Chapter Text
Creation had always been easy for Lucifer, easy as breathing was for humans, easy as swimming was for fish.
Yet as he stared at his newest duck, he felt like there had been an error- something so wrong about the unfinished project. Perhaps it is the fact that this duck is based on his least favorite person to ever exist. Lucifer tries to avoid looking at the Radio bastard unless absolutely necessary.
Even when he is forced to look, it’s not like he sees anything other than red. The guy is comparable to a decaying strawberry. He’s heard the guy has antlers and there are definitely ears on his overinflated head. There are most certainly stripes on his coat - I think there are stripes? Doesn’t he also wear glasses? And then there is the main problem of the microphone staff he always has on him. Is that thing still broken? Was it ever broken to begin with?
He could not get his tired brain to conjure any images of the resident red menace try as he might. Listen when you’ve been around as long as Lucifer Morningstar, have the brain of said devil with all of its defects, images are just hard, ok? Even on a good day it’s hard to remember all of the main hotel residents, much less the finer details of one in particular. And today was not a good day. Today was a day where the big boss of hell himself had to admit he wanted to create a duck of the worst person he knew… and could not.
Lucifer could not admit he, the almighty powerful devil was struggling to create something as simple as a duck- the very base so easy due to the probably millions of previous models he’d designed in his long life. It could not completed because he could not recall all the finer details of the muse nevermind the burning question of why he wanted to create this duck in the first place.
He can dissect that if he ever manages to complete the damned duck.
“Speaking of completing, what do I even do if it's ever finished?”
There would be nothing that could save him from the waves of embarrassment. Because truly, what use would he have for a radio demoned themed duck?
Where would it sit for all of eternity?
“There is absolutely no way in hell the bellhop would ever get his red claws- Are they red? On this little lapse in judgement.
It would certainly not sit on his shelf with all his other treasured ducks.
Right beside Charlie and I? Hah, absolutely not! That try hard - daughter thieving deer would never be family. NEVER!!!
(The devil himself must have never heard the phrase never say never.)
He could put the pieces in the trash, never assemble and paint. Never whole. Somehow that seemed cruel.
Still the conundrum persisted. Where to put the finished duck? Or leave it unfinished and forever leave it on his work desk?
“Isn’t that a perfect metaphor for us right now”, he thought bitterly.
This duck represented so much more than an unfinished project. Lucifer had no idea where they stood these days. Sure, they threw cutting remarks, looked at each other with the same animosity (when Lucifer deigned to look) as before that whole mess with vox, but, at least on Lucifer’s end there was less punch to his words. He just couldn’t get the thoughts of a bloody bellhop looking so close to a second death out of his head. The guy was strong, or was supposed to be. How was it the literal devil didn't see it before. The gaping wound on his chest, the angelic grace literally trying to disassemble him while no one was any wiser.
The guy had acting chops and a huge pain tolerance to not only fight other overlords, but do so while so severely weakened.
Lucifer rubbed his eyes in exasperation. He could not say he would have helped even if the bellhop came to him all on his own, but to not even ask? What was up with that? Maybe if Lucifer was feeling generous, he would have fixed the microphone -assuming it was still broken. He was not opposed to making simple deals. It could have gone “hey if i fix your staff and heal you, you protect charlie, since ya know (well after that thing with vox), I can’t smite sinners.”
That could have been it. But no, the guy had to take the long way around. Though maybe it was for the best. Since everything had sort of returned to normal, the devil hadn’t noticed the golden chain any longer. Which means Bambi had a deal he needed out of, that despite being the king of hell. He could not help.
Still staring at the pieces of a would-be radio demon duck, he decided maybe a late night walk around the hotel might be for the best.
Getting up, he made his way out of his room. With a flick of his wrist, the door shut with a click. However Lucifer caught a glint of gold and looked at the plaque he put on the wall . No Alastor’s Allowed.
