#kidalastorweek

fanficsfreeideas (Mushishield)

Summary:

Before the radio demon, there was a boy who laughed with a duck and dreamed big. KidAlastorWeek Day 6: Imaginary Friend

The bayou in 1920s New Orleans was all sticky heat and quiet. To seven-year-old Alastor, the world was nothing but boring grown-up talk and days that dripped by, slow and all the same. Then he heard a sound.

A splash and an angry squawk.

He pushed through a curtain of Spanish moss and saw it: a duck, whiter than fresh milk, swimming in frantic circles in a muddy pond. It wore a tiny, soaked white top hat, which it kept trying to fix with its wing.

Most kids would’ve thrown a rock or run. But Alastor, who found most people tedious, thought this was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. He knelt right down in the dirt.

“You’re in a real fix, ain’tcha?” Alastor said. “You lost?”

The duck stopped paddling. It looked right at him with funny gold-colored eyes and let out a quack that sounded all put-out and important.

“You got a hat,” Alastor said, grinning. He reached out slowly. The duck didn’t move. Carefully, he lifted the soggy hat, squeezed the water out, and plopped it back on the duck’s head. “There. Now you look proper again.”

The duck stared. Then it nodded, just once.

“I’m Alastor. And you,” he announced, scooping the surprisingly light bird into his arms, “are Lucy. You can be my lieutenant for exploring.”

That was how Lucy the duck came to live behind Alastor’s house in a nest made from old curtains. To everyone else—his mama, the neighbors, the kids at school—Alastor was just a quiet, odd boy who talked to himself and saved biscuit crumbs in his pocket.

But Lucy was real. The most real friend he’d ever had.

Alastor told him everything.

“When I grow up, I’m gonna be on the radio,” he’d confide, crumbs on his lips. “I’ll play music. The good, jumpy kind. Gee, wouldn’t that be something?”

Lucy would listen, his head tipped to the side. He’d offer a thoughtful quack or a slow blink that looked for all the world like an eye-roll, which never failed to make Alastor giggle.

One afternoon, while drawing plans for a puppet show, Alastor’s smile slipped.

“Mama says you’re make-believe,” he said quietly, not looking at the duck. “Says I’ll get too old for you.”

Lucy waddled over and pushed his head under Alastor’s hand.

Alastor looked down. “But you ain’t make-believe,” he whispered. “You listen better than anybody.”

It ended a week later.

The air behind the house turned fizzy and strange. Alastor felt it prickle his skin. Lucy stood in the tall grass, his white feathers glowing faintly.

“You gotta go,” Alastor said. It wasn’t a question.

Lucy nodded. He waddled close and tapped his beak against Alastor’s pants pocket. Alastor pulled out his most treasured thing: the broken brass pocket watch his papa had left behind.

Lucy ducked his head and breathed a warm, gold-tinged sigh over it. With a soft click, the still hands jumped, then started to tick—a steady, sure sound.

“For me?” Alastor asked, eyes wide.

Another nod.

A bright flash followed, one only Alastor saw. For just a second, where the duck had been, stood a man in a white suit with yellow hair, wearing a sad little smile. Then he was gone, leaving only a circle of flattened grass.

Alastor didn’t cry. He clenched the warm, ticking watch in his fist and made his mouth smile, even though his chest felt all hollow.

“Bye, Lucy,” he said to the empty yard. “Thanks for being my friend.”

Back in his throne room, Lucifer was himself again—his power and stature rushing back in a nauseating wave. The punishment of Hell returned. But beneath it all, quiet and persistent, he could still hear it—a faint tick-tock and the echo of a child’s laughter, dreaming of radio shows.

He snapped his fingers. On a pedestal beside his throne appeared a small, perfect statue: a white duck in a tiny top hat.

And many years later, when a demon with a smile and a crackle of static strolled into Hell, Lucifer froze. The smile was new. The power was wild. But the eyes… That faint, familiar tick-tock woven into the radio frequency…

fanficsfreeideas (Mushishield)

Summary:

KidAlastorWeek Day 4: Accidental De-Aging

Alastor’s magical experiment backfired with a puff of green smoke and the sharp crackle of failing static. Where he once stood, towering and smiling, now there was just a little kid swimming in a giant red suit, looking around with huge, confused eyes that slowly welled up with tears.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Angel said, his phone clattering forgotten to the carpet.

