Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Duck Knows Too Much
The rubber duck stared at Lucifer with empty, painted eyes, and somehow that was still easier than looking at the real thing.
"Okay," Lucifer whispered, adjusting the little duck on the kitchen counter so it faced him directly. "Let's try this again. From the top."
He cleared his throat. he straightened his collar. He picked an invisible piece of lint off his white suit and flicked it away with royal precision. Then he placed both hands flat on the counter, leaned forward, and addressed the duck as if it owed him rent.
"Alastor. Al. Dear Alastor," He winced. "No, that sounds like a letter from the 1800s. He'd probably love that, actually. Okay, keep it."
The kitchen of the Hazbin Hotel was blissfully empty at two in the morning. Every resident had gone to bed_or at least to their rooms; it was a question how many of them actually slept. The fluorescent light above buzzed in that specific way that made everything feel slightly unreal, which suited Lucifer just fine. Reality was the last thing he wanted right now.
He took a breath and started again.
"Dear Alastor, I know we don't exactly see eye to eye. Literally. You're ridiculously tall, and I find that both annoying and....not annoying." He groaned and rubbed his face. "Wow. Stunning. Shakespeare is rolling in his grave. He's in Hell somewhere. I should ask him for help."
The duck offered no opinion.
Lucifer picked it up and held it at eye level. "The thing is, Mr. Duck, I have spent thousands of years as the King of Hell. I've faced armies. I've fallen from heaven itself. I told God His plan needed better project management. But the idea of telling one smug, overdressed deer that I *like* him makes me want to crawl into a hole and stay there for a century."
He set the duck down and began to pace. His boots clicked against the tile floor. The kitchen smelled like old coffee and the remains of whatever Angel Dust had tried to cook earlier-something that looked like pasta and smelled like a threat.
"It's the smile, " Lucifer continued, gesturing with both hands as if the duck had asked for details. "That horrible, constant, knowing smile. And the way he talks, like everything is a broadcast and he's the only one who knows the punchline. And his voice-that static thing he does-it shouldn't be charming. It should be creepy. But here I am."
He stopped pacing and faced the duck again.
"Here I am," He repeated, quieter now. "The King of Hell, falling for someone who probably sees me as a mild entertainment between power plays."
The room felt very still. Lucifer swallowed hard.
"Alastor," he said, and this time his voice was steady, almost soft. "I like you, I like the way you hum old songs when you think nobody's listening. I like that you're the only person down here who isn't afraid of me or impressed by me. I like that you make everything more interesting just by walking into a room. And I know you probably don't feel the same way, and I know this is ridiculous, and I know-"
A sound.
Barely there at first-like a radio caught between stations. A low hiss of white noise that crawled along the edges of the kitchen.
Lucifer's words died in his throat.
The shadows in the corner of the room shifted. Not the way shadows normally moved when the light flickered. These shadows stretched. They slid across the floor like dark water, pooling near the doorway.
Lucifer's heart-ancient, immortal, and currently beating much too fast-dropped straight to his stomach.
No.
Then came the laugh.
It started low, wrapped in static, crackling through the air like an old-time radio warming up. It grew louder, layered, filled with a delight that was unmistakably, horrifyingly familiar.
Lucifer turned slowly toward the doorway.
Alastor stood there, leaning against the frame with the ease of someone who had been standing there for far too long. His ever-present grin stretched wide across his face, sharper than usual, his red eyes glowing with amusement. His microphone staff rested against his shoulder. Shadows curled at his feet like obedient pets.
"Well, well," Alastor said, his voice a smooth blend of charm and radio distortion. "Don't stop on my account, Your Majesty. I believe you were getting to the good part."
Lucifer opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
He grabbed the rubber duck off the counter and held it up like a shield.
"This isn't what it looks like," he said.
Alastor tilted his head, eyes bright with knowing mischief.
"Oh, I think it's *exactly* what it looks like."
The fluorescent lights buzzed. The duck stared blankly. And Lucifer Morningstar, King of Hell, fallen angel, and master of pride, wished-truly, deeply wished-that the floor would open up and swallow him whole.
Which, in Hell, was actually possible. But tonight, the floor wasn't on his side either.