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Alastor’s five year plan never accounted for a relationship; it certainly never accounted for the primary challenge of said relationship to be his partner’s rubber duck collection.
Yet here he is, cane propped up on his shoulder, monocle polished to soul-piercing, a bottle of Dusk’s finest red under his armpit. He has only to knock on the door and the whole ordeal ends.
Only, it doesn’t really. Alastor’s already made his acquaintance with the Ducks, be it through tales — dear, do those drag for hours — or a stray rubber beak poking his privates whenever he wakes up from a vigorous night at Lucifer’s apartment. There are twenty-three rubber ducks in Lucifer’s bath and fifteen in his kitchen, at least two of them residing inside pots. Whenever Alastor falls asleep in Lucifer’s bed, a rubber eye or three bid him farewell.
But he hasn’t been introduced. Coming out to Charlie happened effortlessly; the hopeless girl would deem anything short of homicide amazing, I’m so happy for you, dad. Alastor had a straightforward task then: smile, keep his arm around Lucifer’s waist, keep his tongue in his mouth, keep his bout of hysteria for much, much later. And when later brought dinners together, shared worries, and an avalanche of coziness, well — Alastor almost got used to staring at the ceiling in wonder instead of crippling dread. Almost.
The main problem with Lucifer is this: he’s Lucifer. He’s as chaotic as he is powerful, and as prone to breakdowns as he is to grand romantic gestures. Alastor nourishes a certain… fondness for him, which has the tendency to turn into complete adoration at the least convenient times.
If this unlikely, ridiculous, spectacular relationship comes to a halt, it won’t be to be because Alastor bursts out laughing when presented with a rubber duck. Is there anyone who could offer him a deal for a temporary straight face? Dear, what if some of the ducks are supposed to be humourous, and he fails to laugh at the right moment?
Too late to flee. The door squeaks open, and Lucifer’s white hat peeks out from the crack.
“How long have you been standing here?”
He wears his best suit — his only suit and the best for it — and smells like burnt cupcakes. Hands stuffed in tiny pockets, he tilts back onto the doorframe, and his smile tilts too, wobbles. For the love of all that’s holy and damned, he’s nervous.
“Not very long,” Alastor says, and crosses the threshold to kiss Lucifer’s cheek. “Good evening, my darling.”
Lucifer’s face colours as dark as Alastor’s hair, which would be endearing if he didn’t also sweat profusely. “Yeah, hey. Listen, I was thinking, we really don’t need to do this tonight.”
“Of course we don’t.” Alastor puts the bottle down in the middle of the dressed-up table, conveniently covering a stain Lucifer would certainly fret about later. “There’s scarcely anything we have to do. But I was under the impression you wanted to show me, and you know I support your pastime activities.”
Lucifer closes the door and shuffles over to the kitchen’s alcove, grumbling. “It’s not a pastime activity.”
A personal record for Alastor — it hasn’t even been a minute before he blew it.
“Of course not,” he says, fixing his monocle. “My apologies. Your passion, naturally.”
“Profession. Crafts are professions, Alastor, if you can’t—”
“Profession, then. I’m positive it can easily be all of the above.”
Lucifer looks doubtful at best. Alastor steps on his own foot, hard.
“Shall we begin with the tour, then?” he asks. “Preferably before you burst out of your skin.”
Lucifer scowls. “Well, gee, forgive me for caring about something.”
Lucifer cares for many a strange thing, and Alastor may very well bear the crown of the strangest. In turn, Alastor cares for him — including any hobbies (crafts) that relax him and serve as a vent for his manic episodes. Including anything that makes him happy, rubber or not.
That’s the core — he’s not afraid he’s going to dislike anything, he’s afraid he’ll hurt Lucifer’s fragile ego, tender like a limp, once over-inflated balloon. Lucifer’s sulks come as unpredictable as they come deadly and self-derogatory. Worst of all, they take him away to some shadowy depression realm where Alastor can’t hope to reach him.
