Chapter Text
Wrist deep in blood and viscera, Shoko just stares back at him with one dark eyebrow cocked. Looking between the cadaver she's midway through dismembering and her disaster best friend sitting opposite of her, she can do nothing but stare at him pointedly.
Returning her deadpan stare, he doesn't do anything but sulk in his chair as he tries to channel the full impact of his light, blue eyes, fluttering snowy-white eyelashes at her. Opting out of his blindfold for this conversation, the silky fabric pushed up to his forehead so he can better bat his eyes at her. Its effect is dulled by the shitty, fluorescent lightbulbs flickering forcing Satoru to squint.
Damn lights.
He's already feeling the beginning of a headache build behind his temple with every passing second, but it's worth it for this conversation.
With a roll of her dark eyes, she cracks her neck and flicks blood off her gloves as she pulls out a cigarette. Too many years of friendship means she's immune to his face card unfortunately. Shifting her cancer stick to the corner of her mouth, she cradles her palm around the lighter, a spray of sparks igniting the tobacco.
Breathing in the fumes, she exhales a pall of smoke, lazily coalescing into a gray cloud. Judging from the odor of tobacco clinging to her lab coat, she must be extremely stressed. Not enough that she'd speak about it, but enough to return to huffing at least a pack a day again. Try as she might, she's failed to permanently kick the habit. Scrunching his noise at the odor of tobacco and burnt paper, he lets it bounce off Limitless until he can only detect the permanent stench of dead bodies and whatever antiseptics the janitors last used. It's just marginally better than the cigarettes. Probably because Satoru's grown used to the way the scent clings to her.
He shouldn't preach on vices; Satoru has his own and dealing with the repercussions of it as they speak, but he's never claimed to not be a hypocrite.
"You want me to treat your cavities?" she asks incredulously with raised eyebrows.
"Yes."
"Do you even brush your teeth daily, Satoru?" She squints suspiciously. "Or floss?"
The last time he'd gotten eight hours of sleep was over four months ago. His unforgiving schedule meant sometimes he foregoes showers for forty plus hours. Brushing his teeth is the least of his priorities when the missions pile up if he even so much as sneezes. Last night, he'd skipped dinner, just kicked his shoes off at his doormat, then sunk into his 1500 thread count sheets and passed out the moment he hit the mattress. Brushing his teeth was his last priority when he was operating on a two hour nap.
"I don't even have time to get my proper beauty sleep, so no, it's not been a priority," he answers glibly with a feigned yawn. "I don't want to gargle and spit out of the car window."
Wiping her scalpel clean of blood, Shoko's mouth twists into a grimace before she schools it to a pained smile. This is where she draws the line: at hearing about Satoru's hygiene practice, not at dissecting dead bodies. "Well, that's your problem, not mine," she dismiss, flicking the dying ashes into the trashcan. "You know this was inevitable considering your bad diet. If you didn't eat all that sugary crap..."
Back to this old argument again. At times, he pities her for her shit taste. Despite his efforts towards expanding her palate, she's yet to learn an appreciation for anything sweet. He doesn't understand how their dessert tours haven't won her over when she's been exposed to the best crème brûlée money can buy, with the perfect torched sugar shell. Or chewy mochi as soft as a cloud with caramel filling so sweet it satisfied his sweet tooth. As the stereotype goes, women should adore sweet things and men should only enjoy bitter crap devoid of sugar like black coffee that tastes like dirt, but neither of them fit the status quo here. No thanks. The only thing preventing him from disowning her is this just means all more sweets for him to hoard. Shoko is allowed some flaws. Not everyone could be perfect like him. The smoking, however, is a different story.
"So is lung cancer," he shoots back, pointing an accusatory finger at her smoldering cancer stick.
Fanning away residual smoke, she waves her hand to avoid setting off phantom smoke detectors. It's a pointless habit she's picked up and never gotten rid of since she disabled the morgue's some eight years ago when she was fed up with the constant blaring alarms whenever she wanted to smoke indoors. If they were civilians, her workplace would be a walking health violation. As is, even the busybodies they call higher-ups have more important things to do than harass Shoko because she doesn't smoke in designated smoking areas. Despite quitting for almost two years, she's still retained the habit.
