A/N: Guys! Thank you so much for your kind words for my other story. I honestly never thought it'd give me a confidence boost like this. Not only did you inspire me to start writing something new (which will hopefully be up soon-ish), you also gave me the courage to post this one. I wrote it months ago, right after 4x02 aired, but needless to say I was too chicken to post. It was inspired by what Toby's mother says about him during her last session with Dr. Palmer. Hopefully it doesn't disappoint…

Solace

"Much of our session was devoted to feelings of hope. Wanting to spend the holidays with her family, making up for lost time with her son, thanking him for being so patient.

When asked what prompted the turnaround, Mrs. Cavanaugh was quite clear. She'd already missed out on too much, and was no longer concerned with being judged. It was time to return some of the love that had sustained her, especially from her son."

She let out a long sigh of relief once Aria and Hanna were both out the door. After the break-in and the abduction of the talking bird, it had taken quite a bit of convincing that she would be fine here on her own tonight. She was grateful for her friends' concern, she was, but she knew if they stayed it would be all about -A, Alison, Red Coat. She needed a break from that. For the first time in a year and a half it was not her first source of worry, not her first priority for concern.

She felt her throat tighten as she remembered her boyfriend's tears earlier that day. It had been the most prominent thing on her mind ever since, always lingering in the back of her already overworked brain while Aria and Hanna rambled on about things that suddenly seemed much more futile. That sharp jab of worry in her gut had caused her to call him multiple times over the course of the evening, only to be met with his voicemail every time. Right before the girls returned she had settled on sending him a quick text, knowing he was more likely to read that than listen to a message.

Please call me. I'm worried

She sighed and headed up the stairs, back to her room, back to the computer screen that displayed Marion Cavanaugh's smiling face and tragic story. Spotting her phone, she felt her whole body sag with relief when she saw he had texted her back.

I'm at home. I'm okay. Don't really feel like talking. Call you tomorrow.

She sank down on her bed, staring at the phone, willing it to tell her what to do. She went back and forth for a few moments, lined up pros and cons in her head the way she knew so well how. Finally she grabbed her bag and was out the door before even consciously giving in to her instincts.

She never should have let him leave in the first place. Not while he was literally still brushing his tears away. She should have simply told Aria - and later, Hanna - that now just wasn't a good time. She felt guilt well up inside her when she tried imagining what would have happened if their roles had been reversed. She knew with clear certainty that if she'd been at his place, crying like that, nothing in the world would've made him shift his focus. And as much as she loved her friends to death, she knew this was one time they had caused her to fail him.

She was at his door not much later, suddenly feeling exhausted, both mentally and physically. It dawned on her that she was afraid of what she might see, afraid of the state she would find him in. Afraid of what it would do to her. It was almost funny, how his pain hurt her far more than her own ever could.

If she knew him half as well as she thought he did, the door wouldn't be open for her to just walk in. He shut out the world when he was hurting, hid away in the dark as if he couldn't stand the idea of people seeing him so vulnerable. He'd probably been born with this tendency to internalize, but she knew some of his more devastating life experiences had only made it worse. It was the only thing he knew how to do, and no matter how much it frustrated her sometimes, she knew she could never really fault him for it.

Taking a deep breath, she knocked gently. She heard no movement inside, and it took another two seconds for her to realize he wasn't going to be letting anyone in without some persuasion. She knocked again, a little louder this time.

"Toby, it's me. Please open the door." She rested her forehead against the wood of the door frame, pushing away haunting memories of her sitting in this very spot, sobbing, begging for him to let her in. "Please."

A few more seconds of utter silence, and then she heard slow footsteps coming closer. She heard the shuffling of keys on the other side of the lock, and her whole body tensed with anticipation.

The first thing that stood out to her when the door finally opened was that he looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, there was a hint of a five o'clock shadow appearing on his jaw and she could smell alcohol on his breath. The expression on his face just about destroyed her.

"Hey," she offered softly, hating the way her voice caught, "Can I come in?"

He shuffled his feet, looking uncomfortable. "Spence..." Even his voice - in that one word, that one syllable, the short version of her name - sounded broken. "I'm not going to be very good company tonight."

"You don't have to keep me company," she interjected quickly, "You don't even have to talk to me," she added, referring to his earlier text. Then, softer, "I just want to be with you."

She saw him hesitate, but then he grudgingly held the door open, and she stepped inside.

Her eyes automatically fell on the coffee table, which supported a bottle of scotch and a half empty glass. She didn't say anything. She'd never known him to drink more than a few beers the entire time they'd been together, but she was the last person to lecture anyone on bad decisions concerning alcohol.

She tried to catch his eye, but he looked away, obviously embarrassed. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. She wanted to go to him, hold him, chase his demons away, whisper over and over that she loved him more than she ever knew she could love anyone. But with one look at him she knew it was too soon. He wasn't ready. That was not what he needed most right now.

Without a word, she headed for the kitchen, pulling a large bottle of water out of the fridge and retrieving that hideous plastic bucket he kept under the sink. She sat down on the couch, placing both items on the floor next to her. Then she reached for the glass on the table and held it out to him.

This time he met her eyes. And he got their meaning.

It was okay. She wasn't going to judge him. She wasn't going to try to make everything all right, because at this point she knew there was nothing she could do to make it all right. She was going to keep her mouth shut for once in her life, and she was going to hold his hand while he downed as many glasses of scotch as he damn well pleased.