Alastor breathes out through his nose, summons a smile that’s not too plastic and not too wide — Lucifer likes those least of all — and makes his way towards Lucifer. Lucifer, who shrank himself to an insecure, hunched bundle of nerves, and quite obviously attempts to match the colour of his face to the decorative tapestry and blend right in.
“Would you show me, please?” Alastor asks, tipping Lucifer’s chin up with a knuckle. “Aren’t we quite past embarrassments?”
“Well, your biggest shame is liking me, so—”
Too much truth to the statement, too potent of a falsity and too complex a brand of it to discuss now, so Alastor just takes Lucifer’s hand and tugs him towards the bedroom.
“Lead the way. I’m all ears.”
“You are a lot of ears, really, at least ten percent ears.”
“Har har, and now enough of your stalling.”
The bedroom sparkles cleaner than Alastor remembers it ever being. The overhead light is on, bright and cool-toned, casting long shadow-blades on the walls. Piles of ducks still swarm the place, but instead of lurking shoved into dusty corners or under the furniture, they sit neatly organised and colour-coordinated. Lucifer’s desk supports a small collection, no more than a couple dozen, aligned in neat rows, rubber wing to rubber wing. The very best, chosen with care.
“So,” Alastor says, when it becomes clear Lucifer is closer to fainting than speaking up, “what do we have here?”
Lucifer clears his throat, fiddles with the brim of his hat. “Well, I thought I’d only show you the complete projects, don’t wanna waste too much of your time. So these ones here—”
Alastor squeezes his palm. “You’re far from wasting my time.”
Lucifer spins the hat so fast it slides to his nose, askew. Rolling his eyes, Alastor fixes it for him.
“Yes, so.” Lucifer coughs again. He points at the pile closest to the bed, entirely yellow. “These are all magic, or mechanical, the same thing really, the things you can do with—”
“Is it all right if I touch them?”
“What? Yeah, sure.”
“So what does this one do?” Alastor lifts a small duck off the top of the rubber mountain and stares down its open orange beak. It’s a very intricate thing, the feathers heavily detailed.
“Oh, it… backflips. It’s not the best of—”
Alastor pokes a little protruding button on the top of the duck’s head and lets it spin in his open palm.
Lucifer’s face turns a shade of green. “You must think it’s lame that—”
“I think it’s fantastic,” Alastor says, pushing the button again. And it is. It glides through the air, the movement smooth, fluid, and the duck’s little feet land on Alastor’s hand time and time again. He finds himself unwilling to put it down, but since they’ve barely begun, he sets it gently between the others. “What’s this pile?”
Lucifer walks him around the room, moving from food-themed ducks to prank ducks, to bathtub ducks, to elemental ducks. By the sixth category, he’s lost some of his anxiety and now shoves duck after duck into Alastor’s hands, spinning around and babbling as he explains the finer details. It’s… odd. And fascinating. At first, Alastor only asks questions to make the smile widen, but soon they turn genuinely curious.
Half an hour and two reassuring kisses later, Lucifer finally comes to a halt. He stands in the middle of the room, jacketless, sleeves rolled up with two ducks pinned to his shirt. He pants from the excitement, hatless, heat and hearts in his eyes. Alastor seizes the moment.
“And this?” He points to the table. “I presume these are the crown pieces of your collection?”
Lucifer deflates. “Yes, I mean, they’re the ones I really wanted you to see.”
“And I’m glad we took a scenic route,” Alastor says, but Lucifer’s smile is nowhere to be found. Ignoring the steady stir of nervousness in his stomach, Alastor finally lets himself take a look.
From up close, it’s clear at least half of the ducks represent their friends — there’s one with whiskers, one with spider legs and a wide beam, one with a red X and a spear. Alastor lifts the Husk-Duck by the wing. It yawns when touched, beak opening up slowly, and growls in a low, static voice,
“You don’t need another drink.”
“Oh my, this is excellent.” Alastor turns it in his palm and it yawns again, its wings stretching. “How did you get the movement to be so smooth?”
