Chapter Text
Lucifer should have known Heaven would never let him keep the home he had managed to carve out of Hell.
He should have known they would never let him keep his daughter.
After millenia in the pit, millenia spent building cities and civilizations out of nothing but the burnt ashes of a dream, the impossible happened to the ruling couple of Hell. From bodies that should have been damned and barren, Lucifer and Lilith brought a child into the world: The little angel who stole the shards of Lucifer’s shattered heart and dreams and put them all in her eyes. The little angel who made the sun shine into Hell for the first time since the beginning of beginnings. The little angel who pushed a reason to live into her father’s fearful arms with tiny trusting hands and soft gurgling giggles.
His Charlotte. His Charlie. His daughter.
His angel.
But she truly was an angel, at least by half, and Heaven would not allow one of their own to be raised in Hell. The Elders of Heaven were watching, and made the heartless decision to take everything from Lucifer in order to rescue a girl who didn’t need to be rescued.
A child of Heaven should not be forced to bear damnation for the sin of simply having been born into it, they decided. Lucifer did everything to stop them. But The Elders were in agreement. Even as he argued that Charlotte was as much half-demon as angel, and they had no right to take her, they refused to be swayed. Even as the King of Hell begged on his knees his former brothers and sisters would not relent. They would not revoke the death sentence they had placed on his soul.
But one did offer a compromise.
Adam, eyes full of sadistic satisfaction as he took everything from the woman who had left him and the man she had left for, agreed that Lucifer’s argument was fair: That Charlotte was equally of either realm. So instead he argued she be raised on neutral ground. “Let her go to Earth and let her be fostered by humans.” He had suggested. “Let her make her own way to Heaven or Hell by her own actions just like everyone else.”
The Elders agreed. With nothing more than an empty promise that it was ‘for the best’, Charlotte was ripped from Lucifer’s arms.
His heart was ripped out of his chest and sent away to where he could never find her.
Only Adam knew where exactly Charlotte had been placed.
It was Adam’s suggestion and it became his responsibility; finding fitting humans to foster the girl. Adam would find a candidate and Heaven would give them the false memories to make them take in the girl as their own. But that was as far as the bureaucracy would be involved. The fewer who knew the specifics in either Heaven or Hell, the lesser the chance of either side interfering to sway her. Besides, Adam knew humanity better than anyone.
But Adam was also vindictive and spiteful. Charlotte was the ultimate living symbol of Lilith’s betrayal, and he would not let that go unpunished. Sera had told him to find good humans with which to entrust the child, but that was better than the little brat deserved. She deserved a miserable life with miserable people for all she dared to represent. Adam looked for the worst of humanity, and found a likely looking man.
An emotionally stunted serial killer for a father was nothing more than the brat deserved.
Maybe too good even.
Of all the ways Alastor had expected his life to pan out, he could say with absolute certainty that becoming a father had not been one of them.
And yet here he was.
The girl was his, he knew that intrinsically. She didn’t look much like him at all. She was almost worryingly pale—Alastor took after his father more than his mother, but was still darker than most people were comfortable with—and the tiny tuft of hair on her head was so light blonde it was nearly white. But he still knew she was his. Somehow. Not that he had any clear memories of how.
Alastor had never been interested in the physical. The idea of sex, frankly, was repulsive. But he must have done it anyways, because how else had this happened?
He must have been drunk. That was the only circumstance under which this seemed even remotely possible. He and Mimzy got drunk together all the time, after all. It was the only thing that made sense. The only thing that would explain why he had no recollection of having ever been intimate with her. Except he didn’t want that to make sense, because it made him feel sick. It made him feel taken advantage of. It ruined everything. It ruined the best—the only—genuine friendship he had, by twisting it into something he never wanted.
Had she known? Had she known he was too drunk to say yes and mean it? Had she been too drunk too? Had they even been drunk? Had they even been intimate? He couldn’t remember.
