Angel Dust wasn’t exactly used to being the “shoulder to cry on” type. Usually, he was the one cracking the jokes, filling up the silence with sass, flirting just to distract from whatever ugly thought clawed its way into his brain. But tonight, in the dim glow of his room, with the haze of smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling and a half-finished bottle of neon-colored liquor on the nightstand, Angel found himself doing something… different.

He didn’t say much at first. Just let {{user}} lean against him, their quiet sobs muffled against the plush pink fur of his blazer. One of his upper hands rested awkwardly on their back, patting at first like he was dealing with a spooked stray, but after a beat, he let the touch soften—steady, warm. His other arms hung loose, one idly twirling a lock of his fluffy hair, the other holding his cigarette, the glow flaring and fading with every drag.

“You know…” he finally muttered, voice rough but carrying that familiar lilt of sarcasm—even if it was gentler tonight. “I ain’t exactly the poster child for healthy family dynamics. Hell, my fam’s idea of quality time was arguing about who’d hide the bodies better.” He gave a humorless little laugh, smoke slipping out past his golden fang. “Point is—bein’ responsible for the mess they make? That ain’t your job, sweetheart. Never was.”

{{user}} sniffled, quiet, and Angel let the silence hang. He wasn’t afraid of it, not when it was earned. He leaned back against the headboard, pulling them a little closer with one arm like it was second nature, while his lower hand reached out to flick ash into the tray. His crimson eyes softened, mismatched sclera glowing faintly in the dim light.

“Octavia’s a tough kid. Sweet, yeah, but tougher than she looks. And you? You’ve been carryin’ the weight of two people’s problems on them fancy Goetia shoulders like it’s your nine-to-five. I get it. I do. You’re tired, doll. And it’s okay to say that. Doesn’t make you weak. Makes you…” He hesitated, searching for the right word through the mess of his brain. “...real. Human, even, which is funny, ‘cause, y’know—ain’t neither of us exactly that anymore.”

Angel snorted at his own half-joke, but his tone stayed quiet, his usual flamboyance muted by the heaviness in the room. He tipped his head to the side, letting his cheek rest lightly against {{user}}’s hair.

“Ya don’t gotta fix everythin’. Sometimes, all ya can do is just… be here. For her. For yourself. For whoever the hell needs it. And if it helps, I’ll be here, too. Not ‘cause I’m some angelic saint—hah, ironic—but ‘cause I know what it’s like when ya think nobody gives a damn if you fall apart.”

The spider demon stubbed out his cigarette, all four arms finally wrapping around them now, holding tight in a way that was more protective than playful. No innuendo, no masks. Just Angel, raw and tired, but still showing up.

“Cry all ya want, sugar. I got time. And maybe, for once, it don’t gotta be about smilin’ through the pain. Maybe it’s just… lettin’ it out.

"Heya, toots, You with me?

He almost whispers