the hospital
"...this town doesn't need another trial."
"No. It doesn't." Her throat is sandpaper. She doesn't want to talk about this anymore. It hurts. Everything in her head, her bones, her soul - she aches for herself and for her friends and for Toby. Nothing is making sense to her, but it's because she isn't able to concentrate on what he's telling her about Andrew, isn't able to process this new world around her. She just wants to evaporate into another fogged dream.
"I'll let you get back to sleep." Reluctance colors his features, his subdued voice crackling out of him slowly.
"I was asleep. Actual real sleep. I haven't had that in a long time."
His pale blue eyes are reflecting every bit of the room's natural light. His entire heart seems to be swimming in front of her.
"We never gave up."
He won't look at her now, but it's only because he can't. It isn't his turn to fall apart. He can wait, and he will wait, because she's the one who's been to hell and back this time. She's the one who needs to be supported.
Spencer pushes off the thin mattress and he receives her kiss with quiet devastation. It's only a moment, two kisses, a breath between them, but it descends into his bloodstream with more influence than a thousand other embraces. She still feels too fragile, too thin, too tired, too small. But her mouth is still the same. Her mouth still makes him whole.
He tucks himself into her narrow shoulder, trying to keep himself from transferring all of his weight into her, but he covets her touch with such a demanding appetite that he can't resist. He has to have her in some way; he needs the smell of her like he needs oxygen.
She closes her eyes, quickly accepting him into her arms, her fingers sinking into his back, cementing themselves to his navy uniform. He feels like a somber welcome home party. He clings to her and she clings to him. She wants to ask him if he's okay, but she knows better than to assume that he'd offer an honest answer.
"I know, Toby. I never ever doubted that you'd-you'd never stop looking."
It was one of the only reasons she'd survived. She knew what it would do to him if she...
His nose digs further into her shoulder and she rubs his weary muscles until he's ready to face her again.
"Get some more sleep, baby..." his hands sweep over her face several times, sketching across her cheek bones and plunging into her hair. "I'll see you soon, alright?"
She grips his wrist with a strength that catches him off guard. "Be careful out there. Please."
He remembers how it felt to leave her only a handful of hours ago, remembers the tears that poured from her cinnamon eyes as he told her that his job wasn't finished until Andrew was sitting in a jail cell. It had nearly ruined him to watch her as she crumbled, whimpering disjointedly into his chest, pleading with him to stay away from that place. She had been so far from the bold, dynamic, take-no-prisoners girl that he'd met once upon a time on his front porch. She was liquid now, helplessly stuck in a rushing flood of panic. It had taken the better part of an hour to get her settled down before he left her in the care of her friends. Even then, her quieted cries had followed him the whole way down the hall.
And now, on some level, he has to believe that she still doesn't think it's over - not when that look continues to haunt her face. Fear. Pure, all-encompassing, irrepressible...cold, sharp fear.
He gives her delicate fingers a long squeeze. "I'm always careful. I'll always come back to you."
She looks at him like he's a ghost from another life. His lips meet hers for just a hint of a kiss. "I love you, Spence."
"Love you too," she returns brokenly.
His eyes are itching with tears before he has a chance to make it out the door.
the picnic
"Well A is for arrogance."
She rises from the blanket and begins collecting the remnants of their scattered lunch, keeping a staccato pace as she trudges toward the vehicle. Her hand is on the door handle, her eyes intent on the truck that has come to mean so much to her, to both of them. She wants to leave. She doesn't know how to be with him right now. She isn't herself, and she's afraid of how she might be upsetting him with this alien version of the girl that he loved before. Before this awful thing happened to her…
"When I caught Andrew, I wanted to take him apart because of what he did to you."
She shuffles back around to face him, recognizing the hurt that occupies his voice in a way that's endlessly familiar. That feeling is no stranger to her. She's done that before - grieved his pain, his absence, his isolation - all as if they were her own. It's what they did. They suffered for themselves, and then they suffered two-fold for each other.
"All I could think about was you in that place, and I realized that I don't know what happened. I was there, I saw it…but...you never really talked about what happened. Why?"
