What Makes A Good Dad
Stitches sat perched on the kitchen counter, holding Lucifer’s hat, feeling dumb and childish with her legs dangling over the edge, but… she was also oddly unwilling to move. Lucifer had swooped her up and placed her there while excitedly chattering about making her waffles with all the toppings, like he made for Charlie when she was feeling down. He didn’t even seem aware that he had done so, treating her like a child he wanted to spoil. While she normally would have bristled at the unearned familiarity, his charming fatherly aura did nothing but soothe old longings she hadn’t even realized she still had.
She watched him with a soft smile as he danced around the kitchen (how else could she possibly describe his fluid movements around the small space?) as he pulled ingredients from various cabinets and the fridge. He snapped his fingers, still chattering away, and a frilly apron with a duck and “BEST Duckin’ Cook” appeared on him, cinched tight around his waist as he rolled up his sleeves. She giggled seeing it, and swung her legs happily, allowing herself to relax as he worked, his one-sided conversation providing a pleasant hum to the background of her thoughts.
She thought back to some of the good times with her own father. Well, the only father she had known, at least. She and her biological siblings (she had a younger brother, Chance, who had severed ties with her after he left for college) had been adopted as infants by their mother and father, who couldn’t have children of their own. She was sure that at one point, there had to have been nothing but love and warmth in that house, but as the children aged, attitudes soured, and by the time she was 8, those moments had started to fade into memory. She often wondered what had turned her parents into such horrible creatures; if their love had ever been real, or if it was simply the paradox of a couple who wanted to buy babies , but hadn’t been prepared to raise humans .
But at this moment, those thoughts were cast to the side as she remembered something good.
Sneaking into the kitchen early in the morning, her nose following the smell of cinnamon and sugar. She would peek her little head around the corner, only 6 or 7 years old, watching her father pull homemade cinnamon rolls from the oven. It wasn’t often he would bake or cook, since he was gone most of the week and exhausted on the weekends, but every so often, on a Saturday morning, he would make breakfast, and his cinnamon rolls were her favorite. She must not have been as quiet as she thought, because as he set the rolls on the counter to cool, her father chuckled and looked kindly at her, crouching down, his arms open in welcome, asking her if she wanted to help frost the rolls. She had been giddy, flying into his big, strong arms, giggling in the safety of his embrace…
Lucifer’s gentle hand on her knee pulled her from the memory, his face creased with concern. He had taken his hat from her (or maybe she had dropped it) and it now sat on the counter beside her. She realized she had tears running down her face, and she choked out a laugh, wiping them away hurriedly, embarrassed. Fuck, no, why am I crying? “Oops, sorry, you were saying?” she asked, looking anywhere but his face.
“Stitches…” Lucifer’s voice was quiet and patient, He gently reached up and cradled her face in his hands, ever so slowly getting her to look at him. It feels so nice… “Please, tell me, what made you start crying like this? Was it something I-”
Shit, I made him think he did something wrong! He’s going to hate me now!
Stitches shook her head, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands reaching up to his hands, squeezing them fiercely, as though she would break if he let go. However, it was too late for that, because her tears would not stop coming, and her body was shaking from suppressed sobs. The thought of him leaving her alone right now, even if she deserved it, even if he deserved better than dealing with her , filled her wtih dread.
“N-no,” she managed to grit out between sobs, “you… it wasn’t you- I was… remembering-” She whimpered, waiting for him to abandon her. Like they all do. “Please, I’ll- stop crying in a second- please stay - I-”
Lucifer pressed a finger to her lip, stopping her blabbering. She opened her eyes and met his, and there was nothing but understanding and warmth there. “If you would allow me to, I would very much like to hold you,” he whispered, looking for her consent to such an intimate, yet friendly, touch.
She didn’t even think, she just threw her arms around his neck, burying her face into his clavicle, her sobs now coming out in full-force in her relief. He’s staying. She felt him pick her up off the counter, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, as he carried her to the kitchen table, sitting in the chair with her in his lap, the waffle batter abandoned for now. Even though she was about his height, maybe an inch or two taller, she felt so small and weak in his strong arms, like the little girl from her memory. Just a child seeking out the most meager scraps of fatherly affection, her starved soul rabid for it. Never wanting to let go, never wanting that closeness to end.