With a dimpled smirk, she takes a deep drag then cocks her head coquettishly. "That's what RCT is for."
Really, RCT is a cheat code to almost all health issues. Even severed arms, a broken spine, or ruptured artery can all be repaired with cursed energy. In matters of anatomy and RCT, he defers to Shoko no matter how shit her explanations are.
"Which is why I asked you," he points out.
Counting off her fingers, she explains patiently, "You and I both know the limits of RCT. Teeth aren't bones, Satoru. It's living tissue, yes, but their composition and structure are completely different, which lends to a limited healing capacity, and that's without accounting for mineralization." With a smirk, she readdresses him, "Before I lose you, long story short, the damage cannot be reversed with RCT. The decay needs to be extracted, and you'll need fillings."
Shoko knows him too well. It's the unavoidable outcome of being friends for over a decade. It verges on obnoxious that she can tell the precise moment his eyes glaze over, even with his blindfold on. Best friends. You can't live with them. You can't live without them. To make it worse, her explanation stands up to logic. He'd already suspected the same before crosschecking it by her. He dislikes the word desperate, especially when applied to something as mundane as a cavity, but Satoru had irrationally hoped that Jujutsu Buddha and her goddess-like mastery of RCT could somehow overcome the laws of physics and sorcery.
It's stupid considering the impossible crap RCT is capable of, that Satoru has overcome, only to be laid low by tooth decay.
"Why not you?" he rebuts. "You have a medical license, though, Shoko. I don't want to see a civilian practitioner," he argues back. Whining as he kicks his feet like a toddler throwing a tantrum, he slumps further in his chair.
Lips quirked with amusement, she corrects wryly to his growing despair, "Yes, a medical license, not a dental license." Flicking her hair over her shoulder, she says, "That's not within my realm of expertise, and I don't possess the legal qualifications—"
His incredulous laughter comes sharply. "Really," he challenges. She, of all people, is talking about legal ramifications and whatnot? Considering her own sketchy certifications, it screams of hypocrisy. "Coming from the person who scammed her way into her medical exams?"
"Medical school would have been a formality," she rejects with an airy laugh.
Her genius would have been wasted spending years being put through the wringer of medical school to learn about surgical procedures Shoko could do in her sleep. And shadowing other doctors would have been fucking laughable when in any given room, on this entire planet, no one's medical knowledge can hold a candle to her bar the immortal Tengen. Still, even if it's true, he won't give Shoko that satisfaction. She knows all that about herself already.
With a scoff, Satoru retorts, "Then what makes this different?"
"Quite frankly, I lack the experience," she explains. "You're liable to lose multiple of your perfect white teeth if I operate on you, if you don't mind a little trial and error. I'd also like to point out our surroundings," she adds, gesturing behind her towards the many corpses laid out on gurneys and the row of freezers lined up like pill boxes. "I don't have any dental equipment to operate on you."
Whatever the school budget is, if Shoko needs it, he'll gladly siphon the funds over to supply her with all the necessary equipment. Opening his mouth to cite his diverse financial profile, overflowing bank accounts, and impressive salary, he's cutt off by Shoko's raised hand.
"That is not an invitation for you to outfit my morgue with dental equipment," she interjects blandly. Popping the fridge open with her hip (the only one dedicated to food not corpses), she tosses him a sugary-sweet juice box. "The sanitary conditions make it unfit for that kind of work, so don't build another building just so I can be your dentist," Shoko warns him. There goes Satoru's secondary plan, foiled before he can even consult builders in secret. Sulking as he morosely sips at his apple juice, he just makes grumbly noises as he stares bleakly at the white walls while an indulgent Shoko watches on. "Unless you want me to take a cursed drill to deal with your cavities."
"I might," he counters, just to be petty.
Letting out an unattractive snort, she sniggers and covers her mouth, brown eyes twinkling. "I'll decline the opportunity, thanks. You'd whine if I even chipped a tooth. Make claims about how I sabotaged your pretty face," she teases. "I don't have the time to squeeze your dental appointments into my schedule either. I'm swamped with work as you can see," she says with a gesture towards the fully occupied cadaver freezers behind her.
