a/n: I put this on my tumblr a really really really long time ago (like a year!?) but it got so much feedback on there, and when that happens I usually take my stuff from tumblr and put it on here, but idk, i didn't do that with this? And I was just going through my old stuff today, and I decided "Why the hell not?" so yeah, here I am!
I wrote it after 4x01...sometime...so think of it in that time period, I guess?
The One to Get You Through it All
His knuckles were balled up, his rough cracking red skin decreasing in temperature by the second. He should go inside—that wasn't an opinion, but a fact. It was below freezing point, and sun had gone west. But, he couldn't find the ability to step up from the porch. He was paralyzed—unable to move, like that short time ago, where Jenna was his puppeteer. Except, she wasn't around. No one was. His parents—God himself probably could not map quest the duo if he was asked, and the rest of Rosewood—they were at the father-daughter dance. Including Jenna. She had hauled her father all the way from New York to take him to the annual Rosewood Father Daughter Dance, but of course she always got what she wanted. He cringed, just the plain thought about her compelling tendencies made his stomach whirl in disgust.
Jenna did not always occupy his mind, but his attention had been focused on her for some time throughout the last three years. Usually, when thinking about her, he just got angry—annoyed at himself for letting it all happen—for not being stronger, for letting Jenna use his limp body as her own personal piece of furniture. He should have stood up to her—he shouldn't have let her command him like that.
Crack.
Went the great wall he had built up.
He knew, he absolutely knew, things were different now. He was stronger, he was sure of that. But, he was also more naïve. Naïve to everything that could possibly be anything. He was naïve to himself—the results that could unfold under his control. He and Jenna were alike on some levels. They both possessed power—power of the stability of others, and the control of their emotions. Although, unlike Jenna, he was unaware of the power he withheld, he was naïve to the pain he could endure on others. He was almost as abusive as Jenna, just in an emotional, rather than physical matter.
And maybe that was the worst part of it all.
Suddenly he wished for his ignorance.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.
The barrier shattered.
The jagged, rough, pieces laid around him, imprisoning him in a capacity of loneliness and isolation, foreboding anyone to pass without embarking on a pain in the allegiance of him.
The realization that they had something—the most horrible trait he could share with her— in common sent him into a panic. He no longer felt the harsh wind chill or the potential frost bite on his finger tips. His mind was too occupied with the coldness of his past.
Everything felt heavy and out of focus. He felt an unsteady, even though he was sitting down. He scrunched up his face, trying to somehow prevent his eyes from dewing with the waters of utter emotional exhaustion. He squeezed his eyes shut, and placed his, almost, trembling hands over his face.
He needed to calm down.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
He reminded himself of these steps over and over again, repeating the six letter words over and over again until they lost their meaning and significance. His breathing was at first shaky and irregular, but eventually cooled and somewhat evened out. The bitter coldness once again met him, reminding him of the shrill and uncomfortable pain that accompanied it, but nothing compared to the fragment of pain he felt moments ago.
He had to get out of there.
He couldn't be there anymore.
He managed to pull himself up with the strength he had left, and descend from the atrocious setting. He had driven in silence on the way back to his loft. He didn't bother to turn on the radio to hear the monotonous pop songs wreck his brain, in all reality that would just worsen his mood.
He surveyed his loft once he stepped inside. Everything seemed to be normal. He has been doing this a lot; checking for any misplacements and arrangements that he didn't recognize. Spencer told him about the night she beckoned for his love at his door—how she heard the music playing, and saw a shadow against the curtain. He was at first confused by the matter, but then it all clicked. He felt foolish for being so ignorant. It was Mona, it had to be. She had made keys, some way or another, and snuck into his loft that night to attend her front row seat of the symphony of Spencer's wails and cries. He cringed at the thought, shaking his head to try and devoid of the damage he created for Spencer, and himself.