He had thought it a good idea after being awoken to glowing red eyes and a misty outline of the resident deer demon. Plural, because that shadow made it a personal hobby to torment the devil when its always smiling companion couldn’t be bothered.
Did he want to let Alastor in though? Could he? He had a duck sitting on his desk that might contradict any other answer than yes. Well, pieces of the duck.
As he walked around the hotel, he noticed all the things that reminded him of Bambi everywhere. He was in the music room where a simple piano stood. He was in the kitchen where his personal spice rack sat all alphabetically organized. His antique radios scattered everywhere playing soft jazz. Even in the people of the hotel.
Namely that little unhinged maid that even at 2am was skittering around muttering something about roaches and their uprising. In Charlie, who despite all the trauma of the last year and some odd months was still smiling her brightest smile, something about never being fully dressed without one. When questioned by Lucifer where she heard that rabble from, her face twisting into one of frustration. The curl of her mouth told Lucifer all he needed to know about where she heard it, from who she heard it a jealous voice whispered.
Just like the pieces of that duck, maybe If Lucifer tried he could maybe put all the pieces together. Find the bigger picture so to speak or put a complete image of Alastor, resident Radio Demon in his head. Distinguish the differences between Alastor and The Radio Demon and just maybe Lucifer could open the door. Allow the deer demon in.
Then he could put the duck together and find a place for it somewhere.
Alastor's POV
If anyone asked Alastor why he had a feather from that ducking king, he's certain he'd say something about rituals, murder, or at the very least a royal tooth pick. Personal objects had many uses for his magic, more personal the better. Not only could it boost the power behind the spell or ritual, it could be the catalyst to so much more. A whole lot of possibilities for just one crimson feather.
Yet if Alastor was honest with himself (he never is), he might admit that he simply didn't want to destroy such a unique thing. Who else could say they had a feather from the King of Hell? Even if said king is currently the laughing stock of the entire Pride ring.
Placing the feather back in its place he sees his reflection in the mirror.
While his time wrapped in that delightful office chair tormenting Vox had done wonders for his own self esteem, he could admit that he physically still looked gaunt, still had dark circles under his eyes, and his hair currently curled and unmanageable due to the humidity in his room. Feeling the weight of his stare reflected back at him, he entertained the thought of keeping the feather.
Sure, Alastor could destroy it and move on. He could also keep it- not to be used in a ritual or some other nefarious purpose, he could just keep it. A physical reminder of sorts. He could look at it knowing he could find a way to use it to destroy Lucifer, hell knows he wants nothing more than that short (derogatory short) king far away from the hotel. Far away from him. But that feather was possibilities, even if he never acted on them. So it sat with the end nestled in his King Roach crown as it had since the night everyone returned to the hotel with Charlie and Vaggie carrying Lucifer on shaky legs and drooping wings. And tomorrow he’d stare at it again, thinking, wondering, but never quite landing on the right thought despite the feather taunting him every evening since returning to the hotel.
It was now the part of the nightly routine to huff around before settling on walking around the hotel. Despite most of his duties having been transferred to Vaggie, he did still do patrols and frighten anyone who thought it wise to try the Radio Demon on his new home turf. Lucifer may not be able to harm sinners, but Alastor had no such issues. While he can admit he still finds redemption laughable (the snake was lucky), still sees the hotel and most of its inhabitants as nothing more than ants, he meant what he said to Vox.
There is nothing or no one in existence who could break Charlie’s spirit, save perhaps her ever growing mother issues. He would see this whole fiasco to it’s entertaining end while finding simple delight in tormenting a certain fallen angel.
As he walks past the kitchen, he hears the sound of fluttering wings of an angel who can’t reach the top shelf in the staff kitchen.
As the Radio Demon rounded the corner he paused. Bathed in the dim kitchen lighting was the devil himself humming softly and lightly flapping his wings as he reached for the sugar in the baking section of the cabinet. Alastor could not help the short joke falling out of his mouth.
“It must be so hard to be so vertically challenged that God had to give you six wings.”