"Tch." Pursing his lips, he resists the urge to comment on her all-consuming dark circles. It'd take more than a petty insult to piss her off. More likely, she'd just find it amusing. Rising to the bait means she'll just get another reason to tease him about his vanity.
"Okay, rich boy?" she confirms with a pleasant smile, her brown eyes creasing with dry humor. The condescending insult comes across more as fond than mean-spirited. As quick as his annoyance mounts, it dissipates. It's impossible for him to stay irritated with Shoko for long. Not seriously at least, he's forced to admit.
Still, Satoru doesn't give up easy.
"Shoooko-chan," he pleads, dragging out her name. Clasping his hands together at his chin, he pays attention to the minute twitches of her face as she weighs his words: the shift of her jaw as she works her teeth, the corner of her mouth, the curve of her eyebrows. "Isn't it easy for a genius like you to pass the dental exam?" Satoru cajoles, a valiant attempt at playing on her pride. "You've already scammed your way through one medical exam, right? It's just teeth; it can't be more complicated than the human body," he needles, batting snowy-white eyelashes.
Tapping her cheek as she considers his argument, Shoko shakes her head, crushing his last hopes in one fell swoop. "It's not that different, but quite simply put, I'm not going to put in the time just to become a single person's dentist."
"Not even for your best friend?"
She just smiles, dimples and all. "Not even for the Greatest."
"You really can't make it work with RCT?" he implores with big blue eyes.
"Nope," she answers, popping the word like bubblegum bubbles. "You'll need to schedule an appointment with a dentist; there's a few clan-affiliated professionals."
"I'll pass. It's fine, Shoko," he reassures her.
"There's always civilian dentists," she suggests.
The thought of working with civilians makes Satoru gag just thinking of it but it's better than the clan-affiliated medical professionals. Dealing with them turns a simple check-up into a political entanglement that makes him want to nuke a local monument.
Civilians always leave him with complicated feelings. Satoru wouldn't claim to nurse an altruistic, streak where he feels compelled to protect the weak. He isn't and will never be a paragon of virtue. The lives of a sorcerer and civilian are so far apart that just interacting with them is already exhausting. Their concerns are so pointless in the face of life and death. It's easier to avoid and protect them from afar like any endangered species with an interminable chasm separating him from the rest of humanity.
Heaving another long sigh, Satoru doesn't belabor the point, "I'll figure it out."
When her dark, sunken eyes meet his, he remembers happier, simpler times before he recognized the gravity of human life. That's the shortsighted perspective of a teenager confident in their own omniscience, too stupid to know better. Understanding hadn't set in until after it was too late: when he'd lost not one, but two precious people. Like curdled milk gone sour, the taste of loss leaves a bitter tang in the back of his throat. Already, the subject's leaving him in a pensive mood, pointlessly thinking about what-ifs and could-have.
In the low hum of fluorescent lights, the pressure of words unspoken weigh between them, their conversation petering out to silence. Lifting her cig to her lips, her soft eyes linger a beat too long, but she says nothing, just lets out a soft exhale of smoke as he slurps at the last traces of apple juice.
Straightening her back from the gurney table, she crushes the butt against the table, scattering grey ash against the floor. "It won't resolve itself, Satoru," she chastises, clicking her tongue with disapproval. Shifting her gaze towards the clock, she raises an eyebrow. "By the way, aren't you running late for your class? They should have started about fifteen minutes ago, not that it's any of my business."
"My cute little students can wait," Satoru answers brightly. "They're used to it; it's only about 15 minutes."
"You're such a piece of trash," she snickers, shoulder-checking him with a knowing grin. He allows it with a soft grunt, shooting his empty juice box into the bin with professional basketballer precision. With eye-rolling exasperation, Shoko flicks her bangs behind her shoulder. "Anyway, get out of my hair so I can resume my work."
"Yes, yes," he acquiesces with a reluctant huff.
There's nothing left for Satoru to do except leave the morgue in defeat. Detouring past the kitchen to steal from the second year's stash of snack, Satoru takes the scenic route as he trudges his way to his classroom. With his long strides, he arrives only thirty minutes past roll call.
