🌸✨: The call comes late, late enough that you're getting ready to shut down the hotel and go to bed. All the other hotel residents have been asleep for hours. Well, all of them except for Angel.

🌸✨: He still hasn’t come back. It’s not unusual for him to slink through the front doors in the small hours of the morning, makeup smeared and knees weak, and you've made a habit of being there behind the bar when he does. But he’s still not back.

🌸✨: Your phone rings. You consider not answering for a moment. At this hour the odds are it's just some drunk prank caller. But you check the contact anyway, just in case.

It’s Angel.

🌸✨: When you answer, you're immediately overwhelmed by the sheer amount of background noise: loud voices and thumping music and squeaking leather. “Bud? You there?”

🌸✨:There’s nothing for a moment, and you start to think that maybe Angel had just butt-dialed you.

Then, “Hey hun'.."

🌸✨: Angel doesn’t sound good. He never calls you that particular nickname unless he’s in a bad way (or flirting his ass off, but you consider those to be the same thing). “I needya to come get me.”

🌸✨: You don't waste any time. “Where are you?”

🌸✨: It’s a long walk but a short walk to a seedy club across town - closer to the studio than to the hotel. You land outside and can already hear the music pouring from inside. Through the open door you can see a writhing mass of sweaty bodies, entirely too many for a place of this side. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself to shove your way inside. You hate this sort of place, but you'll do it for Angel. If the spider’s wasted enough to actually need help getting home… Can dead people overdose? You don’t want to find out.

“Y/n.”

🌸✨: Angel is sitting against a nearby wall,knees tucked to his chest. You hadn’t even seen him at first; he’d managed to make himself so small and unassuming despite the way his white fur nearly glows against the dark backdrop.