fox.”

Otherwise, what explanation is there for how much you make Satoru care about you? If you’re not outsmarting people, then that means Satoru has a heart. A soft spot for sweet and weak things. That just can’t be.

“Stop making me sad. You know I can’t afford to be so invested,” he mumbles to himself.

The cursed corpse sitting on top of your collarbone squeezes harder into your chest when it registers your breathing pattern change. A small hitch is enough to trigger a response from the plushie. You hadn’t even registered it was a Hello Kitty one. You would’ve asked why Principal Yaga has those kinds of dolls in his collection.

At least you’re doing what Satoru told you to do, taking a big nap.

This type of suffering throws sorcerers off. There was no jujutsu involved, no curse that could’ve been exorcised. It was something that could happen to anyone. If there is a department Jujutsu High that needs improvements, it’s protecting the students from the type of cruelty non-sorcerers are capable of perpetrating.

Satoru is the Strongest. Whether he cared about you or not didn’t matter so long as you were safe. You weren’t safe. His feelings matter now.

To his annoyance, he already has a plan. The car’s windows are going to be rolled down once you’re allowed to go home. Satoru will pull over if you need a break. You’ll take a bath and he’ll give you a haircut. Your favourite dinner is pizza, but you stick to cold servings of breakfast leftovers after a bad day. The couch is big enough for Satoru to sleep on. Someone will have to bring your clothes before you get home with him.

Satoru “I can’t afford emotional investments” Gojo, huh? Yeah. Sure.

The man has already mapped out your recovery down to the temperature of your bathwater. It comes too easily to him.

“I get it now,” the sorcerer mumbles with a self-deprecating smile and glances at Yaga. “I thought you were too uptight about many things. Man…”

The chair creaks as Satoru leans back, stretching his back. He groans and slings an arm over his face, teeth grinding against each other.

“Losing a kid sucks. And you lost two. I continued giving you hell.” His gaze finds your unmoving eyes next and he gestures towards Yaga with his thumb. “You’ve got me feeling bad for this geezer.”

Yaga doesn’t react to Satoru’s words. He knows he’s experiencing this type of loss of control for the first time.

Satoru slumps again.

“Damn it.”

The silence that follows is oppressive. IV drips, a trolley rumbles down the hallway as it is pushed by the room’s door, towards another wing of the hospital. Equipment clatters on top, disrupting the deceptive peace.

Sometime later, Yaga leaves. Satoru barely pays attention to movement around him. Nurses come and go, his phone buzzes every now and then. The sun sets, a new patient arrives in the neighbouring room.

Satoru stays in his spot with a hunched back, slowly leaning into your hand. He keeps replaying horrific images in his head. You’ve gotten hurt before, during missions. It never made him feel like this. He’s seen you sniffle through pain, it was fine. What happened?

Soft breaths stroke your knuckles as Satoru finally lays his head next to your knuckles. The air is comfortingly warm against your skin. It doesn’t take long for the sorcerer to fall asleep at your side. He should’ve been sent home a while ago, but Yaga probably slipped the staff some cash.

At four in the morning, when the fluids in the infusion have nearly run out, there is movement. Your fingers twitch beneath Satoru’s cheek that has subconsciously drifted into your palm.

The cursed corpse on your collarbone immediately stiffens. Tiny stitched paws press against your chest with all the urgency of a creature that has been assigned one job and intends to perform it flawlessly.

For a moment, nothing happens. Satoru’s eyes flutter open and he watches you through half-lidded eyes, slowly waking up from the slumber. He pushes himself up with his elbows sluggishly and waits.

There.

Another tiny fold in your finger. Then, your eyelashes flutter and you do that little tongue thing puppies do when they’re calming down. A soft mlem.

Satoru stares at you as your eyes open. He hasn’t seen you since the incident. You had been awake briefly after receiving emergency care and texted him, albeit in an altered state.

You blink, taking in your surroundings while Satoru can only stare at you.

The light from the hospital’s parking lot under the window is enough for the confusion on your face to be visible. Yet as your eyes finally land on the familiar silhouette at your bed, the weakest and dumbest smile spreads across your face.

“Hi.”

Satoru snaps out of his haze and swallows back any overly affectionate greetings. Or he attempts to, at least.

Sure, he likes to give people cute nicknames for his own entertainment and usually it’s actually a way for him to distance himself from others. He doesn’t mean it, he tells himself.

The gentlest “Hi, angel,” slips out nevertheless. “How are you feeling?”

Your brows knit together in concentration.

“…Mh… sleepy…”

The sentient doll is already at work. It climbs around on your body, checking your pulse and critical areas for any injuries, even though it isn’t necessary anymore. Satoru watches it happen and hesitates. That thing knows what to do immediately; it was programmed to respond to your actions. Meanwhile, his mind is completely blank. What comes after someone was locked into an overheating car on purpose?