Before he can greet his cute students, a biology book comes flying at his face as he steps through the door. He lets it bounce off Limitless with a grin, picking up the abused textbook from the ground. Vibrating with impotent rage like an angry kitten, Nobara stands readied with a second book. "You're late, you trashy teacher!" she seethes, chucking a science book at his head. This one he catches before it even comes close, only infuriating her further.
With arms crossed over his chest, his sullen ward glowers at him even though he knows better than to think it'll have any effect on Satoru. Years of wardship should have taught Gumi otherwise. Still, Megumi chews him out with darkly knitted eyebrows. "Where is the mission file? It's in less than thirty minutes."
"Relax, kiddos. Sensei's got you," he promises to his unimpressed students.
Nobara just scoffs derisively. "Yeah, right."
In the wake of the first years' collective rage, his toothache goes forgotten. Like spoiled brats, they're only assuaged by his promises of above-average steak or sushi after a grueling day of exorcising Grade 3 curses. So cute. They do a good enough job, his little chicks without so much as a scratch on their head, he treats them to all the sushi they can eat.
With sharp eyes, she scans through the menu with the same attention she'd give to an exorcism. "God, I'm exhausted," she grumbles. "You better be treating us to a full spread."
"Of course, of course," he assures her. His heart warms at her cutthroat ruthlessness. No one let her in the same room as Mei Mei. "I did promise."
"Of course," Megumi agrees blandly.
The joint's substandard by his tastes, but Megumi isn't a picky eater and the glamor of sushi rolls delivered by trains is enough to dazzle Nobara into forgiveness. Honestly, he doesn't care much for sushi, would prefer sweets over most entrees any day. Plus, he has to be in a certain mood for it. But he did make a promise and taunt his students as he might, he so does love to see his chicks eating well.
Scallop rolls tend towards sweetness more so than the other options, so he steals one from the conveyor belt. "Itadakimasu!" he says cutely because he knows it pisses them both off.
"Can you stop with the cuteness?" she snaps. "You're too old to be acting that way."
"Don't acknowledge his antics. He lives for it," Megumi advises her. He pilfers several tuna rolls from his ward's plate just for the annoyed face the teen makes. It's one of Satoru's few joys in life. Of course, Gumi knows better than to resist; he's used to his shenanigans. It warms a guy's heart. Megumi used to be a small, sullen child. Now he's a bigger, sullener teenager. "Get your own roll," he bites out, cue disgusted side eye.
"But stealing yours is better!" Satoru complains as he chews, relishing in the disgusted face Megumi pulls.
While he doesn't have much of an appetite, he makes sure to steal as many rolls as he can. Their sushi plates transform to battlefields with wars waged over sashimi by chopstick-wielding fingers. "Gojo-sensei!" she yells as she mounts a second attempt, flicking his thumb with rage. Expertly fending off Kugisaki's desperate attack with one hand, Satoru checks his phone with his other. It's mostly unimportant crap: some spam, Ichiji, a message from one of the Gojo elders hailing from the prehistoric era who knows how to operate a cellphone. Blocked. Anything truly important can go through his junior first. As he swipes away, deleting his messages en masse, a notification pops up at the top of his screen, along with a familiar contact name: Shoko.
[6:28 PM] Shoko: Get your cavity checked out, idiot.
Halfway through bitching how this is her first text to him in weeks, as if he doesn't see her on a near day-to-day basis, a second message pops up.
[6:29 PM] Shoko: And don't give poor Ichiji trouble.
The immediate smile that comes is a reflex to Ichiji's suffering, except then he frowns at the implication. While the prospect of bullying his assistant never fails to bring a modicum of joy to Satoru's shittiest days, this implies he'll have a reason to. His attention split between the first years now squabbling over the best dessert and his phone, he taps out a quick response, topped off with a sticker of a mischievous rabbit rubbing its paws together.
[6:30 PM] Satoru: lolllll i make no promises
[6:30 PM] Shoko: I booked you a dental appointment.
