Chapter Text
“How do you even know they’re not spoiled?” Gojo muttered, poking an egg with his finger. “They look the same. All of them.”
“You open the carton and check,” Shoko said lazily, peering over his shoulder. “If they’re cracked, they’re bad. If they’re not, they’re fine.”
“But that’s just cracked,” Gojo said, not looking up. “What if they look fine, but they’re secretly already spoiled inside?”
Shoko blinked. Then with the same casual tone one might use to discuss the weather, “Could be worse. Could be a chick inside.”
Gojo recoiled in horror. “Oh my god, what if it is? What if I crack it open and there’s like, a half-formed baby bird looking at me with its judgmental eyes?!”
Shoko shrugged. “Happens sometimes. Maybe you’ll be a dad.”
Suguru sighed. “He won’t be a dad. He’ll be emotionally incapacitated and screaming on the kitchen floor.”
Gojo wasn’t listening. He had now picked up another egg and was holding it close to his face. “How do we even know these are chicken eggs? What if it’s something else? A duck? A dinosaur?”
Shoko leaned in, deadpan. “Or alien eggs. You ever wonder why the shells are so smooth? Could be a pod.”
Gojo’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, what if I’ve been eating extraterrestrial embryos all this time!”
“Put the eggs down,” Suguru said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re causing a scene.”
“I’m asking the real questions, Suguru!”
“You’re holding up the line,” Shoko added helpfully, pointing to the elderly lady waiting to grab her own eggs.
Gojo clutched the carton protectively. “We can’t just buy these without knowing what’s inside. It’s reckless. Irresponsible.”
“Just get the eggs and let the universe surprise you,” Suguru said, already pushing the cart forward.
Shoko walked past him, dropping a carton into the cart without hesitation. “If a xenomorph pops out, I’ll name it after you.”
Gojo watched her go, then turned back to the eggs in his hands, frowning.
"You guys are awfully calm about the possibility of alien lifeforms in our fridge."
“Because if it happens,” Suguru called over his shoulder, “we already know who to feed to it first.”
When Gojo Satoru first entered Jujutsu High, he didn’t know a thing about groceries.
Not that it mattered as school lunches and convenience store bentos kept him alive just fine. Cooking from raw ingredients felt unnecessary. Why spend time making something that disappears in five minutes? He’d rather spar. Or bother anyone.
It was Geto and Shoko who tried to teach him the basics. Tried being the keyword. Shoko was only slightly better off as she could make ramen but not much else. Meanwhile Geto, he cooked like someone raised in a warm, noisy household full of siblings and shared stories. Ironically, he was an only child. But it came naturally to him.
Then Geto left.
After that, neither Gojo nor Shoko ate properly. Meals became takeout boxes, cold coffee, and half-eaten crackers. Even ramen lost its comfort. Food turned into fuel. Empty.
Things only began to change when Gojo took on the responsibility on caring for not one but two children.
Slowly. Hesitantly.
When Gojo took in the Fushiguro siblings, Shoko didn’t ask questions. She appeared at his door with a duffel bag and a look that said: I’m too tired of you teleporting me around. I’m staying.
Gojo didn’t mind.
At first, it was still takeout. But one night, as Tsumiki quietly picked at soggy, oversalted fried rice, she looked up and asked, “Do you know how to cook anything else? Like, besides ramen?”
The silence that followed was damning.
Shoko blinked. “Looking at you, Gojo.”
“Looking at you, Shoko.”
“Hey, I can boil water.”
“Boiling water doesn’t count!”
Tsumiki giggled. Even Megumi smirked.
For the first time, the house felt a little warm.
Grocery trips became routine.
They’d shuffle down aisles in twos; Tsumiki with the cart and Megumi reading the lables behind her while Gojo and Shoko trailed in the back, still confused by half the items but pretending better than before.
“Shoko, what’s this?”
“That’s a daikon. Not a sword. Put it down.”
Gojo clutched it like a sacred weapon. “Anything can be a sword if you believe hard enough.”
Tsumiki handed him a list. “Can you two go find the soy sauce?”
“Soy sauce? Why are there twelve kinds?” Gojo squinted at the labels.
“Get the one that says less salt,” Shoko muttered. “Your blood pressure’s probably already a medical anomaly from all the salt and sweets you eat.”
“You care about me~” he sang.
“I care about not having to bury a coworker.”
Eventually, Tsumiki started cooking. Megumi joined in, chopping vegetables like a pro. It was strange eating real food again. Sitting at a table. Laughing. Chewing. Sharing.
Gojo and Shoko kept their promise to come home for dinner, no matter how late or brutal the day had been. Gojo would teleport them both. Sometimes slinging Shoko over his shoulder if she protested and they’d sit at the table with the kids, even if the food was already half-eaten.
Sometimes Shoko’s mom would get a call.
“Mom, how do you make tonjiru? Enough for four people?”
Her mother would pause. “Four? Who are the other three?”
Shoko scratched her head. “Uhmm… colleagues.”
“Colleagues, huh?” her sister shouted in the background. “Is the white-haired guy one of them? Are the other two the kids you adopted?”
“Shut up!”
Her mom only laughed. “Sounds like a full house.”
“Yeah,” Shoko said quietly, watching the said three “colleagues”. “It kind of is.”
They stood in front of an entire wall of miso paste; white miso, brown miso, red miso, mixed miso, Kyoto-style, low-sodium.
“Shoko, which one’s the real miso?”
“They’re all real. It depends on the soup.”
Gojo held up two tubs dramatically. “Brown or white, Megumi? Choose your allegiance!”
Megumi sighed. “We’re just making tonjiru. Use the one we used last week.”
“Which was?”
Tsumiki peeked into the basket. “The brown miso. Shoko-san wrote it on the shopping list, Gojo-san.”
“Look at this bright child,” Shoko muttered, patting Tsumiki’s head. “Gojo, take notes.”
“You can’t just pour ketchup on spaghetti!” Tsumiki said, visibly alarmed.
“It’s a classic!” Gojo argued, holding up a bottle of ketchup and a box of spaghetti like he was unveiling fine cuisine. “I saw it on a food vlog!”
“That vlog was titled ‘Pineapple & Other Crimes Against Italy’,” Shoko said dryly, dropping real marinara sauce into the cart.
“I’m not letting the clown cook tonight,” Megumi muttered, steering his sister toward the produce.
Gojo was not allowed near the stove, yet! But he got good at prep work, at washing dishes, at plating omurice with Megumi breathing down his neck just in case he draw something funny again.
Meanwhile, Shoko started carrying handwritten recipes in her lab coat.
And every week, they walked those grocery aisles like it was something sacred. It wasn’t just about what they were buying anymore.
It was about what they were building.
And maybe, just maybe, it was only the beginning.