Lucifer shrugs, and looks away. “They may be gifts, at some point, I wouldn’t want to assume anyone—”
“Please, darling, anyone and everyone will adore them.”
If not the ducks themselves — though that anyone could not love them is unfathomable with how intricately they’re crafted — they’d certainly love the thought and the time behind each one. They are, after all, quite a wholesome gang.
“Yeah, right.” Lucifer picks up a neon green duck from the back row and cradles it in his palm with the same degree of care he cradles Alastor in bed. Alastor’s stomach performs a backflip that could rival the duck’s. “See, this one’s actually useful, it’s got all this cool location features, and if you press right here, there’s a compass that—”
These ducks are, indeed, the crown pieces. Lucifer presents each one with a specific backstory and a great deal of coughs and off-side glances. It is a profession, what he does with his inventions. Technology has advanced since Alastor’s time, and his head spins at the explanations of wireless features and touch-free functions. There’s a duck for everything in Lucifer’s collection, and each of them has something useful to offer. Each of them is tailored to make life easier, happier.
When Lucifer stammers over downplaying the significance of a blood red duck capable of spell-checks, Alastor grips him by the elbow.
“What?”
“What about this one?” Alastor asks.
“Which one? That’s all.”
“No, it’s not.” Alastor points to a duck wearing a signature white hat. “That’s you.”
“I mean, it’s—” Lucifer swallows, shuffles his feet. But he put it out for a reason, didn’t he? Surely this is Alastor’s cue to push.
Alastor’s much worse at pushing when he cares, as shocking as that discovery still is.
“Can I?”
The lack of response has to be consent, so Alastor reaches for the Lucifer-Duck. In the end, it takes no effort to show the same care Lucifer does. The duck feels important, precious, and it can’t fit into Alastor’s palm any way but tenderly. A little crown adorns the hat, but instead of the cane, the duck holds a small golden violin under its wing. It doesn’t appear to have any special functions.
“Does it… do anything?” Alastor asks, careful not to offend.
“Yeah.”
Alastor gives him half a minute, then a full one. He strokes his thumb up and down the well-detailed feathers.
“Would you rather not tell me, darling?”
Lucifer shrugs again—at this point his shoulders are bound to be sore tomorrow. “It’s for Charlie, I kinda wanted to ask what you think, but—”
“Then show me.”
Lucifer cups Alastor’s palm from below — fingers barely there, even gentler than they when they handled the ducks. Alastor’s spine zaps hot from end to end; all of his hair fuzzes up with static. The tenderness — that’s what gets him, every time.
The duck doesn’t spin or spit out fire or perform advanced arithmetics. Quite simply, it opens its beaks and speaks, in Lucifer’s very own, perfectly clear voice,
“Hi, Charlie. You’re doing good! I’m proud of you!”
Alastor blinks; tiny pinpricks of red pupils stare right back at him. When Lucifer’s hand begins to tremble, he shakes himself out of the stupor and attempts to rub comfort he can’t yet spell out into Lucifer’s skin. It doesn’t work.
“It’s stupid,” Lucifer says, words frantic. “She handled everything all right on her own for literal years, it’s not like she’s gonna— Do you think she’ll be offended or something?”
“No,” Alastor forces out through the dead current of his throat. He places a kiss on Lucifer’s knuckles; this language comes easier. “She’s bound to love it. She loves you. And, if you need that consolation, she does forgive easily. You’ve already been forgiven.”
Lucifer doesn’t yank his hand away, but he removes it forcibly enough. His eyes gloss over, and he taps his foot on the plush carpet.
“Just, thought, you know”—he stuffs his hands in his pockets—“something can always happen and then you kinda always forget the voice first, so I made the duck say all these things she may want to hear in case—”
Alastor stands in the middle of Lucifer’s cluttered bedroom, surrounded by countless rubber, weighed down by countless sins, in possession of countless over-ambitious plans. There was once a point he thought he didn’t care, where everything was but a means to the end. There was a point he believed himself cruel, a meddler, a murderer.