Her reply lands with the weight of a guillotine. Rubbing his eyes through his blindfold, he doublechecks the message. It remains. He's helpless to do anything but stare at it, aghast. Shoko has betrayed him, sold him out, left him to try, backstabbed him, any and all the synonyms for treachery. It doesn't end there since she continues to type away, three dots blinking at the bottom of their conversation withchunks of text appearing after the other.
[6:33 PM] Shoko: I know this dentist personally and like him. They're a hard-working, kind individual, so don't cause trouble, otherwise it'll be a pain.
[6:34 PM] Shoko: So don't be your regular asshole self.
High praise coming from her, unorthodox even. Possibly friendly. How uncharacteristic of Shoko. She uses compliments sparingly, more than him for sure, but exceedingly rarely for other medical professionals. It's a side effect of being the top of their respective field. It's not like her to dole out meaningless flattery. He knows it better than anyone as Shoko's closest friend. It has Satoru's mind racing with possibilities. Her invaluable talents as a sorcerer means she can say or do whatever she wanted, as long as she toes jujutsu rules. If they were a former sorcerer or of the like, she would have outright stated so. This means he's a civilian.
The temptation to taunt her about a civilian crush is strong even if he knows it immediately to be untrue. She wouldn't care anyway; too used to his bullshit to be upset by the insinuation. He'd know if she had romantic feelings for someone anyway. But he's struggling to imagine what kind of individual Shoko would be partial to, let alone friendly with. As the premier medic of the sorcerer world, any kind of civilian medical examiner would find it damn difficult to impress her. It must be something else if it's not talent. It can't be looks, I mean can anyone compare to him? That leaves personality which is only marginally more believable.
Frowning down at his phone, Satoru narrows his eyes down at the words. 'So don't be your regular asshole self' stares back at him, tauntingly. Even if he was cognizant of the trap doesn't make the bait less tantalizing. Sucking on his cheeks, he responds with a bunch of fuming rabbits, steaming with anger.
[6:43 PM] Satoru: shooookkkooo since when have i caused trouble?????
No immediate response. The message goes unread. Either an influx of dead bodies, injured students, or all the above. As long as the school's on fire, he won't harass her further. Tucking his phone away, he redirects his focus to his first years. With the same authority as a tyrant, Nobara dictates her order to an underpaid waiter quaking in their scuffed sneakers. Next to her, Megumi just heaves a sigh while he doomscrolls on his phone, probably watching cute dog videos.
"Abusing my black card, Nobara?" he teases.
Still a pissed off kitten, she puffs up, asserting in a snobbish tone, "This is your apology for being late. I'm only taking full advantage of it," she declares, lifting her nose proudly.
His students are so adorable. Resisting the urge to coo over her, he just flashes her his most annoying grin as he pats his heart. "Awww, so cunning," he croons then changing his mind and tousles her brown hair roughly, making sure to muss up her locks thoroughly. He's never been one to refrain from acting on his impulses.
"Ugh, stop it! You're going to ruin my hair," Nobara hisses through her teeth, fighting to defend her meticulously combed hair. All to achieve a model-esque, windswept look. He won't pretend to understand teens.
"It won't matter because he's going to eat all of the dessert because he's an immature adult," Megumi informs her in matter-of-factly as he picks at his miso soup.
"Shut it, Fushiguro!"
Their argument continues back-and-forth until the nervous waiter brings out their desserts: a sweet strawberry shortcake, towers of mochi upon mochi, and enough ice cream to stock your local parlor. Suffice to say he's thrilled.
"I'll pass," Megumi says because he's boring.
Because he lives to meet expectations, Satoru does selfishly devour the bulk of the desserts. Relishing in the sugar high, he ignores his belligerent student's screeching. Despite Nobara's complaints, she's stuffed too full to really argue; she's too busy fighting off her sleepiness even as she grouches at him for eating nearly all the cake.
Savoring each bite of cake as light and fluffy as clouds, Satoru lets his eyes shutter as he relishes in the sweet cream paired with the perfectly ripe strawberries. One of his pet peeves when it comes to shortcake is that strawberry desserts are so often brought down by hastily harvested berries, sourness verging on greatness. He has a minor complaint regarding the mochi though; they're nearly the right level of chewiness but slightly overworked. Instead of something traditional like red bean, they'd opted for a Westernized filling with decadent cheesecake. But really the star of it all is the peach ice cream. The chilliness has the side effect of pleasantly numbing his gums, just the right side of airy and icy.