“Yeah. Yeah, that tracks,” is what Satoru manages to say, still processing your unaccusing gaze. He reaches for the plastic cup of water and hands it over to you. “You scared me, angel.”

With the coordination of a newborn deer, you push yourself up and accept the drink. Satoru can practically feel how your world tilts and your skin pales. The cup rattles faintly against your teeth as your hand shakes. There is this thing you do when you hold your pinky away from the drink; this habit stayed from your younger years. Like all of this is just a harmless game of pretend to you.

Two big gulps. Good. Next comes the breath you exhale back into the cup like a toddler. That, Satoru didn’t expect. You did talk to him in a simplified way over the phone. Your brain must be still loopy.

“Heh, sorry, sensei,” you reply finally.

“Mm.” Satoru waves dismissively, trying to mimic the usual cadence of his playfulness. “What a day, huh?”

The question is loaded. Whether you acknowledge what happened will decide how the man is going to handle the situation. Knowing you, you’ll think of it as a silly accident. Satoru isn’t the only one at Jujutsu High who likes to hide behind antics. Just from the way you lift your hands gently, it’s already obvious.

“I caused a lot of trouble, didn’t I?” You smile. Stupid girl. Satoru will play along for now.

“It’s fine, you kids are always causing trouble.”

The plushie finally slides down from your back after having inspected everything and takes a small bow towards Satoru, as if reporting your condition.

“Good work,” Satoru nods. “Well, you know, you earned yourself a free stay-at-Gojo-sensei’s-place card.”

His voice is triumphant, but that expression falls a little when you only blink in confusion. “You’re staying with me,” he tells you in a more straightforward way.

“…to do what?”

To recover. To learn what safety feels like. To be loved.

“To have fun,” Satoru replies with practiced casualness.

“Fun?” You tilt your head. The teacher often describes a range of things as “fun.” It can be anything between a nice stroll in the park and a hard mission that leaves you questioning your jujutsu skills. Still, you just nod your head obediently. “Okay.”

Your agreement comes so easily that Satoru hates it a little.

“When?” you ask. “There’s a mission on Wednesday and I—”

“Look at you, you think you’re working this week. Cute.”

“Huh?” More and more puzzlement becomes visible on your face, in the tiny wrinkles between your brows, the subtle pursing of your lips, the tilt of your head. Satoru hates that it’s all genuine even more.

“Angel, you got hospitalized.”

“Ieri-san can…” Yeah, Shoko can and will fix you up later, it’s not that. This wasn’t an accident and whether you realize it or not, it will make recovery harder, in a way.

Satoru flicks your forehead. “I’m Gojo Satoru,” he smiles, “I know what’s best for everyone.”

Especially you, but he doesn’t say that part out loud.

“Ow.”

“They’ll let you leave tomorrow,” he quickly changes the subject. “I’ll pick you up.”

“Mah, sensei, can’t we leave now?” You manage to suppress a yawn.

Satoru's smile doesn't falter. “No.”

The face you make is one that—appallingly—evokes dull guilt in Satoru’s chest. It takes him another fifteen minutes to convince and promise you that he will pick you up, the time will pass fast, the doctors will be nice (or else!), and that it will definitely be fun at his place.

Hello Kitty stays put in your lap as you squirm in defiance. You know from Megumi that Satoru’s place is super fancy and comfy. The hospital is not.

After sleepy resistance, Satoru manages to push you back into the bed and plants a kiss on your forehead. He hears you mumble something about “sensei is so mean,” but he pretends you said “sensei is so nice.” The creases on your skin smooth out, your body goes limp.

Satoru allows himself to savour a few moments of peace in the room. The IV is still dripping, machines humming. Your cursed energy swirls in your veins. It’s the cutest cursed energy Satoru has ever seen, though he wouldn’t be able to explain why. It’s a colour only he can see and secretly, he’s smug about it.

He leaves with a heavy heart.

A few hours are left of the night, but he barely sleeps. Instead, he watches videos on cutting and styling techniques to pass the time. The image of you in the backseat is too disturbing, as if from some kind of escape-room horror movie. There was no escape for you though. The doors were locked.

The next day, he arrives with faint circles under his eyes that are hidden behind pitch-black sunglasses anyway. The attending doctor summarizes your health condition. They were able to discard the IV and you just need to drink lots of water with electrolytes.

A Band-Aid covers up the area on your forearm where your vein was punctured.

The white square of adhesive crinkles each time you bend your elbow. Your thumb rubs over the corner absentmindedly while the doctor talks. Then again while signing discharge papers. Then again while putting on the hoodie someone brought from the dorms.

By the time you get to the parking lot, half of it has already peeled off. Your attention, however, is then directed at Satoru’s expensive car he rarely drives himself.