She owes him so much more. He saved her life. He'd sacrificed sleep and food, had spent weeks on end with a devouring guilt and terror tearing a hole through him as he searched for her.
And yet it is so damn hard to meet his eyes. She desperately wishes that she could find a way to snap herself out of this persistent state of numbness.
"Spencer..." he touches a contrary curl, the pads of his fingers barely whispering along until he reaches the strand's end.
The fragrant spring breeze reminds her that she's real, she's alive, she's out of that place and all she wants is to put it behind her.
"It's...it's because I don't know how to..."
He nods. His jaw clenches. He doesn't move.
There's a skyscraper of indecision weighing on her shoulders. It's then that the truth hits her. "It was—so, so horrible. So horrible, that I don't want you to know about it. Not because I think you couldn't handle it, but because...I'm not sure if I can handle it."
Her vision swells and goes fuzzy and the colors of the trees blend with the dirt, and his sweatshirt is distorted into messy pieces. She's crying. Just when she thought she couldn't cry anymore, there it is—a new deluge of salty tears.
"It's okay. It doesn't matter, Spencer. I love you and...and the rest of it doesn't matter."
It croaks out of his chest and she knows that he's crying too even if she can't see him clearly. She reaches for him blindly, her hand meeting with the soft fabric of his hoodie, and she's practically lifted off of her feet when he reciprocates with a massive bear hug.
"You don't have to say or do anything that you aren't ready for." The vibration of his steady voice channels through her. Her chest is crushed against his and she feels warm for the first time in weeks. "And when you're ready, it doesn't have to be with me, okay? I just want you to come out on the other side of this in one piece, but it has to be on your terms."
She nods into his collarbone. An escalating sob threatens to break free. Her hands shake uncontrollably as she wraps her arms around his neck. "Toby—"
Nothing else comes out, only a trembling exhale spilling in the wake of his name.
He kisses the top of her head. "I know, sweetheart. Let's get you home, okay?"
For once, she makes no complaint over the fact that he opens the door for her, helps her up into the truck's cabin, and buckles her in as if she were a child. For once, it's exactly what she wants him to do.
the fireside
It takes a lot of willpower to keep himself from bombarding her with texts and calls. He hates letting her out of his sight, even for just a minute. Doubts about Andrew's guilt plague his every waking thought. She could still be in danger. She could vanish again, and it could be permanent this time. What if someone else really is still out there? What if –
His phone lights up, cutting off the internal spout of uneasiness, and he sighs with violent relief.
"I'm fine, Toby, I promise. Just tired."
His fingers are flying with a hasty apology, but in an instant, the screen is flashing with a different kind of alert - Veronica Hastings is calling him.
In less than thirty seconds, she's given him everything he needs. She has an early alarm set for a morning appointment, but she's worried about Spencer and unsure of what to do. Can he sit up with her tonight?
"I'll be there."
He's already stumbling out his front door - his shoes unlaced and a clean shirt only halfway over his head - before she has a chance to hang up.
When he finds Spencer camped out in her living room just a few minutes later, it's evident that she hasn't slept much since he last saw her. Dark half-moons line each of her eyes, her skin is white and drawn, and her voice is still flat...lifeless. A blanket is pulled up to her chin, but when he finds her hands from beneath the quilted fabric, he's surprised at the icy temperature that meets him.
"I can build a fire if you want," he murmurs softly.
She shrugs, but her gaze flutters up to his and the message is clear - she's too far gone to ask for help. He kisses her forehead for a long moment.
"Just sit tight, okay?" It feels dumb as soon as it comes out of his mouth. It's not like she's in a hurry to go anywhere.
It doesn't take him long to get it started, just a few crumpled newspapers and two small logs; the match strikes against its little cardboard box, promptly igniting his handiwork with an audible hiss. The fire crackles to life and the room glows with a flicker of orange. Toby lines up a third log, watching carefully before placing it in the midst of the burgeoning flames.