Licking the side of his spoon, Satoru produces his black card for the nervous waiter. Raising his hand high so his ruthless students can't steal it from the waiter, a chime rings from his pocket. While the waiter scans his card, he unlocks his phone to check his notifications. His screen displays a short response from Shoko.
[7:25 PM] Shoko: It's because I know you that I can say that.
[7:26 PM] Satoru: any hints about the guy lol
[7:26 PM] Shoko: Nope. It's at 10 A.M. tomorrow. Goodnight, Satoru.
Fighting the urge to bang his head against the table, he fiddles with the screen. He's playing directly into her hands, but she's got him hooked. Satoru is curious now. Sending a defeated 'gn' to her, he shuts off his phone. "Hah." He breathes out, exhaling through his teeth. That's all there is to it, Satoru guesses. He's off to see Shoko's civilian dentist after God knows how long of avoiding civilian practitioners.
Time will show if he'll regret his decision.
Despite all the shit Satoru's been through, he's never quite grasped how to speak to civilians outside of emergency protocols. Once upon a time, it used to make Suguru laugh when they were second years, ever a source of amusement to his best friend. That's not quite right because Satoru can talk to them, charm them until they forget what they were so distressed about, but he doesn't understand them. Every interaction follows a script paired with a flowchart because it's less exhausting than picking their brains. Every interaction drags on too long.
It sounds like a laugh, but he'd prefer to deal with rogue curse user or maybe a Grade One curse haunting your local abandoned hospital over placating civilians. That's a responsibility he prefers to foist upon his colleagues or windows, whoever's available. There are far better uses of his time: more missions to pick up, more dessert shops to investigate, more sleep to bank away before his next shift.
Although he wants to cancel the appointment on principle, Shoko has the right idea of it. The persistent, dull ache in the corner of his mouth is nothing he can't handle, but it's eating up his valuable focus. Satoru can concede he's been more mercurial as of late. Off his game even. He hasn't even been in the mood to send immature dick jokes to Nanami. It just doesn't have the same appeal when he's so irritated. The sooner he resolves these bullshit cavities, the better. It shouldn't take more than two visits to a dentist to rectify the issue and lay this embarrassing affair to rest.
As she summarized, it's impressive but inevitable he gets a cavity after going twenty-eight years avoiding routine appointments like they're "optional" council meetings. He'd written it off as an additional advantage of being the Strongest. He trusts Shoko's recs more than any doctor available to him through his connections with the Gojo clan. Even a one-time appointment with ceremonial clan bootlickers and or spies is one time too many. Earning her trust isn't easy; she would have suggested a rando lightly. Also, a petty part of him wanted to sus this guy out, assert his rank as number one best friend over this possible interloper.
Biting down on his lolly, Satoru grimaces at the twang of pain in the back of his mouth. "Tch." Waking up after four hours of sleep, he'd found another firmly worded text.
[9:45 AM] Shoko: I mean it, he's a nice guy. If I hear back from him about you being a jackass…
Seriously, who is this guy to inspire concern from Shoko of all people? The idea that Shoko has any civilian friends is fucking mindboggling. With their responsibilities, it's difficult to maintain a healthy work-life balance. Most sorcerers' social circle is limited to other sorcerers. It isn't helped by their limited free time.
Bearing that in mind, it's impossible for Satoru to envision a scenario that Shoko would have befriended a civilian during the last few years and he stayed ignorant. The only option is he's a drinking buddy. Satoru's low tolerance for alcohol means if he joins her, he just nurses his Shirley Temple at the bar while an unphased Shoko sips at her 120 proof liquor like a seasoned alcoholic. No thanks. Although if he'd suspected she had something as interesting as a civilian drinking buddy, Satoru certainly wouldn't have passed on the invite. A hassle is definitely how Shoko would have described it which is precisely why she left out this critical information.