Alastor stands in the middle of Lucifer’s extraordinary bedroom, on an extraordinary day of his extraordinary after-life, and falls in love.
It happens quickly, like a paper drenched in gasoline catching fire. Like a snapped antenna — his head goes quiet and erupts with white noise. Maybe it happens so quickly because it’s already happened.
Lucifer is not by the table anymore. He’s in the corner of the room, lifting his jacket from the back of a chair. Beating it out until it flops like shed skin, shed wings. Putting it back on — his suit, his armour. Alastor blinks, hard. Blinks again. He must speak. Any second now, Lucifer’ll close his heart forever. Any second now, something will be lost. This moment, this fickle instance of vulnerability must be seized, must be weaved as an undercurrent of all of their future interactions. Alastor needs a broadcast plan. He hasn’t the time.
They should’ve had the wine first, or at least sex. Lucifer reaches for his damned hat.
“Where’s mine?” Alastor asks. Half-snaps.
Lucifer freezes with his hand stretched out in the air. Defying the realm of possibility, he pales further. He looks close to jumping out of his skin. His hand moves, glacially, to his chest, where it pats at his heart as if it were close to jumping out, too.
“Yours?” he asks, weakly.
“Yes.” Alastor clears his throat. He doesn’t smile, because he can’t trust it to not come out the plastic-y sort. “You don’t think I’d like a reminder of your voice, were something to happen to you?”
“No,” Lucifer says. “No, I mean, I didn’t. I don’t…? You would?”
There are no words. Alastor crosses the room in three strides and settles on a kiss, instead. He pulls Lucifer in by the collar with the same brand of roughness Lucifer usually exhibits at the start of their shenanigans. Is this how Lucifer feels, is this what spurs him on? This deafening roar of pure air, this empty no-feedback loop of mine mine mine? This I never planned to have someone like you, and now I don’t have to stand here alone anymore, but instead I stand to lose you, and I just want more of it?
Perhaps it is, because Lucifer gasps into his mouth and nearly tears the seams of his coat as he claws into his back.
“Very much so,” Alastor says into his mouth, and kisses him again.
“Right,” Lucifer gasps out, when Alastor frees his mouth and latches onto his neck instead. “That’s… that checks out, actually. Cause I’ve got one for you.”
Alastor laps at his throat, mute, and slowly — inch by terrifying inch — looks up at him.
“You do?”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t talk or anything.”
“You made one for me.”
“One?” Lucifer laughs, voice hitching into panic. “I mean, yeah, one. Sure. One I can show you, anyway. You wanna see?”
All Alastor can do is nod. To show that he’s willing, he tries to step toward the table again, but Lucifer catches him under the elbow.
“I, um, I have it here.” He points at his jacket, where the inside pocket is. Alastor knows, because he enjoys sliding his fingers inside it in public places.
He clears his throat. “Thank you in advance.”
Lucifer scoffs. “Wait till you see, maybe you’ll hate it.”
“I’m sure I—”
Lucifer pulls out a very plain, bright red duck, much smaller than all the others. It’s beak is slightly darker, and it’s got little deer ears, but the reference is subtle enough to miss. He hands it over and Alastor tries not to squish it between his fingers. He never wants to let go.
It matters not whether it’s plain, whether it sings Christmas songs or lists the elemental table. It’s his. Lucifer made it for him.
“Are you gonna open it or…?”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”
“No, sorry, I didn’t tell you what to do, I’m—”
They fumble over the duck, fingers bumping into each other. Lucifer lets out a helpless laugh, moves Alastor hands away, and clicks the bottom of the duck open.
A simple metal chain falls out with a soft hiss. Lucifer turns the duck for Alastor to see. It’s a clock. No, it’s a watch. A pocket watch.
It’s… perfect. That’s what it is.
“Thank you,” Alastor says, and hears himself sound distant, clipped.