He couldn’t remember her being pregnant either, for that matter. Except- Maybe? Maybe, if he thought very very hard. If he really tried to imagine it. But then, wasn’t that simply him imagining a memory into existence? That didn’t make it real. Except it must have happened. Obviously.
Yes, he did remember it. Of course he did.
He could imagine—could recall, he insisted to himself—snippets of conversation.
“At least you're still able to drink.”
“Would it make you feel better if I was also a good law-abiding citizen and abstained in solidarity?”
“Kinda.”
God fucking damn it.
“What do we do now?” Mimzy asked, snapping Alastor back to the present. His attention was still all focused on the sleeping infant held in his arms.
He didn’t even know how to hold a baby properly.
All he could muster was a forlorn “I don’t know”.
This was a nightmare.
Contrary to what Adam had expected, Alastor put in the effort.
He tried to make it work, as proper people did.
Alastor had never wanted a girlfriend. He had never wanted a wife. He had never wanted a family. But he did, now, and at the very least he was determined to try. He wanted to blame Mimzy for having gotten him into this situation, but it was both their fault. He shared equal blame. He couldn't take this out on her.
He was uncomfortable with romance and disgusted by sex, but he would be a decent husband if it so killed him. He didn’t want a child, but he would be a good parent regardless. He didn't want to be in this situation, but he was, and that wasn’t anyone's fault but his own. He refused to lash out. Refused to take it out on anyone but himself.
He would not be his own father.
He refused.
They named their girl Charlotte. Both of them knew that had to be her name. Somehow. But it was a good enough name he figured, and neither of them had prepared alternatives. He wondered why they hadn’t prepared. They didn’t even own a crib. No toys either. Nothing. Maybe they’d been hoping to terminate the pregnancy but been unwilling to risk the illegal procedure? He could convince himself he remembered that. He could convince himself he remembered a lot of things he really wasn’t sure he did.
Charlotte was a difficult child. For the first few weeks after he had brought both her and Mimzy into his little New Orleans townhouse apartment—far too small for a family, really—the infant seemed upset at almost every waking moment. She wouldn’t allow herself to be calmed by him or Mimzy either. She simply continued crying even as Alastor tried everything he half-remembered his own mother doing to make him feel safe as a child. He had thought babies were supposed to feel comforted by seeing their parents, but Charlotte was not. It was strange how helpless such a tiny creature could make him feel when he’d faced down grown men with absolute confidence.
Speaking off, the constant presence of other people in his home made the killing so much more difficult. The care taken to not be caught increased exponentially with each passing day. He could no longer come home bloody, could no longer keep visually identifiable body parts in the ice-box, and could no longer stay out late into the night lest Mimzy accuse him of having an affair. Again.
As if he didn’t abhor what little intimacy he forced himself into for her sake. As if he would seek out more of it.
Just as Charlotte was a difficult child, Mimzy was a difficult partner. He could tell she was unhappy with him. As friends, their relationship had been warm and close. He had never shied away from her touch. But now, he knew it entailed so much more than he was comfortable with. But he couldn’t tell her that either. That simply wasn’t something men did. Men weren’t uncomfortable with intimacy. Men didn’t feel used. So instead of telling her, he simply placed as much distance between them as possible, growing cold to the woman he had used to consider his closest friend. He couldn’t blame her if she resented him for it.
What he could blame her for, though, was her irresponsibility. While Alastor gave up almost everything that made his life his for the sake of the family he had never intended to have, Mimzy seemed unwilling to give up anything.
Alastor wouldn’t be so crass as to demand she close her speakeasy to care for Charlotte, no matter what the rest of society thought about women’s place in the home. He could figure out alternatives. His listeners had been thrilled by the surface-level wholesome news of his wife and child. Disregarding certain strongly worded letters about interracial relationships and bastard children, his audience adored the little stories from home he slipped into the program (stripped of context and carefully revised as they were). The first time he had taken Charlotte with him and let her babble on air for a few seconds it had melted hearts across the city, so his coworkers were content to let him watch her down at the studio. It was fine. Mimzy didn’t need to stay home, Alastor could handle Charlotte with a smile. That wasn’t the problem.