Staring down at her message, he narrows his eyes. Jokes on her because he's running an hour late out of spite. Refusing to justify her text with a response, Satoru raises his eyes skyward, staring at the boring ceiling of the car. Whoever her "friend" is, he can't possibly be that interesting. Slouching in his seat comfortably, he turns his gaze toward the outdoors, watching as the blur of buildings pass by.
If Ichiji possesses one redeeming quality, it's that he is always on time. Unfortunately for him, Satoru lives to be chronically late. Thanks to his efforts, they're already running long behind schedule from what he can piece together of the younger man's incoherent mumbling between furtive glances at him in the rearview mirror.
Unless the office is around the corner, they're going to end up at least thirty to forty minutes late. The dentist will be forced to cancel and reschedule then he can mount a short investigation into the guy, give him a hard time, and move the appointment to his next day off which could be anywhere between a week or four months from now. How unlucky. By then, Shoko would come up with an alternative solution, and he could forego the civilian dentist entirely. This is the ideal outcome Satoru envisions.
Golden fan-like leaves transition to the distinct bronze diamonds signature of zelkova trees that line Omotesandō. With seasoned expertise, Ichiji weaves through rush hour at to the sweet melody of pissed off drivers honking and cussing him out as he cuts them off, not a single bead of sweat dripping from his brow. For all his adequacies, he's born to be a chauffeur. If he were capable of a domain, maybe that's what it'd be: just a fight to outpace 8 A.M. traffic with defeat meaning death.
An hour late, they pull to a stop at an unassuming building in downtown Tokyo even with Ichiji breaking 60 kilometers per hour and multiple traffic laws. A sign's tacked above the door saying Sweet Tooth Smiles in pink, cursive font. The outside of the office doesn't look stuffy at least, more of homey. Although now he's wondering if Shoko is pulling a prank. That she just googled the first dental office with a punny name and a reference to sugar, then called it a day. The possibility's low but not zero.
"Hello? Ah, yes," he answers with a shaky voice, pulling at his tie and readjusting it. Definitely a call from the elders so that's Satoru's cue to dodge into the dental office before he can second-guess his decision. At the same time, a cheery woman and happier child sucking at a disgusting sugar-free lollipop exit the office.
"Goodbye, Ms. Matsumoto. We'll see you in six months for Haru's next check-up," the receptionist says, bidding them farewell.
"Of course, good as ever to see Doctor Itadori and you, Ozawa-san," the mother answers with genuine warmth. "Let's go, Haru."
"Bwye, Ms. Ozawa!" the kid waves back, boasting a wide, gummy grin.
Satoru can't recall the last time he's seen a doctor that wasn't Shoko. It had to be before he attended Jujutsu High when he was twelve. And they were primarily private physicians with close ties to jujutsu society and did house calls only. It leaves him with almost no references because he'd only been assigned one missions hunting down a small fry curse harassing office workers. Even as a highschooler, that kind of work would be below his paygrade. This is the first time he's taken a step into a civilian office in ages. Special Grade curses tend to frequent abandoned hospitals or mass graveyards, not your local dentist.
With creamy pink walls boasting obscure movie posters in between artsy portraits of what looks to be a Western actress, calling the interior design eclectic's insufficient. Houseplants crawl across every surface: ivy sprawling across the arches, a flowering cactus sitting by the receptionist, white and green leaves framing the TV. Any crook or cranny is stuffed with a souvenir or plant of some kind. It's the polar opposite of the stereotypical office. Instead of minimalism, the office brims with whimsy. While it's on the smaller side, it's not suffocating, just cozy. He hates it when Shoko knows his exact tastes. It's annoying as it's unnerving, but he supposes it has its uses.
It takes a minute for the receptionist, Ozawa, to wrap up her conversation with a gruff old man. The young woman manning the desk has her eyes pinned to her screen, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows as she hums to herself. Judging from her overall appearance, Satoru would place her somewhere between 24 to 26, but it's hard to be sure. When she's finished, she exhales sharply before adopting a perfect customer-service smile. "Welcome to Sweet Tooth Smiles. Do you have an appointment?" she inquires.
"Gojo Satoru."