Mona said she was on their side now, but they would all be fools to believe that. Spencer told him once before she had played the card of the victim—before they even knew she was one behind the mask, or rather hood. They were more than reluctant to trust her, but in a way they had to. She was their best shot in decoding the mystery of Red Coat.
He slumped on his couch exhaustedly, and pulled out an old cell phone he found in Jenna's room. It wasn't a cell phone for the blind, either. It didn't make sense why she would have it, really. She had bought an Iphone the second her sight came back, or rather months after her sight came back, but either way, she wouldn't need another. But, this was Jenna. And of course she would need more than one. He was starting to decline in the feeling of shock. Everything just seemed normal nowadays, but none of it was, it was nothing but normal.
He ran his still numb thumb across the screen where he assumed it would tell the time if it were on. He was reminded of the time, about a year and a half ago, when Spencer asked him to steal Jenna's phone. He was so scared then—scared Jenna would catch him and scar his flesh. It was different this time though. He wasn't scared anymore. He was resentful and hateful.
The phone crushed in his grip as the thoughts once again came back.
He was so frail and weak before, almost afraid to have emotions over the subject. Once he was capable of standing up to her; to coming to grips with what happened; it was like he completely erased the memories out of his mind as if he let himself ponder upon the mishaps; his strings would once again fall into the grip of Jenna.
God. He hated her.
He locked up the horrendous memories up for so long—pretended they didn't happen; wished they were just nightmares, but they were real; they happened. And they were finally climbing out of their cages and running wildly in his mind; he couldn't restrain them anymore.
Maybe he wasn't as strong as he thought.
He ditched the phone, and let it fall to his lap to pinch the brim of his nose instead.
He didn't want to cry.
He couldn't cry.
He shouldn't be crying over this—he was just as bad as her.
But, he couldn't control himself.
His eyes squeezed shut forcefully. Droplets fell from the corners of his eyes, and moistened his cheekbones. He was almost trembling in a way. He kept shaking his head, as if to try one last time to stop himself from the point of breaking.
But, he failed.
He rubbed his eyes, moisture meeting his palms. He let out a shaky breath, and tried to collect himself.
Fail.
Fail.
Fail.
A shrill harmonic tune entered his ears.
His phone.
He looked around in a hazy way and then sniffled, letting his hands find the depths of his pockets to fish out his phone. He looked at the screen, and of course it was one of the two people who would sense something was wrong.
Spencer.
He tried to get a hold of himself. He couldn't let her catch him in a state like this. He needed to be there for her. He had to be strong. He had to make up for all the pain he caused her, and grieving on his own pain wasn't going to help.
"Hey," the man softly greeted.
"Toby, hey. Jenna's leaving. I don't know where, but you should probably get out of there. You know just in case," Spencer said hurriedly.
In any normal situation, he probably would have stopped her anxiety, and said he had already left. But for one, he was an awful boyfriend nowadays, and secondly, he wanted a few more seconds to ditch his hoarse and hollow tone. "I left already anyways."
"Oh" answered his girlfriend blankly, "that's good. Did you find anything?"
He stifled a breath, "Yeah," he could hear his voice slip. "A phone," he said after a misplaced pause.
"…are you alright?"
Fail.
"Yeah, I'm fine" the man replied, but it was just as believable as the myth of unicorns.
"You don't sound fine" Spencer said, obviously concerned. Her voice was meek and small, but at the same time loving and warm. She had one of those voices that could nurse you back to health. "What's wrong?"
It occurred to him that she had just ignored the comment he made about the phone—she had totally ditched the potential clue to verify his mental health. God, she was such a better girlfriend than he was a boyfriend.
"Toby…"
He didn't even know what to say.
He knew he didn't sound okay.
"Spencer, don't worry about me."
The line went silent.
A small, tiny, figment, of him wanted her to call a bullshit and rush to his side, but a bigger portion of him wanted her to forget it, and focus on what is more important.
"Okay, fine…"
He let out a deep breath.