He repositioned her, as though she weighed nothing, so she was sitting with both her legs across his lap, holding her close. He didn’t try to shush her or press for more context. He just held her, one hand gently pushing back her hood and combing through her hair near the scalp, and the other on her back, alternating between slow circles with his palm and patting her reassuringly. He hummed softly, the sound soothing and beautiful, a warm balm to her shattered soul. She didn’t know how long they stayed there like that, but slowly, the tears ran dry, and her sobs softened to shuddering hiccups. The salty tears had soaked through the bandages on her neck, burning her wounds, but she ignored it, choosing instead to focus on Lucifer’s warmth.
Lucifer patted her back softy, pulling his hand from her hair to reach up and wipe a stray tear from her cheek. His voice was soft and quiet when he spoke. “Would you like to talk about it?”
Stitches shivered, chuckling darkly around another hiccup. “Who would have thought the devil would care about my feelings?” she rasped, throat dry from sobbing. She winced when she realized what she had said. It had been a harsh dig, unnecessarily cruel after how kind he had been. She gripped his shirt in her hands. Gods, I just ruined it, he’s going to shove me away, because I am such an asshole, and I deserve to be left alone because he’s doing all this to comfort me and my first instinct is to push him away, why the fuck-
Lucifer chuckled, not taking the bait, summoned a glass of water from thin air, and handed it to her. “You are quite stubborn, kiddo. But that wasn’t a no, so I’m just going to sit here and wait for you to tell me.” It was gentle and soothing, not an order or even a request. It was an offer, for her to take or leave, no strings attached.
Dumbfounded, she took her time deciding, sipping the water slowly. She wasn’t used to this treatment. Even her spouse, who had been so patient and loving, would often take her lashing out rather poorly, resulting in at least some nasty insults in her direction. It was a way to punish herself, to inflict emotional damage when no one was willing to do it physically. She was well aware of it, but she just couldn’t stop. It always felt so good , in the worst way, being punished like she… deserved. They sat in silence as she weighed her options, before finally letting out a defeated sigh. He’s not going to hurt me. “I remembered… my father making cinnamon rolls with me.”
Lucifer stayed silent, but she felt him nod in acknowledgment, his chin resting on top of her head. She closed her eyes and bathed in his paternal glow. The silent reassurance. The warm, safe embrace. The supportive, attentive listening that only a father could provide, if they were a good dad.
“My father was…” She thought for a moment. “A very large man, with very strong feelings. I was adopted, you see, and I still remember my first impression of him when I was 2, meeting him for the first time. In my head, I thought ‘this big man, he’s very loud, but he can protect me’. I wasn’t entirely wrong, he could be very protective and was even kind. He doted on me for many years, even called me ‘Princess’. I never wanted those days to end, and my fondest memories surround the times he would cook for us, because it was such a rare treat, and he was so gifted at it.”
She paused, letting the warm memories blanket her for just a moment in their glow. Just for a second, can that be all I have, just the good bits? Her brow furrowed and her face darkened, as the other memories clawed their way back to the front, and she continued.
***
“I failed to understand, until too late, that the same hands that can protect with violent passion can also be used to harm the person they are supposed to protect .” She felt Lucifer tense up, but she continued, barreling through blindly, the words a wave that could not be stopped. “It was so subtle, happened so slowly, I didn’t even register it. It wasn’t just him, his wife, my adoptive mother, she was just as bad, maybe even worse because we never really bonded. I even believed my mother and father, when they would tell me it was my fault, that my behavior MADE them hurt me. I would get ‘punished’, sometimes for things I didn’t even do. But even as they started beating me more, and harder, using more and more elaborate means to make me suffer, I thought it was normal, even good , because it HAD to be my fault! The welts and the bruises, the intermittent starving, the days of intense exercise, nights forced to stay awake, manual labor-”
***
Lucifer hissed, making her jump and drop her cup, leaning away from him to look into his glowing red eyes, his demonic form starting to come out. He looked at her face and saw something there, taking a deep breath, and his form resettled to normal as he calmed. He gently pulled her back to him, clutching her close and pressing her head to his chest. She hadn’t been afraid, not entirely, more awed than anything, but she was silent, letting him find words, fiddling with her hands in her lap as she waited. She knew that look in his eyes, seen it a handful of times in others, yet it was always so bewildering to her. He’s angry on my behalf.
