a/n: it's 4AM, and I wrote this, so please forgive me if it's just utter shit. But this song is so spoby, like so spoby, it actually hurts me. It's called Midnight by Barcelona, and yeah, I just, listen to it, at least once. I promise you that's it's an amazing song, and that it will make you think of spoby (and cry.) Anyways, that's what this fic is based on. There's some lyrics in there, too. So yeah. I don't own the song, or PLL for that matter. Hope you like it :)

Also this kind of is set in 5x05, all because there is a rain scene in the truck in 5x05, and yeah!?

Midnight

The sky is dimming, in combination of rain and falling sunset. It is almost the time in Rosewood where the population decreases, and citizens are found face up in the dirt, breathless. It's that time where fear and anxiety fuel the workings of Rosewood, and the deadliest serpents come out to play. In every horror movie, night stands as the enemy. Just like how it is in Rosewood.

Rain hits the windshield repeatedly, never-ending; the window wipers at a constant swiping motion, pushing away the rain drops that accumulate on the glass. The ground is wet, and Spencer's backyard has basically become a mud pit (they still have not cleaned it up all the way, to everyone's dismay.)

The truck parks outside her house, waiting to sorrowfully depart after she opens the door, and makes her exit, embarking into the rain drops and dark Hastings Household. Toby doesn't want her to leave, but then again, he kind of never wants her to leave. But especially of late.

It's like she's lost her motivation to keep going. There's this lifelessness in her eyes, where fire used to be. Even when he left to London, when adderall had nearly taken a hold of her, there had been a fire in those eyes. But it has seemingly faded. And that terrifies him.

Everything she does lately seems so void—so empty, and hopeless. She has never been an eager fan of the concept of hope, but at least she had it. Now, she's losing it, and what are you without hope? Where is the light when hope is expired? Nonexistent.

"I can't go in there," she finally says, after staring at the house for nearly ten minutes, or so. "I just can't," she turns her head away, staring to her lap. She says the words so quietly, and shamefully that the sound of his own heart cracking is more audible than the voice his ears have grown to specially hear for—like when someone calls your name, or says a specific word, how you'll hear it, even through a crowd of people—that's how it is with her voice. He has grown to distinguish it from every other sound.

"You don't have to," he supports in a soft tone. He knows she's weary of Melissa, and her father—her own father, one of the people whom you're just supposed to be able to trust, no questions asked. But not the Hastings, not Spencer. She doesn't get that.

She keeps looking down, her head shaking back and forth in tiny fractures. "I just don't want to be here," she says. "I'm so sick of this town," she heaves, meeting his stare.

There's an impeccable sadness glowering in her caramel eyes; a brokenness that has been created with years of sufferings. He wants so bad to erase the look in her eyes, to make this imaginary world where everything is okay and right for her, but he knows that's impossible. He knows there isn't really much he can do, but be there for her when she needs it.

"I know," he puts forth, lamely.

"I just want a normal day," she decides, her posture becoming up straight and sure. "A day where everything's fine," she states. "Where I can lie to myself that everything's all right."

"I've had those dreams before, too," he sighs, softly.

"So, why don't we just do it?" she declares, looking at him, hopefully. There's actually hope in her eyes! There's more than terror and loss. There's something vibrant and alive.

"Spencer," he dreads his own words.

"It doesn't have to be a day, that's too much, I know," she states, "it can just be tonight," her words come out quickly. "We can go to my lake house…and just…just be there, and just not be in this awful town."

He contemplates for a second about the idea. He has a job to get to tomorrow by 4PM. It takes about an hour and a half to get out there, but he supposes he would have enough time to drive Spencer home, and then head out. But he's probably going to be exhausted…

But once he looks at Spencer again, he knows he has to say yes. There have been so many times where he was gone, and unable to hold her, or times where she was unwilling to let him in, he can't say no.

Curled around you babe,

You're lost in your head

When they got to Spencer's lake house, after lighting the fire, they were instantly shedding clothes. They had laid out an abundance of pillows and blankets on the floor in front of the fire place when they first got there. They were just planning to sit out in front of the fire, like they have before; at least that's what Toby thought. But somehow hand holding and temple kisses led to stripping clothes and thrusting hips.

Now, they lay, still on the floor, the fire illuminating their blanket covered bodies. Spencer hasn't said much. It reminds him of the other day, when he came back from London. She's just lying next to him, her eyes dead set on him, examining and studying his features like an astronomer would do the stars. Her fingers tickle through his hair, occasionally tracing the outline of his jaw, then lips.