Husk just froze behind the bar, a bottle mid-pour. The liquor kept going, splashing over the glass and onto the counter. He didn't notice. “Oh, this is not good. This is so, so not good.”

Alastor’s tiny face scrunched up, and he let out a shaky, heart-wrenching sob that echoed in the quiet lobby. It was a small, squeaky sound.

“Aw, honey, no, no, no, don’t do that!” Angel swooped in, scooping the kid up against his chest. The tiny Radio Demon immediately fisted his hands in Angel’s fluff. “Hey, Husk, do something! Make a noise! Be entertaining!”

“I’m not a rattle,” Husk muttered, but he slapped his wings against his sides, stuck out his tongue, and crossed his eyes so hard he saw stars. The crying stopped, transitioning into a wet, confused giggle that was somehow more unsettling than the scream.

They learned the new rules fast. Mini-Alastor was a shadow, a tiny tyrant with sticky fingers. He followed them everywhere, a constant presence at their heels. He was constantly tugging on Husk’s wing, trying to get him to provide a ride. The real trouble started when Alastor started commandeering Charlie's collection of stuffed animals, holding court with a stolen teddy bear on a pillow throne.

“He’s got your hat,” Angel whispered, pointing to the teddy, which now sported a hat.

“I see that,” Husk sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t help the tiny, reluctant smile that tugged at his whiskers, though.

Finally, exhaustion claimed their tiny charge. They got him to sleep between them on the big lobby couch, his head pillowed on Husk’s furry arm, one hand clutching Angel’s fluff.

“He’s going to remember all of this, you know,” Husk said quietly, his voice a low rumble.

Angel snapped one last, quiet picture with his phone, the flash thankfully off. “Yeah, probably. He’s gonna be insufferable.” He looked down at the peacefully sleeping face, so different from its usual manic grin. “But for now? He’s kinda sweet.”

fanficsfreeideas (Mushishield)

Summary:

Lucifer never meant for anyone to find his garden. Alastor never meant to end up there.   KidAlastorWeek- Day 2: The Secret Garden

Deep in a secret fold of the world, where no one else could think to look, Lucifer kept his garden.

Hell was regret. Here, there was only the soft crush of grass underfoot, the smell of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine, and a light that was always the gentle gold of a just-set sun.

He’d built it stone by stone, seed by seed, over a thousand lonely years. Nothing ever died here. He’d made sure of that. No falling leaves, no rotting fruit, no decay. Just… quiet. It was the one place where the crown on his head and the weight in his chest finally felt lighter.

He pushed open the invisible gate—a sigh only he could hear—and stepped inside. He let his shoulders slump.

And saw the boy.

Lucifer froze. His breath hitched.

A child. A human child, kneeling by the big sunflower. The boy’s clothes were rags, really—a threadbare shirt swallowing his narrow frame and trousers frayed at the cuffs. A yellowing bruise flowered across his left cheekbone. He was cupping his hands, water dripping from between his small fingers onto the flower’s stem.

Impossible.

The word screamed in Lucifer’s mind. This was his. His alone. A hot spark of power flickered at his fingertips, ready to unmake this mistake.

The boy smiled.

It wasn’t a big smile. It was a small, secret thing, just for the flower. But it lit up his tired face, especially his eyes—eyes that looked older than they should but, right then, just looked soft.

All the fury in Lucifer fizzled out, replaced by a sudden, gut-punch ache. It was the echo of Charlie, years ago, smiling at a dandelion. The memory of Lilith’s laughter from across a room he’d been too distant to cross. He loved them, God, he loved them, but that love was tied to every failure. This boy’s simple care felt like a spotlight on all that lonely distance.

“It doesn’t need that,” Lucifer said. His voice came out rough but quiet. “Nothing here needs anything. It’s all… frozen.”

The boy jolted, falling back on his elbows. He stared up, eyes wide. But he didn’t scream. He just… looked. At the sad man in the ridiculous white suit.

“I think it’s thirsty, mister,” the boy said. His voice was polite, with a gentle lilt to it. “The leaves were all curled. If it’s frozen, how come the water moves?” He lifted his wet hands. “How come I can move? Mister."