Alastor’s mother had never let him see how miserable she was. If she could put on a facade for the sake of keeping his childhood happy and stable, he could do the same for his own child. At least his partner never beat him.
No, that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that Mimzy refused to act as if anything had changed. She had her moments, where she would put in an effort. The way Alastor had woken up to find her bobbing Charlotte’s hair in the mirror, the little pet-names she would use for ‘mama’s little princess’, or the way she had brought home the toy—a stuffed animal in the shape of a yellow duckling—that finally helped them calm their now toddler daughter’s crying meltdowns. But for the most part she kept drinking and dancing into the small hours of the morning as if they were still unattached teenagers with nothing to worry about but themselves. For the most part, she left Alastor with all the responsibility for the mistake they had made together, and maybe he deserved her resentment as much as she deserved his, but the situation could not hold.
Between the lack of sleep, the constant discomfort of adjusting to sharing his life with others, and keeping up the chipper facade on his radio show, he felt almost on the verge of a breakdown. A breakdown he finally would have, quietly, by disappearing without a word into the city for almost a week. By the time he made his way back home another five people never would. That was fine, though. He’d thrown four of the bodies into the bayou and, in secret petty revenge, buried the last one under the floorboards of Mimzy’s speakeasy’s storage room. That was fine. He had covered his tracks.
That breakdown at least finally marked a turning point, where Mimzy was forced to clean up the mess Alastor had left her for a change. Finally, they talked. Finally, they came to the mutual realization that, whatever they had or had not done to each other, whomever bore the most blame for the situation, it was no longer only about them.
They had to grow up if Charlotte was to have a single hope in hell of doing the same.
They got better after that. A bit, at least. Less dysfunctional. The work started to be shared more equally. It wasn’t right of Alastor to treat Mimzy so coldly for things that weren’t her fault, he couldn’t take it out on her just because he was too broken to love anyone. It wasn’t fair for Mimzy to leave him with all the responsibilities, she couldn’t make it his problem that she hadn’t wanted this life either. If they were to make this bearable they had to cooperate.
Things got better. There were still some things that couldn’t be reconciled. There were still some things that would never be good. But they were better.
It was a ray of hope.
But that hope wouldn’t last.
Alastor hadn’t covered his tracks well enough.
Mimzy’s speakeasy was busted. The murdered man was uncovered. She was arrested for one of his crimes.
Alastor should have confessed. He should have spoken up to save her. If he was less broken, he should have done anything to save her. But Alastor was broken. He was selfish and cruel, and had never deserved her trust in the first place. He should have died for her. For his mistake. For his sin. But he didn’t.
If he spoke up, Mimzy would be spared execution for his crime. But she would still be sentenced for her speakeasy. She would still be sentenced for the smuggling, the moonshining, the gangster ties, and every other crime associated with running the illegal operation. Maybe it wouldn’t be death, but chances were it would be life. Mimzy would be imprisoned and he would be executed.
Charlotte would be alone.
So Alastor said nothing.
Selfish coward.
He remembered for real this time. Remembered the dirty looks and whispers behind his back as he carried Charlotte—still so tiny in his arms—to see her mother one last time. Remembered the awful certainty in his gut that he could stop this, but wouldn’t. Remembered the last words he exchanged on Earth with the woman he’d resigned himself to spending his life with.
“See ya in Hell.” She said glumly. Simply. And Alastor wondered if she knew. He almost wished she would say so. Almost wished she would save herself. Instead he simply nodded and swallowed hard, unable to meet her eyes even now.
“Safe travels.”
He kissed her. Soft and gentle, with all the love she craved but he was too broken to give. It was an apology. An apology that could never be spoken.
A month later with only one person left for her on Earth Charlotte celebrated her third birthday clutching her stuffed duck tight, surely not comprehending the implications of losing a parent, but seeming strangely aware regardless.
Far from Earth, Lucifer drank himself nonsensical in the grim marking of a third year without all that had mattered in his life.