He turns back to her from his position on the floor, and she's sitting up a little straighter, the blanket falling loosely around her shoulders. "How about some tea? Or coffee if…if there's any decaf…"
"I must really look bad if you think I'm going to ignore the fact that you just suggested decaf."
It takes a split-second for her words to take effect. His smile grows broader and broader as it dawns on him – she's making a joke. She is being sarcastic.
He reaches for her knee and tugs teasingly at her blanket. "My mistake, Spencer. I won't let it happen again."
She grins back at him, and while it isn't as full as usual, it still sends a current of excitement through him. "I don't want anything to drink. Just come up here."
He immediately complies. She covers him in the quilt, throwing a leg into his lap as he wedges her compactly against his side, his arm draping over her small frame. "When's the last time you actually slept, Spence? I mean really slept, like what you said to me in the hospital."
"That was the last time," she confides in a minuscule voice, "I've only dosed off here and there since I've been home."
His arm tenses from around her shoulder. "Do you not feel safe here? Is it your bedroom? Because if you can't—"
"No, Toby, that's not really it…my mom…given my history, she doesn't think it's wise for me to be on anti-anxiety medication. I'm at a bit of a disadvantage without it."
"Oh." Of course…how had he not seen that for himself? It all makes sense now—Spencer's demeanor, Veronica's frantic call, the look of sheer exhaustion that is both physical and mental. She was—
"You agree with her, don't you? You think she made the right decision."
She's somewhere between anger and tears. She's in his least favorite place.
"Hey, I didn't say that, did I?" he speaks quietly, his hand running soothingly over her arm.
Spencer lurches away from his touch. "You said 'oh,' Toby. Not really a vote of confidence."
"It's just…I understand where she's coming from, but—" he cups her chin as she tries to avoid his eyes, begging her to stay with him, "—but, I'm not thrilled with the way she's gone about it. I'm guessing that this was less of a conversation, and more of a…mandate. Is that true?"
She nods her head, a sheen of moisture brimming at the border of her lashes.
"I want you to be healthy, but that's a little complicated, isn't it? Because you need sleep, sweetheart. And I think that should be the priority for right now. Maybe your dosage should be lower than what's generally prescribed given the circumstances, or I don't know…I'm not an expert on the alternatives. I just know that this not sleeping thing isn't good for you either. I wish she would have at least let you try it for a few days under her supervision."
"She knows I'm too unreliable to be trusted with the concept of supervised rationing," she mumbles with a shamed expression, "she knows that…that if it was like the Adderall, I wouldn't quit until I found where she was keeping it."
He lets that statement fester in his brain for a few seconds, realizing that he's only experienced the slightest taste of what Spencer had gone through when it came to addiction. "Why don't we revisit the subject with her tomorrow? If nothing else, we can talk to your doctor about some other options."
"Toby…there's something else. I took…" she exhales unsteadily. "I took a pill from Aria when she wasn't looking. S-she doesn't know I have it. It's upstairs in my nightstand drawer…I—I couldn't work up the nerve to take it, but…maybe you should…"
The fire pops and sputters from the hearth. His pulse slows, then speeds up again, his mind spinning in circles with this new information. "Part of me wants to tell you to…" he shakes his head, "I want you to feel better, Spence. I really, really do. But we have to do this the right way. Your mom needs to be able to trust you again, and this is your shot to prove yourself to her. Can you hold off for one more night? I'll do anything you want to make it easier on you, anything you can think of…"
She blinks several times, then slides into his chest, her fingers curling against his shirt. "You're right. I know you're right. Thank you."
He pulls her closer and plays with the ends of her hair. Her body gradually unwinds against him, and in a tone that melts him at the core, she eventually asks – "would you…would you read to me, Tobes? I don't care what book, I just want to hear something familiar."
"I'd love to," he says automatically. With a kiss on her cheek—and then another one on her lips when she gently guides him to her mouth—he untangles himself from her and rises from the sofa. "Be right back."