Lucifer blinked. He knelt, the perfect grass bending under his knees. He touched the sunflower leaf. It was perfectly green, perfectly formed. But was there a slight curl at the edge? Had he, in all his brooding, missed something?

“How did you get in here?” Lucifer asked.

“The pictures in my grandpère’s book,” the boy said, as if explaining a walk to the market. “The shadows got loud and crackly. Then I fell here. It’s real quiet.” He said it like quiet was a gift.

A hole in the world. The boy’s own strange magic—a whisper of radio static and old blood—had torn a stitch in the garden’s fabric. Lucifer felt the magic around them. It was tangled, like yarn around the boy’s ankles. He couldn’t just shove him back. The kid was stuck.

A weary sort of frustration settled over Lucifer. Not at the boy. At the sheer, complicated mess of it all. He was stuck with him.

“What’s your name?”

“Alastor, sir.”

The first day, Lucifer made a sandwich. He’d created galaxies, but he stared at bread, cold cuts, and mustard like they were ancient runes. He placed it before Alastor on the garden’s mossy floor. The boy ate it slowly, carefully, chewing every bite as if tasting each ingredient separately.

“Thank you, mister,” he said, and his gratitude felt heavier than any tribute from a damned soul.

They walked. Alastor was a silent shadow at first, then a quiet commentator.

“Ain’t no bugs,” he noted, peering under a rose bush. “The bird sounds,” Alastor said, tilting his head. “They’re on a loop, sir. Same three notes, every forty-two seconds.”

He was right. Lucifer had never noticed.

“It’s pretty,” Alastor said one afternoon, lying on his back and watching the unmoving clouds. “But it’s like a picture. Nothin’ to do. Nothin’ needs you.”

“Needing leads to disappointment,” Lucifer muttered, flicking his wrist. A brilliant blue butterfly sprang from his fingers, flying a perfect, repeating figure eight until it dissolved.

“Maman’s garden needed her,” Alastor said softly. “We’d water it. Sometimes things died. Sometimes they came back bigger.” He shrugged a thin shoulder. “The needin’ was the point, I think.”

Something cracked in Lucifer’s chest. A tiny fracture.

The next day, he added a sound: a breeze. It wasn’t part of the program. It was a real, capricious wind that made the willow branches sway and rustle secrets. Alastor stopped walking, closed his eyes, and smiled into it.

Later, Lucifer dug a hole. Just a hole. Then he filled it full of water—clear, cold pond water. He added lilies. Then, on a whim, three fat, grumpy-looking koi fish with grumpy, whiskered faces.

Alastor knelt at the edge, transfixed. When one fish nibbled a lily pad, he let out a sound Lucifer had never heard there before: a laugh. It was a rusty, startled, utterly delighted laugh.

Lucifer’s own lips twitched upwards.

He found himself showing Alastor how to whittle a stick of soft wood. His hands, usually crafting grand designs, carefully covered the boy’s small, scarred ones, guiding the knife. Shavings curled to the grass. A shape emerged: clumsy, lopsided, and unmistakably a deer.

“For you,” Lucifer said, handing him the finished piece.

Alastor held it like it was glass. His thumb stroked one rough antler. “Thank you, sir.”

In turn, Alastor pulled jacks from his pocket—real, metal jacks, worn shiny. He scattered them and the red ball, his fingers a quick blur. Click-click-click. He taught Lucifer the rules patiently, and his brow would furrow in concentration when the king fumbled the catch. Sometimes, while they played, Alastor would hum. Old, winding tunes that smelled of bayou and hearth smoke.

Lucifer started making beignets. Just because. The first time the powdered sugar dusted Alastor’s nose, the boy grinned, and Lucifer felt a terrifying, warm glow in his own hollowed-out core. He was mending something. Not with magic, but with flour and sugar and time.

He felt the world outside begin to heal. The tear was stitching itself up. The garden’s doors were closing.

On the last day, the light was peach-gold. Lucifer had made Alastor new clothes: a crisp white shirt, smart shorts, and boots that shone. They wouldn’t last back in his world, but here, they were perfect.

They fed the grumpy fish together.