"Have fun with your dad, we can talk about this later."
"Right. Bye, Toby."
"I love you—"
The line went dead.
He took in a trembling breath, and let his hands once again lodge around his face. His eyes burned, and it didn't help that he was rubbing at them. Moisture sprayed around his eyes, and onto his palms. He stayed there for a while; hunched over with his elbows hoisting on his knees and his hands cradling his face.
He didn't know what else to do. He could pick up his old friend, vodka and spend his night with him, but he figured he had to work tomorrow and basking in alcohol would only cause him more problems. Besides, Spencer was most likely going to call him later tonight about the cell phone and to make sure he was okay. He had to be alert for that. He couldn't let her down, again.
So he stayed put on his couch, dwelling and sulking in melancholy of his unwanted past.
Alone.
Until his door unleashed a knock.
He looked up suddenly, his eyebrows ceasing heedlessly to the noise. Who could possibly be visiting him? He had more enemies than friends, and the last time his parents stopped by for a visit was…never actually.He stepped up from the couch, and once again dried the dew away from his eyes with his palms.
He knew he looked to be a wreck. His eyes were probably iced with pink glaze, and he had no doubt that pillows of puffiness surrounded his eyes.
He stopped—maybe he could pretend he wasn't home.
This was probably a bad idea. Especially if it was someone like Mona…or worse, Jenna.
But, there was another knock.
And a voice.
Spencer.
"I know you're in there."
He hurried to the door and opened it immediately. Her hand was held in mid air, and she was still sporting in a navy dress. Her hand fell to her side as she let out a small, delicate sigh.
"I thought you were done lying to me?" the girl said meekly. Her eyes were big and dopey, and voice light and fragile.
He didn't reply.
She stepped inside, and he shut the door behind her almost mindlessly. He kept his eyes seaward, unwilling to meet hers, which he knew were probably staring him down.
"Toby," she started towards him, her voice small and hanging in a murmur.
He peeked up at her and he suddenly felt a, sort of, déjà vu. The frown carved from sympathy, her slightly furrowed eyebrows weighing down from compassion, and the glint of concern wavering in her copper eyes; it was all so familiar.
This situation seemed to repeat itself nowadays.
First the night in the motel.
Then everything with his mother.
And now…
"Toby," repeated his girlfriend gently. Her delicate hands met his face, her fingertips brushing against his sideburns.
He found it hard to look her directly in the eye. He had to be strong. He had to be her safe place to land.
"What's wrong?" she went on in a motherly tone.
He finally met her eyes, her sweet caring eyes that shouldn't in his view. He didn't deserve to be looked at with those most caring copper eyes. There was only a second it lasted though. Her already frowning mouth twitched further downward, and her hands tracing around to his back.
He enclosed his arms around her gradually; almost limply. He didn't want her to pull away, or let go, or depart in any form at all. He wanted to stay like this, wrapped in her healing arms, absorbing the medicine until he was no longer ill.
Spencer may have been extraordinary, but she wasn't a mind reader. She pulled away from him, but managed to somehow make up for the absence by lacing her hands in his. She stared at him for a second before speaking, "can you tell me what's going on?" she sounded to be a little impatient, but still warm and genial.
He gulped, once again ditching her eyes for the floor. He exhaled slowly, trying to find the right words for whatever he wanted to say. It probably would have been easier if he actually knew what he was planning to say.
He eventually pulled his hands from her and left her completely, dropping on the couch with another sigh.
Naturally she followed him.
"Toby," purred the brunette, taking a seat next to her troubled boyfriend. Her hand affectionately covered his kneecap as her eyes managed to find his. "How can I help?" the girl asked almost desperately, her bottom lip shimmering out of its normal position.
He looked at her and then began talking with absolute no intention on what he was planning to say. "I just—I went to Jenna's…and I got that phone…and I don't know…I just started thinking about…stuff."