“You don’t have to—”
“Thank you,” Alastor tries again, and when that fails to sound any better, any softer, any more like it ought to sound, he goes in for a kiss.
Lucifer stops him with a hand on his shoulder. His lips cut through his face in a tight, severe line — determined. Angry? Alastor’s head throbs.
“It’s this whole,” Lucifer says, “gesture thing, all right? I should show you before you see for yourself.”
“Gesture… thing?”
With a sigh, shoulders pulled back as if braced for a punch, Lucifer flips the duck over. At the bottom, among the blood-red, there’s a plain, white heart the size of a coin.
Alastor’s own stops and restarts again at a wild pace. He stares at duck until the heart burns into his retinas. Or he hopes that it does, that it can. That it can stay with him forever.
“That’s—” he says. Nothing else follows. His mind sizzles out to dead air.
“I know it’s very… early, I know that. And it doesn’t have to be this all out, super special, super serious thing. It can be more of a tiny promise, yeah? Or a promise of a promise. It doesn’t have to be a big deal, or, you know, the real deal, it’s more an intention of— Are you okay?”
Alastor tries to force out comprehensible words, dignified words. What comes out is a choked-up hum. Resigned, he shakes his head.
“You wanna hug or something? Or is it more a I need space moment?”
Alastor shakes his head again.
“Oh, fuck, you hate it, don’t you. It’s too much.”
Another shake. The world spins a bit.
Lucifer loves him.
“You… don’t hate it? No, stop doing that, you’ll unscrew your stupid head.”
Alastor tips into him, forehead to his collarbone. Tries to breathe. Zap, zap, zap.
Lucifer loves him.
“You don’t hate it, then.”
A nod, he can manage that much.
“You… like it?” A hand lands in his hair, rubs behind his ear, hesitantly.
“Very much so,” Alastor whispers, and the words are too far apart, embarrassingly apart.
The next scratch comes more confident, and Lucifer wraps his free arm around Alastor’s back, tugs him in. Alastor inhales the smell of his cologne — the one Alastor bought for him, richer, better, more suited to the likes of the king of Hell. Alastor’s mark on him.
“You’re scaring me a bit,” Lucifer says, fingers splayed wide, just skimming Alastor’s nape. “Are you crying?”
“No,” Alastor says. Clears his throat. “Words are just… far away, if you will.”
“Okay. Take your time.”
Alastor does. He takes large, slow breaths through his nose, and lets his muscles melt loose. Lucifer keeps him upright.
“I’d very much—” he says, voice thick, interrupted with the staticky sizzle between each syllable. “I’d very much like the real deal.”
Lucifer’s hand tightens in his hair before slowly, gradually letting go. “Yeah?”
“Indeed.”
Since Lucifer’s been supporting all of his weight anyway, it takes no effort at all to let himself be dragged into a kiss. Quicker than he’s ready for, it turns heated, and Lucifer spins him around until his shoulder blades hit the tapestry. With a glint in his eyes, he leans back.
“Then you’ve got it.”
“And you too,” is all Alastor can say, all he can offer, but the way Lucifer swoops him off his feet and onto the nearest flat surface, hurriedly brushing the ducks out of the way, almost makes it seem like it’s enough.
“I’m glad you like it,” Lucifer pants into his neck between one ripped off button and another.
“I love it,” Alastor says. “I love it, darling.”
It’s close enough. Lucifer beams at him, and kisses the air out of him again. It’s close enough.
Oh, damn it all, it’s perfect.
***
Alastor carries the duck in his breast pocket wherever he goes. The chain peeks out, innocent, insignificant to anyone but the two of them. During the bad moments of the day — and during the best ones — Alastor touches his chest with the flat of his palm, and feels the duck press in, heart to heart.
Day by day, his frequency adjusts. Day by day, he picks up a clearer signal from the joy channel. Time for a joint programme.
The Radio isn’t dead, dear listeners, but it is ending this lonely broadcast.