“You have to go back soon, Alastor,” Lucifer said, his voice barely above the breeze.

Alastor nodded, not looking up. “I know.” He paused. “I’ll miss them. And the beignets. And… you, mister.” Finally, he looked up, and his eyes were too bright. “You won’t forget?”

The question was a twisted knife.

“I made this place… to forget,” Lucifer whispered. The confession was torn from him. “To forget all the things I’d broken. All the people I’d let down.” He looked at the boy, really looked at him—the fading bruise, the old eyes, the careful way he held himself. “But you. You walked in and made me remember how to… tend something.”

He reached out. Slowly, he placed his hand on Alastor’s head. It was just a touch. Warm. No power behind it. Just a connection.

“When it’s hard out there,” Lucifer said, his throat tight. “When it’s too loud. Remember this quiet. It’s yours. Always.”

Alastor leaned into the touch for a second, a fleeting press. Then he straightened, a little soldier. “I will, sir. Thank you. For the fish. And the deer.”

A shimmer began between the willow branches. Beyond it, Lucifer saw a dusty attic, an old man with worried eyes, and shadows that seemed to pulse like a slow, dark heart.

Alastor stood. He walked to the shimmering light, the portal back to his hard, real life. He turned on the threshold.

He didn’t say much. Just offered that same, small, private smile—the one that had started it all.

“Goodbye, mister.”

He stepped through. The light flared and vanished.

Silence.

The kind of silence that pressed on Lucifer’s ears. He stood alone by the pond. The breeze played with his hair. A grumpy fish broke the surface with a soft plip.

It was over.

He looked down. There, in the grass, lay the rough wooden deer. Alastor must have left it.

Lucifer bent and picked it up. The carving was clumsy. One antler was bigger than the other. He ran his thumb over the uneven grooves, feeling every cut made by his hand guiding the boy’s.

He wasn’t bored. The silence didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt… full. Full of memory. Full of a laugh, the click of jacks, the smell of powdered sugar.

He tucked the wooden deer into the inner pocket of his coat, right over his heart. It wasn’t a relic of power. It was a keepsake. Proof.

Maybe, one day, if Charlie ever asked why he seemed a little different, a little softer, he’d tell her a story. Not about kings or gardens, but about a lost, bruised boy who taught him that something doesn’t have to be perfect to be good. That it doesn’t have to last forever to matter.

fanficsfreeideas (Mushishield)

Summary:

Lucifer did not plan on adopting a feral six-year-old who eats imps, hates clothes, and builds nests. Alastor did not plan on trusting anyone. Somehow, slowly, they make it work. KidAlastorWeek Day 1: The Feral Child

Lucifer felt the emptiness after Charlie left, as if she had taken all the warmth with her. He wandered the halls, the tapping of his shoes echoing back at him. The quiet felt heavy, a physical presence in the lifeless palace.

Then, one day, a new scent cut through the dust: the smell of fresh blood and something sour and unwashed. He followed it to a broken-down sunroom. The windows were cracked, the plants long dead. In the corner, hunched against the wall, was a boy—a child. A human soul, stuck forever in the body of a skinny six-year-old.

He was naked, skin smeared with grime, completely focused on the small carcass of an imp in his hands. When his head snapped up, blood ran down his chin. A low, warning growl rumbled in his chest—more fear than threat. His eyes, half-hidden behind a matted nest of brown hair, were sharp and wary. Clever. Untrusting.

Lucifer’s deep loneliness didn’t fade, but something in him shifted. Not awe, not wonder, just a stunned, quiet realization—and a fragile, unfamiliar hope. He wasn’t alone anymore.

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He knew better than to try to catch the boy; that would only end with scratches and shattered trust. So he began to visit. He’d bring a book and read aloud, his voice a steady sound in the dusty quiet. “‘And the dragon guarded his treasure,’” he read, then added, like he was just thinking out loud, “Silly lizard. Treasure is boring; rubber ducks are way better. And if you’ve got no one to show your treasure to, it doesn’t mean a thing.” From a dark crawl space in the wall, two eyes watched him.