He is almost scared to murmur a word. Scared that she'll ravel back up into herself, and be completely lost from him. But with the more time that passes, and the heavier his eyelids become, he knows he must say something.

I get lost in your word.

You feel far too deep,

"What are you thinking about?" he decides to use the most cliché question in the universe. But he honestly has no idea what is going on in her head, right now. The other day he tried to prompt her with Melissa and Alison, but she hadn't given a coherent response to either.

She just shakes her head, "it doesn't matter," she murmurs quietly. "Not right now, anyways," her voice is just passing as a whisper. She meets his lips for a tender kiss, her thumb caressing the side of his face.

"I love you," he declares, solemnly. He truly, really, does. There was a hole inside him for so long, a hole that consisted of hate and loneliness, and just plain ol' utter despair, but the longer he spent with Spencer, the more the hole filled. Where there once was a famine, now lives a surplus.

"I love you," she murmurs back, but it's not as committed as it usually is, as if she is distracted. Her doe eyes seem glossy. "And I…" she begins, but stops. He waits for her to continue, but she just doesn't. She just sniffles, and from there, keeps her eyes lost from his.

"You what?" he prompts after what seemed like a decade of waiting.

"Nothing," she meets his eyes, finally. "It's nothing," she declares. "Everything's fine, remember? We're pretending," she states, forcing a smile out of herself.

"Right," he states, his fingers trailing down the side of her face, and to her jaw. His fingers gloss over her lips and to her chin, and linger above the spot in which her chin indents, just like his.

"Do you think our six-pack new born will also be dimple chinned?"

She laughs a little, a brightness forming in her mocha eyes that gaze at him with affection. Her finger rises to poke the indent in his chin, and he chuckles, moving a strand hair from her face. He loves her laugh. He loves everything about it—the meaning, the sound, how her eyes get small and when all her teeth show.

"Yes, I think that that would be a good educated guess," she states.

He smiles, his hand finding hers.

Suddenly her smile fades into something almost, but not quite, somber. An almost hesitant somber. "I hate lying to you," she creaks out, his eyes losing hers.

Tell me everything that you've lost

Show me every home you've left behind,

Point out all the ones you've loved,

I've got time.

He knows it's not as simple as her making a choice not to lie. It's complicated, and she's trying to protect him, that's Spencer, for you, but what she doesn't understand, or maybe does and doesn't care (more likely the latter) is that he doesn't care about being protected. He wants to be in on all her hidden truths, and everything that she is afraid to voice aloud. He wants to be able to know, so he can understand. Only then can he be there for her—can he help her.

"You don't have to protect me," he states, his voice heavy with emotion; the octave low. "You don't have to worry about me," he assures her, full well knowing that she will worry anyway. There's really no argument, truthfully. They'll both go through hell for each other, both endure burning and scabbing and the misery of pain to protect the one another, and in the end, they're both just ashes.

"Yes I do," she spurs out. "I don't—," her voice catches a little. "If anything ever happened to you, and it was at all my fault, I wouldn't—I. I thought, before, that I knew what it was like to—what it would be like if you were gone. I thought I would do anything to protect you, but after I saw you—after I thought you were dead," she finally gets out in a quiet rasp, her eyes scanning with tears. His heart writhes up as she speaks, "I understood, understood how important it is to keep you safe. I thought I got that before, but I didn't, Toby," she professes. "I've always wanted to keep you safe, but, after what happened in the woods, I learned that I need to," there's tears visible on her skin now.

He uses his thumb to sweep away the tears before kissing both her eyelids, and below her eyes, and on the tip of her nose, and all over until she's no longer crying. "I'm sorry," he whispers about a thousand times into her soft, ivory skin, "I'm sorry," he repeats again and again until the word sounds foreign.

She finally speaks again, her eyes searching his desperately for something he wishes he had to give her. "I want to tell you everything," she states, "but I can't."

He sighs, replying a moment later with heaviness in his voice, "I know," he murmurs.

She frowns, and he wraps his arms around her, bringing her into his chest. She freely lets him guide her body into his, but it isn't really guiding—their bodies do it on their own. They mold into each other without any push or pressure. It's an unconscious body movement.

One day everything will be fine. It has to be. But, until then, he'll be there for her, standing by her side until all the chaos comes to an end. He won't let her go through this alone.

Please don't be sad,

You don't have to smile to make it by.

It's a new midnight, a new sunrise,

And can't be that bad.