The words hung in the air for a second before Spencer realized what he was referring to. Her eyebrows bumped up an inch and her mouth fell slightly ajar. She stifled a breath before squeezing his knee, perhaps to pass on the message that he should continue.
"I—" his voice broke slightly as his head dropped down. "I thought I was over all that, but… I don't know. Tonight…it just all caught up with me, I guess."
She watched him sadly.
"Have you ever talked to anyone about it?" Spencer asked after a drawn out pause.
He shook his head, taking in a long breath through his nose. "No one…" the boy replied, his eyes still looking towards the ground.
He scrunched his face. "Jenna," he spoke after a beat, "she kind of told people that she was the victim, so… no one ever really knew the truth. Well, unless they had the privilege of watching Ian's videos that is…" a dark chuckle escaped his mouth at the statement, but it was instantly followed by a sort of sigh that could pass off to be a small sob.
He covered his face. His throat was swelling and eyes burning. A furious sob was near and he couldn't contain it. This was why he didn't talk about stuff. When he was alone suffering with his distressing thoughts, sure he felt absolutely horrible, and his eyes would occasionally water, but not like this. When he talked—when he opened up about it, it was like he was opening up a beaver's dam, excavating the waters that have been blocked to flow for so long.
She leaned into him more, "Toby," her voice broke.
He looked at her with watery eyes, and let his trembling hands descend from his face only to be captured in her hold. Her brown eyes were wavering against heis with the utmost intensity, glazing with moisture. She looked so conflicted. "Jenna doesn't have that control over you anymore, she never will."
"I know," he sniffled, "just" he glanced away for a microscopic second "she did once."
She frowned again.
"And I let it happen. I just stood there," his eyes trained off to nothing unparticular, "letting it happen."
Spencer exhaled deeply through her nose.
"You were vulnerable and fragile, and going through a lot, and Jenna is deceiving and relentless. She took advantage of you—blackmailed you—manipulated you. Toby, you—it isn't your fault."
Pause.
"It just…sucks" said Toby, his voice hollow.
"When the whole A thing started…" she began wearily. "I tried to be strong…and…not let it get to me, but… I started to doubt, and doubt, and doubt, and then I got charged with Ali's murder, and everything just sucked so much," her voice wavered "…you are the only thing that's really gotten me though it, you know" she told him, sniffling.
"…and then I broke your heart…" he said hoarsely, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Shh," the brunette hushed, her hand coming in contact with his cheek. "That doesn't matter anymore, it's in the past."
"I'm just as bad as Jenna, Spencer" the boy blurted, his throat once again swelling. "I…lied…and broke you, and you shouldn't be here…comforting me when I did the same exact thing to you."
"Don't," she hissed, her voice hoarse. "Toby, look at me, please."
He took in breath, returning his gaze to her.
Her breathing was obviously unsteady, and she looked beyond anxious. "I—I can't deny that you …broke me. But, you aren't like Jenna…at all. You did what you did out of love—"
"Yeah, well apparently so did Jenna," he said darkly.
She exhaled sharply through her nose.
"You were trying to protect me, Toby. You had good intentions. You may have gone a little too far, but we all…get it wrong sometimes…" she went on, her voice falling back into the softness it was in before. "You are nothing like Jenna."
He stayed silent for a long time, just looking into her copper eyes, which were glinted with sadness.
He began to ponder on when he get so messed up; when his personality drastically changed. He was a completely different person than he was a few years ago. He may have looked the same, but his soul; his soul was warped and twisted and bended backwards. His soul was weak, and withering—after it all. After Jenna, and everything else. It was dying away and he was forced to watch. By the end of it all, he was alone on the side of the plank, waiting for the last person to step off so he could fall to his death, but then Spencer happened—everything changed.
"Did you mean what you said?" he finally asked.
She furrowed her eyebrows.
"About me being the one to get you through it all."
She nodded silently.
He took in a breath.
"You did the same for me. You do the same for me, Spencer."