Lucifer started leaving things behind: a shiny red apple, a warm, buttered roll. The food always vanished, and soon after, the soft blankets he left would disappear, too. The boy lived on instinct. Hoping to tempt him out, Lucifer conjured a small playroom beside the sunroom. The boy never set foot inside. Lucifer left out outfits, only to find them later carefully taken apart, the threads woven into clever, tiny snares along the windowsill. Lucifer couldn’t help it—he laughed. “You’re something else, kid.” A growl answered from the crawl space. A clumsily made rope, fashioned from a torn blanket, flew out and landed harmlessly at his feet. “Missed me,” Lucifer said, grinning.

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The first real breakthrough came on a day Lucifer was feeling particularly low. He’d tried to make gumbo. It went badly. He left the full bowl on the floor and slumped into a nearby chair, pretending to sleep. He waited. Then came the softest sound: the whisper of small, bare feet on stone. The boy didn’t go for the food first. He crept closer to Lucifer’s chair, so close Lucifer could feel the heat from his small, dirty body, the weight of the stare on his closed eyes. Only then did the boy turn and devour the gumbo with frantic urgency.

When he finished and licked the bowl clean, Lucifer let out a deep, heavy sigh—a sound of careful, feigned sadness. The boy froze, then took one small, hesitant step closer. Then another. His sharp eyes fixed on the bright red ribbon tying back Lucifer’s blond hair. With sudden, shocking boldness, he climbed into Lucifer’s lap, a dirty little hand reaching up to snatch at the ribbon.

Lucifer opened his eyes. The boy flinched back, tumbling to the floor with a startled hiss. Lucifer didn’t move. He offered a soft, careful smile. “Did you like it?” he whispered, then slowly held out his hand, palm up and empty—an invitation. The boy’s frantic breathing slowed. He looked from the open hand to Lucifer’s face. He didn’t take it, but he didn’t run. He retreated to his corner and watched, his gaze less hostile now, more curious. It was a start. Lucifer carefully untied the ribbon from his hair and laid it on the seat of the chair. “You can have this,” he said gently.

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Weeks melted into a strange, new routine. The boy began to claim the space as his own, dragging his scattered stash into a sheltered corner to shape a more organized nest. One afternoon, Lucifer was sketching while the boy sat nearby, taking apart a plush duck with focused curiosity.

“This is silly,” Lucifer said at last. “I can’t just call you ‘kid.’ Everyone needs a name.” He tapped his chin. “How about… Alastor?” The boy’s dark eyes flicked up at the sound. “Al, for short,” Lucifer tried. “Come here, Al.” The boy only pulled a squeaker from the duck’s chest and examined it.

That evening, when Lucifer pretended to struggle reaching for a fallen pencil, he sighed, “Al, can you nudge that over here?” There was a long pause. Then a small, dirty foot stretched out and pushed the pencil across the floor until it bumped against Lucifer’s shoe. A warm, golden feeling spread through Lucifer’s chest.

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Their first real disagreement came over where Alastor should sleep. Lucifer made a perfect bedroom right next to his own. Alastor walked in, sniffed the bed deeply, wrinkled his nose, and walked straight back out. That night, Lucifer heard quiet rustling in his room. In the corner, between a large wardrobe and the wall, Alastor was building a nest from every soft thing he could find. He stacked and tucked until he had made a small cave, then crawled inside and peeked out.

Lucifer’s heart squeezed. “You know, Al,” he said softly, “my room’s pretty big. If you want to be in here, that’s okay.” Alastor stared at him for a long moment. Then, very deliberately, he pulled a blanket across the opening. Lucifer sighed, a smile tugging at his mouth. As he turned out the light, he glanced once more at the makeshift nest. “You’re really making me work for it, kid.” A soft, tiny snore was his only answer.

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Alastor hated clothes. Lucifer would conjure nice little outfits, only to find them later in shreds. He finally put his foot down after finding Alastor covered in fresh dirt and blood, grinning over another dead imp. “Okay, that’s it,” Lucifer said, his tone firm but not angry. He snapped his fingers. A neat little suit in dark red and gray appeared on Alastor as magic whisked away the grime.

Alastor jolted as if stung. He clawed at the collar, a low, steady growl of pure betrayal vibrating in his chest. His look was one of absolute outrage.

