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It began with a clash at the power grid. In a last-ditch effort to gain the upper hand, Vox channeled a raw surge of his energy directly into Alastor. To him it was nothing more than a minor static shock—annoying, but insignificant. He had dismissed it entirely.
Never noticed he had absorbed that energy. Until Vox arrived at the hotel weeks later to boast.
“You’re looking… radiant, Alastor,” Vox buzzed while his screen flashed a mocking image of Bambi. "One might even say you're glowing."
Predictably, denials followed from Alastor, who was, in fact, emitting a soft light from beneath his coat. The ensuing chaos reached a fever pitch, his screeching feedback threatening to break the windows, when the hotel doors burst open—not with physical force, but with a silent, overwhelming wave of power.
Lucifer stood on the threshold, his expression not of annoyance but of intense, focused curiosity. In his palm, a tiny ruby duck pulsed in perfect sync with the rhythm under Alastor’s coat.
His voice cut cleanly through the noise. “I felt a unique energy spike. A mix of primordial and… digital life forces. It’s fascinating.” His eyes, burning with paternal intensity, fixed on Alastor’s midsection. “It’s clearly distressed. Who’s the sire?”
Before Vox could inflate with pride, Adam descended. He moved with the weary gait of a man who’d been through this before.
“I felt it too. Like a cosmic hum, almost a corrupted nursery rhyme.” He stopped beside Lucifer, following his gaze. His nose wrinkled. “Oh. It’s you. Of course.” He then looked at Vox. “And it’s his. Great. The deadbeat’s a walking billboard.”
“I am NOT—” Alastor began, but his objection was cut short as the two ancient beings moved with unified purpose.
Lucifer appeared in front of him, a hand hovering over Alastor stomach. His fingers twitched, weaving invisible threads of magic. “The gestation matrix is unstable. The radio waves are rejecting the core programming. It has no stable soul-base. No wonder it’s so agitated.” His tone was that of an engineer figuring out a faulty machine.
“Hey! That’s my programming!” Vox yelled.
In a blur, Adam was before Vox, jabbing a finger into his screen. “And you did a shit job. You just dumped your energy in there without a stabilizing agent. Ever heard of a spiritual umbilical cord? No? Amateur.” He turned his back on the sputtering TV demon. “Lu? What’s the prognosis?”
“If it destabilizes further, it could trigger a recursive feedback loop. Unmake them both from the inside out,” Lucifer stated. “It requires an anchor. Two, to balance the opposing forces.”
They exchanged a glance. A silent understanding passed between the First Man and the King of Hell. They nodded.
Alastor finally found his voice. “Now see here! I am not some broken appliance for you two to fiddle with! This is a temporary… gaseous anomaly!”
Ignoring him, Lucifer placed his hand directly on Alastor’s stomach. A warm, calming gold light bloomed. The frantic, erratic pulsing stilled into a steady, soft hum. Alastor jolted, a shocked, staticky gasp escaping him as the constant, low-grade ache he’d been ignoring simply vanished.
“There,” Lucifer murmured. “A foundation of Creation energy. That should hold the form.”
Adam stepped up behind him. Before Alastor could react, Adam’s broad hands were on his shoulders, and a different power—fierce, protective, and deeply human—washed over him. “And there’s the anchor of Soul. Keeps it from going full eldritch horror. Probably.” Adam gave his shoulders a firm squeeze. “Already stopped hissing."
Alastor was too stunned to resist. The combined energies weren't restraining him; they were soothing him and the chaotic presence within. It was the most vulnerable he had ever felt.
“You… you imbeciles! What have you done?” He whispered, his voice uncharacteristically small.
“We’ve stabilized your condition,” Lucifer said simply. “Can’t have our grand—well, a nephilim of sorts? A radilim—exploding before it’s born. That’s just poor craftsmanship.”
“Now,” Adam said, his voice dropping to a low growl as he turned to Vox. “As for you.”
Vox stepped back, his screen flickering. “I—I have rights! It’s my energy! My child!”
“You have no rights,” Lucifer said, his voice deceptively sweet while his eyes glowed hellfire red. “You created a life and left it to destabilize. That’s abandonment.” He snapped his fingers. A scroll covered in infernally fine print appeared. “This relinquishes all parental claims. Sign it.”
“Or what?” Vox challenged, his bravado cracking with static.
Adam was suddenly nose-to-screen with him. “Or I call the exorcists. Not for an annual cleanse. For a specific cleanse. Of you and every piece of technology your signal has ever touched. We’ll scrap you for parts.”
The color drained from Vox’s screen. He looked at the two beings who had apparently just adopted a dazed Alastor and his unborn child before finally turning to the contract.
A trembling pen appeared in his hand. He scrawled his signature. The scroll vanished in a puff of smoke.
“Good,” Adam said, clapping his hands once. “Now get the fuck out. You’re upsetting the mother.”
Vox fled without another word. The moment he was gone, the terrifying aura around Lucifer and Adam disappeared, replaced by a practical, bustling energy.
“Right,” Lucifer said, turning to assess Alastor. “You’re underweight for a carrier of a techno-magical hybrid. We need to get your blood levels up. Charlie, darling, does the kitchen have any oatmeal?”
Charlie, who had been watching the entire spectacle with her jaw on the floor, just nodded mutely.
Adam guided a shocked Alastor to the couch. “Sit. Rest. I’ll teach you breathing exercises. Not for the pain, for the rage. It’s different. Trust me, I know.”
Alastor sat. He didn't understand why he obeyed. It was the first time others more powerful than him weren't trying to dominate but to… take care of him. It was disarming.
Husk slowly pushed a full bottle of beer across the bar toward no one in particular.
Niffty zipped up, clutching a pamphlet. “I got this from the library! ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting an Eldritch Abomination’!”
Angel finally broke the silence, whispering to Vaggie, “I’ve seen some fucked-up shit, but I have never witnessed anyone get so thoroughly adopted against their will. They’re not even mad. They’re… happy.”
And they were. Lucifer was already designing a crib that would likely double as a containment field. Adam was demonstrating a breathing pattern that involved aggressive exhaling. “See? Gets the murder urge right out.”
Alastor sat between them, a prisoner of their overwhelming, terrifyingly competent care. He was not just pregnant. He was their project.
He looked down at his now calmly humming stomach, then at the two ancient beings arguing about whether the nursery should be soundproofed.
Alastor had confronted angels, overlords, and his own demise. But this bizarre, loving, nightmarish domesticity?
He had absolutely no idea what to do.