“I’ll keep the windows down,” he tells you.

“Oh, why?”

So, you’re still in denial, huh?

“Because I said so.”

You don’t question it. The next time you speak up again, you’re at Satoru’s place, exploring his surprisingly elegant apartment. “Cozy,” you mumble, rubbing your eye and heading towards the huge bed.

“Ah, ah,” Satoru tuts, pulling you back gently by the collar of your shirt. “Bathroom.”

“Okie, but you can’t look—” You’re nudged in there before you can finish that, the door clicking shut behind you. The last thing you hear is a grumble from the other side. Your attention quickly diverts towards the setup inside. Neatly folded clothes—yours—sit on the edge of a small counter, with your toothbrush and an orange note peeking out from between the sleeves of an oversized shirt. I hope you feel better soon rawwwr. The handwriting is messy enough for anyone to know it’s Yuji’s.

Outside, Satoru psychs himself up for what’s going to happen next. Hair cutting. It’s fine, no big deal. No, it is a big deal. Cutting a kid’s hair isn’t just that. It’s a declaration he feels is necessary. Parents get upset when someone else changes their child’s hair, rightfully so. It should only be done by someone who indeed has the authority. Satoru has decided it should be him who has the authority, especially after what happened. How hard can cutting someone’s hair be anyway?

The hairbrush and scissors have been placed on the wooden coffee table. Satoru stares at the objects, scratching his chin.

“What’s wrong, sensei?” Your inquisitive voice snaps him out of his thoughts. It’s such a foreign sight, you standing in his living room in your pajamas, damp hair spreading a wet patch on your shoulders.

Oddly domestic and it just feels so right.

“Ah, we’re freshening up your look,” Satoru announces with fake enthusiasm. You’re not supposed to be at his apartment in the first place. None of this should have ever happened.

“We are?”

“Mhm,” Satoru hums, maneuvering you to take a seat on his couch. “It will help you sleep better.”

“Uh—”

“Let’s start with the brush. Is that okay?”

“… I think so…” Your voice softens as you settle down and allow Satoru to take control. He’s seen Suguru brush his hair enough times to know to start at the ends and work his way up. Gentle strokes untangle the messy locks.

After a while, Satoru climbs to sit behind you and when you don’t pull away, he inches closer.

“Angel?”

“Yes?”

“How are you feeling?”

It takes you some time to reply. “Better.”

Satoru lets the response stay in the room silently. Only the shuffling of plastic rubbing against hair fills the room. Slowly, a weird pressure seems to be lifted from the back of your head and your posture loosens.

“You know, angel…” the man trails off. He has a talent for both being too straightforward and also implying too subtly. “I don’t think you should’ve been in that car. It must have been hot in there.”

Your shoulders tense up and Satoru instinctively places a hand between your shoulder blades. “Hey, easy. We’re just talking, you’re not in trouble.”

“It was okay,” you mumble. “I just got a little thirsty.”

“You just got a little thirsty…” Satoru echoes, brushing your hair very carefully now. The plastic handle crinkles in his grip.

“Mhm…”

“And then?”

“I got sleepy.”

“Yeah.”

The brush stops sliding through your locks. Satoru reaches for the scissors. “It wasn’t right,” he declares, more to himself than you because you’re still refusing to open up. Or maybe you’re simply incapable of opening up.

Either way, there is a lack of understanding in you; it makes Satoru question what you know about boundaries.

“You know what, baby bug? We’ll practice some stuff when you’re stronger.” Snip, snip, snip. The first split ends fall into his lap. “Itadori can help.”

“Heh, Yuji’s funny.”

“Mhm.” Bringing up the kid was smart. The tension in your muscles disappears. Good, that’s something Satoru can add to the list of safe topics. “I’m funny too though.”

When you don’t respond, Satoru lowers the scissors. Good thing he does because in the next moment, you’re crawling into his lap.

“Sensei is warm.”

You don’t weigh much in his lap but with your clumsy limbs, you manage to settle in a slightly impractical way, one elbow even threatens to slip into the vulnerable space between Satoru’s pelvis and lower ribs. A huff of air leaves the man’s lips as you slump back.

“This is okay, right? You can still cut my hair.”

Honestly, Satoru can’t really do that in this new position, but he doesn’t tell you that. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

Neither of you move. Your head gradually grows heavier against his chest. Satoru can feel the damp ends of your hair soaking into his shirt. A few strands stick to his jaw whenever you shift.

For someone who claims to dislike emotional investments, Satoru is suddenly very aware of every tiny thing. The small lumps of your spine. The way your breathing is still a little uneven whenever you drift too close to certain thoughts. The fact that you instinctively curl toward body heat like a cat.

His hand hovers awkwardly before settling on the back of your head.

“Comfy?” he asks.

“Mhm.”

“Good.”