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The imp gifts were another thing. Lucifer would wake to find dead imps placed carefully on his pillow, Alastor’s way of providing, of sharing what he valued. Lucifer never scolded him for it. How do you scold a child for bringing you a gift, however gruesome? He would thank him softly and get rid of the gift when Alastor wasn’t looking. Still, he was tired of the mess and the startled screams from the staff.

Getting Alastor clean was a bigger challenge. The first attempt at a bath was a disaster. Alastor took one look at the water, bolted, and hid for two days. When he finally returned, he was defiantly coated in soot and something unmentionable, dropping a particularly large dead imp at Lucifer’s feet—part protest, part offering. Lucifer understood. To a feral creature, deep water was dangerous. He patted Alastor’s grimy head. “Thank you for the, uh, present, Al. But I don’t eat imps. They work here.”

That night, Lucifer used a gentle spell to clean him while he slept. After that, he changed his plan. He started with a warm, damp cloth. While reading a story, he’d quietly wipe a smudge from Alastor’s cheek. Alastor would flinch, but he stayed for the story. It became a ritual.

The real test came when Alastor found a bottle of gold ink and managed to coat himself in it, sticky and shining from head to toe. “All right,” Lucifer sighed. “We need more than a cloth.” He didn’t draw a bath. Instead, he filled a wide, shallow basin with a few inches of warm water, set it in a sunny patch of floor, and dropped in three yellow rubber ducks. Then he turned his back and busied himself with a music box.

From the corner of his eye, he watched. Alastor circled the basin like a wary cat. Finally, annoyed by the sticky ink and curious about the toys, he slowly put one foot into the water. Then, with sudden decision, he plopped himself down. Lucifer waited, then knelt beside the basin. “Silly things,” he murmured. He poured clean water over Alastor’s inky shoulder.

Alastor stiffened, but his eyes stayed on the duck in Lucifer’s hand. Lucifer took a cloth, added soap, and began to gently wash the ink away, talking softly about nothing in particular. Little by little, the tension left the small shoulders. When they were done, Alastor was clean—and he was making soft, clicking noises at the ducks.

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The scary time came when Alastor got sick. A deep, wet cough racked his small frame. Lucifer’s worry was immediate. He needed help. He thought of Belphegor. His sister was a doctor, and she knew how to keep a secret. He wrapped a coughing, struggling Alastor in a soft blanket and teleported to her office.

“Lucifer. What’s this?” Belphegor asked slowly.

“My boy’s sick,” Lucifer said, his voice tight. “Please. No one can know.”

He opened the blanket. Alastor saw the new person and snarled, trying to burrow into Lucifer’s coat. “Shh, Al,” Lucifer whispered, holding him close. “She’s going to help you feel better.”

Belphegor moved with slow, careful hands. “Tough kid,” she murmured. “His soul’s fine, just… stuck. Wild, but strong.” She mixed a vile-smelling syrup. “He won’t like this.” She was right. Getting the medicine into Alastor was a battle. But later, back home, the cough began to ease. Exhausted, Alastor fell into a deep sleep in his nest, one fever-hot hand clutching Lucifer’s thumb.

Belphegor became their secret helper. She’d visit sometimes. Alastor would warily accept a strangely flavored candy from her. “Lucifer,” she said one day, “that child will never grow. His soul and body are locked. You will always have a six-year-old who is wild to his core. Are you ready for that? Truly?”

Lucifer watched Alastor, who was intently trying to fit a screwdriver into a radio. He smiled, a soft, sure look. “He may be wild, but he can learn. He may never want a party or friends, but he’s mine. My son. If he’s healthy and happy, that’s all that matters.”

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Lucifer knew he had to address the imp problem. One morning, he woke to find not one, but three very dead imps arranged in a neat line on his duvet. He sighed, looking at Alastor, who watched from the doorway, head tilted, clearly expecting praise. “Al,” Lucifer said, sitting up. “We need to talk about the imps.”

He gestured to the bed. “This is very… thoughtful. But it’s also messy. And the imps have families. They get sad.” Alastor’s brow furrowed. The idea was clearly foreign to him. “How about this,” Lucifer said, an idea forming. He snapped his fingers. A small, golden bell appeared in his hand, tied with a red ribbon. He gave it a shake; it let out a bright, cheerful ting.