He pauses just long enough to stoke the fire, then moves up the steps without another word. The book selection is easy. He wants something that he knows she loves, something that isn't too heavy and will hopefully remind her of a time when life was much simpler. It's obvious when he sees it on the shelf – Jane Eyre. She'd once told him that she read it at least six times before she'd even turned fifteen. He has the thick volume in his hands, almost to the doorway, when his second course of action takes root. Toby opens her top drawer with a marked hesitance, feeling horribly invasive as he glances through its contents. It isn't hard to find the small capsule that represents the grandest of contradictions. It's supposed to be a handful of peace, rest, a solution, a retreat. Instead, it embodies captivity, dependence, pain, despair. He stares at it, wondering how something so tiny can have such monumental implications.
He envisions Spencer right before she was sent away to rehab a few months ago –sweaty, shivering, miserable. Before he can even think through his actions, he's standing over her toilet, watching as the pill disappears in a swirl of flushing water. Aria probably won't go through the whole bottle; most people don't. And if she does, he'll tell her what he did. He isn't afraid of the truth. With everything that these girls have lived through, there isn't a doctor on Earth who wouldn't refill that prescription if she asked for more.
Spencer smiles up at him from beneath fatigued eyelids as he comes back down the stairs. "What did you pick?"
He lifts the leather-bound book in the air for her examination. "How does Charlotte Bronte sound?"
"Absolutely perfect."
She cuddles against him, rearranging the quilt once more to accommodate the jumble of their entwined bodies. Under her adamant direction, he skips ahead to the section where Jane first embarks on her new position as a governess, whispering with an inarguable conviction that—"this is where all of the good stuff begins."
He clears his throat dramatically before starting in on Chapter 12, earning an amused snicker from the brunette at his side. "The promise of a smooth career, which my first calm introduction to Thornfield Hall seemed to pledge, was not belied on a longer acquaintance with the place and its inmates. Mrs. Fairfax turned out to be what she appeared…"
He reads on softly, lingering over each word at a measured pace, his hand only straying from Spencer's sweet-smelling hair for long enough to occasionally turn the page. He keeps reading even after her head goes limp against shoulder, and still doesn't stop when her breathing becomes deep and rhythmic. Only when the fireplace dims and the last log is snuffed out does he finally quit, but it's merely because he's struggling to make out the words in the now shadowy room. His only other light source is a single fixture emanating from the kitchen, and he can't bring himself to get up at the risk of disturbing her.
Because she's sleeping. She's actually sleeping, and from his estimation, she has been for more than two hours now.
With that knowledge, he tilts his head back and closes his bleary eyes.
He finds himself doing something unexpected. He prays. He prays for a day where the answers are concrete and the nightmare is over. He prays for a day without a discussion on Xanax or Valium. He prays for a day when he doesn't have to wait for Veronica's invitation, a day where his home is always with Spencer.
But this is what he has for now, and that's how he ends his little bargaining plea with a God he's not sure he knows – he says thank you. He says thank you for Spencer Hastings, for the nightmare that initially brought them together, for the strength that she's had to overcome two brushes with such a dangerous addiction, and for the progress that he's made with her family…for the very fact that her mother has given him permission to be there with her at—he squints at the clock on the mantle—nearly two in the morning.
And then he falls asleep too, reclaiming the slumber that had been stolen from him each night that she'd been missing.
a/n : to answer a question from a guest reviewer on my last fic - I'm sorry to say that I have no current plans of writing another full-length fic. When I wrote Flee The Midnight Sky, it was because I had a very specific vision for the story, and it happened to be a super fun outlet for my A theories as well, so I had a good amount of material that all combined together in a way that actually supported a long plot for a multi-chap fic. Right now, I don't have any inspiration (and not a lot of time either) to replicate something of that magnitude. I am BEYOND flattered that you would ask for another long one...seriously, that is so wonderful to hear!
On that note, hearing from everyone on FF is always such a treat, so I also want to say thanks to you all for taking time to read/favorite/review. If you ever have a more specific question, feel free to PM me about it. THANKS :)
Lastly, I own nothing in relation to PLL, and would like to credit the lovely Charlotte Bronte for writing one of my absolute favorite novels.