“No parent should ever harm their child, ever .” His voice was rough, as though he was breaking, or wanted to break someone else. “The things you are describing… That is torture ! Those things are used to torture prisoners of war, get information from spies… Not disipline children !” He rocked her, though whether it was for her comfort or his, she wasn’t sure. “There is nothing, absolutely nothing , you could have ever done as a child to incur that kind of wrath.”
Stitches scoffed, and once again her mouth was faster than her brain. “You mean like lie about folding the laundry or getting caught cheating on a history test?”
He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her back so he could search her face, mouth open in shock. “Those were the reasons ?” he seethed, eyes begging her to tell him that wasn’t it, that she was exaggerating. He looked stuck between rage and wanting to sob. All because of her, in reaction to her story, her trauma.
***
She shook her head, and smiled softly, trying failing to ease his stress. “I mean, those are just two examples off the top of my head, but yeah, it was usually something small like that. They probably were repressing a lot of shit, and it was just a catalyst that made them explode. I remember one time my Mom’s brush fell behind the bathroom sink because it was a small surface and she had things haphazardly sitting on the edge. She assumed I had hidden it there, and no matter how much I begged or insisted that I hadn’t, she just whipped me with my father’s belt and made me run up and down the stairs for hours until I ‘confessed’ to it. I was maybe 12 or 13 then? It fell there a week or two later, and this time, she saw it happen, and I think it clicked that maybe I had been telling the truth. But she just looked at me, shrugged, and mumbled that if I wasn’t always in trouble, she wouldn’t have blamed me to begin with.”
***
Lucifer shook with rage, and she gently patted his shoulder, his unfocused eyes worrying her. His eyes refocused, and he took a shaky breath. “You say it so calmly, as if you’re simply read it in the paper, or from a fictional novel.”
Stitches shrugged, offering a weak smile. “I mean, to be fair , I did act out sometimes, purposely did stuff wrong just to get some attention, because they often ignored me when not upset, so I was also a problem.” Lucifer gave her a “ You don’t need to defend them, it still doesn’t excuse their behavior” look, but she ignored it. “Trauma is weird. At some point, you just dissociate from it, telling yourself that as long as you hold the memory very far away, disconnect all emotion and thoughts surrounding it, you won’t have to fear it anymore, and maybe it can’t hurt you.”
Lucifer sighed, his eyes shining with unshed tears and deep, empathetic understanding. She could tell he was all too familiar with it. How badly did Heaven fuck him up? “But it doesn’t truly protect you, just prolongs your misery.” He paused. “It haunts your nightmares, when you can’t guard against it.” It was quiet, as though he didn’t want to admit that part out loud. Yet, his confession, the empathy for her experiences, made her feel warmer and more seen than she had in a very, very long time.
Stitches nodded, silently admitting to that and so much more. They sat in silence for a while, Lucifer eventually pulling her back to him and her allowing it greedily. They were two souls who had suffered too much punishment for seemingly negligible crimes, blamed for things they had never even done or had control over, and cast out for simply not living up to someone else’s vision of them. Their trauma, raw and vast, was creating a bond between them, the silence enveloping them as their souls latched onto one another, leaning against each other as if to say “ hey, me too, you aren’t alone anymore ”. Because though the situations were vastly different, and the events eons apart, worlds apart (though he didn’t know that, obviously), the pain and the sorrow sung the same tune.
“So,” Lucifer finally cleared his throat. “How about some waffles? Because I could DEFINITELY eat, like, a whole bunch!”
Stitches giggled, emotions still a bit raw and exhausted, but his enthusiasm was contagious. She untangled herself from him (with him helping her so she didn’t fall) and she stood up, her eyes catching the bowl of mixed berries on the table. “I agree! I’ll make a berry compote while you cook the waffles, if that sounds alright with you?”
“Sounds great, kiddo!” Lucifer smiled, grabbing her hand and giving it a quick squeeze, drawing her eyes back to his. His smile became softer, as did his voice. “I know I said this before, but I am always here to talk, good or bad, okay?”
She smiled softly and nodded, which he grinned at as he stood, putting a hand behind her head and pulling her down so he could plant a quick kiss on her forehead. He then jumped right back into his giddy chatter, as though the interruption had never happened. She turned around to grab the bowl of berries from the counter, gently touching where Lucifer had kissed her forehead, a small blush on her cheeks.
Charlie is really lucky to have such a kind, doting father.