“New rule. If you catch an imp, you shake this bell at it, and then you let it go. That means you won. It’s a better trophy. And no mess.”

He held out the bell. Alastor crept forward, sniffed it, and took it. He shook it. Ting. His eyes lit up with a clever, predatory glee. He darted from the room. A moment later, from down the hall, Lucifer heard a frantic squeal, a triumphant ting-ting-ting, and the patter of fleeing feet. Lucifer smiled. It wasn’t a perfect fix, but it was a start.

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Time began to feel different, marked by Alastor’s small victories. The first time he made a happy sound—a sharp, surprised “Ha!” when a toy duck poofed into glitter. The first word he ever wrote, with chalk onto the floorboards: DUCK. He learned to talk, but was a creature of few words.

Every year, Lucifer tried to celebrate the day they’d met. Alastor hated it. One year, he vanished. Lucifer searched in a panic, finally finding him deep inside a fireplace chimney, coated in soot, glaring out. “Alastor, come out! It’s your special day!” Alastor shook his head, a firm, sooty no.

Lucifer knelt and covered his face, his shoulders shaking with pretend sobs. “Oh, you must really hate me!” He peeked through his fingers. Alastor had crawled to the edge. His face was dirty with worried eyes. He made a soft, anxious noise. “Eh…?”

Lucifer dropped his hands, revealing his smile. “Got you.”

Alastor’s face transformed into pure outrage. He scooped a handful of soot and flung it. It hit Lucifer square on the forehead with a soft puff. For a second, they just stared at each other. Then Lucifer started to laugh—a full, hearty laugh that shook his shoulders. And after a moment, from the fireplace, came an answering sound—a rough, but unmistakable little chuckle. His first real laugh.

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The best moment, though, was a quiet one. Lucifer was at his grand piano, playing a slow, sad tune. Alastor was in his nest stuff toys around him. A small shape appeared silently beside the piano bench. Lucifer glanced down without stopping. Alastor was holding a book—Treasure Island. He pushed it against Lucifer’s leg, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“…You want a story?” Lucifer asked, his fingers stilling.

Alastor gave a small, sharp nod, still not looking up.

A huge, warm feeling flooded Lucifer, so strong it made his throat tight. He took the book. “Okay. ‘Chapter Three: The Black Spot…’” He read. Alastor didn’t retreat. He stood right next to the bench, his body leaning slightly towards Lucifer, listening with total focus.

When the chapter ended, Lucifer closed the book. He looked down to see Alastor looking right back at him, those clever, dark eyes meeting his directly. Then the boy did something he had never done before. He stepped forward, pressed his forehead firmly against Lucifer’s knee, and rubbed his head there in a clumsy, profoundly affectionate gesture.

It was a hug, in the only language he fully knew.

Lucifer’s breath caught. Slowly, gently, he placed his hand on top of Alastor’s head, feeling the softness of his clean hair. Alastor leaned into the touch for one long, perfect second—then, as if startled by his own boldness, darted back to his nest and started hugging his rabbit.

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Now, the palace wasn’t quiet in a lonely way. It was filled with good sounds: the tap-tap-tap of Alastor fixing something, the joyful bang of piano keys, the soft rustle of blankets. Lucifer stood in his doorway one evening, watching. Moonlight fell across Alastor’s nest. The boy was asleep, one leg thrown out, having kicked it free of his trousers again. His hand was fisted around a well-chewed duck pillow.

In sleep, his face was finally, completely soft and calm. He knew he was safe.

He wasn’t tame. He would never be a normal child. He was still Al—a feral, brilliant boy who liked his meat bloody and his gumbo fiery, who shook bells at imps to claim his victories. But he was Lucifer’s. His son, in every way that mattered. The lonely silence was gone, replaced by the sound of soft breathing from a blanket nest and the steady, content beat of a king’s heart that was no longer alone.

When Lucifer turned to get into his own bed, he froze. A tiny, sleep-muffled murmur came from the nest. “…da… ove oo…”

Lucifer turned, his eyes wide. The child was still asleep, just murmuring into his pillow. A smile, so bright it could have lit the room, spread across Lucifer’s face. He whispered into the dark, his voice thick with a love so vast it needed no big words at all.