Recognition sharpens her eyes as she reexamines her schedule, but instead of any panic, Ozawa just looks satisfied as she tabs her way through the table. "Perfect. I have you penciled in for 10:30 A.M.," she gushes, her polite smile warming to something more familiar. "Ieri-san referred you right?"
It was a set up all along. Fuck you, Shoko. She must be so pleased with herself right now. He should have dragged out his bed rotting and beauty routine to three hours instead of just forty minutes. Sucking a breath through his teeth, Satoru forces a strained smile. "Yes."
"She forwarded me all your paperwork," she informs him, too sunny for the early hours of the morning. Handing him a clipboard with a pen, the woman says, "Just sign where I've circled in red."
Considering all his options, Satoru stabs at the clipboard, pen bleeding ink through the pages, as he scribbles down the bare minimum of information. He could hear Shoko's peals of laughter all the way from Jujutsu High, even smothered behind her hand.
"Here."
"Thank you, Gojo-san." Accepting the paperwork with perfectly manicured hands, she flips through the pages. Still humming as she double-checks his personal information, she deigns him with a distracted smile: all sparkly white teeth. A must if you work in a dentist office, Satoru thinks venomously. "Dr. Itadori will see you in a moment. Please take a seat, Gojo-san," the receptionist says, directing him towards a couch.
Even the lounge chairs are mismatched with a medley of clashing pillows strewn across the seats. Flumping onto the closest chair and manspreading to full capacity, Satoru can do nothing but sulk. The marshmallow comfiness of the seats do nothing to support his tense back. Ozawa's humming carries over, the familiar notes of a popular Jpop song, as he bores lasers in the pink plaster walls, willing them light on fire. His phone vibrates in his pocket.
[10:19 AM] Shoko: Be nice to everyone at the office.
[10:20 AM] Satoru: f u
[10:20 AM] Shoko: LOL
A slew of creative curses come to mind and Satoru presses his eyes shut. "Tch." Satoru never gets to have any fun. He doesn't even have time to work himself up to plotting against Shoko before the receptionist, Ozawa in neat font, squares up the paperwork until the edges sit flush and moves to stand."Please come in, Gojo-san," she invites him, waving towards the backrooms. "He's ready for you. Second room on the right."
Slinking past her with annoyance, he makes his way down the hall. More movie posters, a few photographs of various patients, all grinning ear to ear with commercial perfect smiles. Despite the Stepford Wives vibe of it all, his patients look happy, free of eye tension or stiff jawlines and completely at ease.
The only man in the backrooms looks to be the famous Dr. Itadori himself. With his back turned to Satoru, he fiddles with a low overhead lamp, standing on his tiptoes to reach. But, the first thing Satoru notices about Dr. Itadori is the eyesore that are his dentist scrubs. Instead of the standard, subdued blue or grey, he's elected for crimson red scrubs. What a weirdo, Satoru reflects with amusement. But at least, he's not boring.
Splaying a hand across his forehead, he takes in the dentist's appearance while the guy sorts through his tools distractedly while mumbling under his breath. His hair's a shock of pink better suited to a teenage delinquent than a white-collar employee, with both sides buzzed. He's as short as a highschooler too. Taking a guess, Satoru assumes Itadori's at least 18 centimeters shorter than him, possibly more. Whatever Shoko sees in this weirdo, Satoru doesn't see it.
With a satisfied hum, Itadori turns around, running a hand through his pink locks. "Sorry, I was—" he apologizes before pausing. With a gasp, he claps his hands together. "Oh! You must be Ieri-san's friend." Then the delinquent dentist smiles boyishly, making him look years younger. Golden eyes forming twin crescents, he oozes earnestness in a way that has Satoru wanting to shield his eyes. Raising his hand to fist bump Satoru, like a teenager, he introduces himself as if it's necessary, "I'm Dr. Itadori. It's so nice to meet you, Gojo-san!"
Dumbly fist bumping the guy back, like a fool, Satoru succeeds in making Itadori's smile stretch impossibly wider: all ugly, pink gums and perfect white teeth like he's a walking dental ad. As a dentist, he might as well be.
Cute, Satoru thinks unwittingly.
And then immediately after. Shit.