They sat there on his couch, next to each other, for a long time. They didn't talk much. He was obviously lost in deep thought, so deep that sometimes she wondered if he'd forgotten she was there. She watched him closely, her eyes lingering on every part of his face. Her mind went back to when they first started talking, when his hair was longer and he held himself like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He'd had a look about him that easily gave the impression that he just wanted to disappear. But behind the loneliness in his eyes, she'd seen an unparalleled gentleness in him that had all but brought her to her knees. In the end he'd won her over without even having to try.

How was it possible that the whole time they'd been together, she'd never asked him how his mother died?

She'd always assumed it had been from some long, drawn out disease. She remembered him mentioning once or twice that his mother wasn't well, starting sentences with, "When my mom was sick...". But she never imagined he was talking about a mental illness. Why hadn't she asked him?

She knew why. She'd sensed early on that it was an extremely difficult subject for him. He rarely spoke of her, and when he did the overwhelming sadness that washed over his features was almost more than she could bear. She was ashamed to admit it, even to herself, but the truth of the matter was that she'd rather stick needles under her fingernails than see that look on his face.

She sighed. She knew now that not pressing him on the subject had been a huge mistake. With painful clarity she remembered how he'd told her once that before he met her, he'd believed there had to be something unlovable about him. This had upset her so much that instead of questioning where it came from, she'd spent the better half of twenty minutes kissing him senseless trying to make up for what others had denied him.

But now she understood. The father that had never been much of a father to begin with, the stepmother that had looked at him like he was an intruder in his own home, the stepsister that had claimed to love him, only to abuse her power over him in such a horrifying way... they'd only added salt to an already open wound. It was his mother that had ripped open that wound – by being the only source of love in his life, only to abandon him so suddenly and mercilessly, with no warning and no goodbye. Like he wasn't even an afterthought.

She looked at him, feeling her heart shatter into a million pieces in her chest. How much more would this boy have to endure?

Before she realized what she was doing, she reached out to rest her palm against his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch for a moment, before his eyelids opened again and she gazed into his piercing blue eyes. She saw intoxication, yes, but also something else that was far more prominent.

"You're exhausted," she said softly.

He rubbed his face and nodded.

She gently tugged at his T-shirt. "Come here."

He allowed her to guide him into a horizontal position, stopping only to grab the quilt resting on the arm of the couch and draping it over them. She pulled him on top of her, guiding his head towards her chest and feeling his arms encircle her waist as he rested against her. She winced as the belt that covered her jeans dress poked her in the back, but when she fidgeted slightly to try and get it off she felt his arms tighten around her.

"Stay," he whispered hoarsely.

"I am, I will," she was quick to assure him. "I just have to take off this stupid belt."

He helped her, their fumbling fingers pulling at the buckle until all she had to do was lift her hips so he could slide it off her. She breathed a sigh of relief when he crawled back against her body, resuming their previous position. Her fingers found their way into his hair, smoothing out his locks until she felt him start to relax against her. She hadn't gotten used to its shortness in the back yet, so she let her fingers carefully familiarize themselves until it became yet another part of him that she knew by heart.

He was heavy against her by this point, and she could tell by the deepness of his breathing that he was no longer awake. Her hand left his hair and gently traveled down his back, as far down as she could reach without moving, admiring the taut, muscled frame underneath the cotton of his shirt. She craned her neck to get a look at his face.

None of his earlier turmoil was visible now. Asleep he looked almost… peaceful.

She brushed a kiss against his forehead, feeling tears prickle in the corners of her eyes as her lips lingered on his skin. For over a year now, he'd been her safe place to land. Even when she thought the worst, he'd still been her safe place to land – she just hadn't known it. He had always put her happiness first, and when that became impossible he'd at least put her physical wellbeing first. He'd sacrificed himself in more ways than one, he'd thrown his own morals out the window... all of it for her. He'd protected her, defended her, been loyal to her in ways that haunted her to the very core.

It was his turn now. His turn to fall apart, to lean on her, to let her take care of him. She knew she'd never be as good at it as he was, not in a million years, and for that she already felt like a failure. But she was going to fight like hell trying. The last thing that passed through her mind before surrendering to the oblivion of sleep, was that she was going to fight like hell trying.

Her eyes flew open when he stirred against her. It took her a few seconds to remember her surroundings, but the stiffness in her back was quickly forgotten when her eyes focused on him. He was sitting up now, looking deathly pale as his eyes clouded over with something that was clearly more than just fatigue. Without warning he scrambled to get up, and she instinctively snatched up the strategically placed bucket just in time. The contents of his stomach were flung into the bucket, and there was nothing she could do but helplessly rub his back as he paid for last night's bout of drunkenness.

She'd never known someone could puke that much. He looked about ready for another nap when it was finally over, took a few deep breaths and mumbled something about getting cleaned up. She was left sitting alone on the couch, the quilt still draped haphazardly across her legs, as she watched him disappear into the bathroom, dragging the bucket with him.

She took her time neatly folding up the quilt and returning it to its previous position across the back of the couch, wanting to give him a minute. She picked her belt up off the floor, tied it around her waist. Tried in vain to smooth out some of the wrinkles in her jeans dress. She hesitated. Then she picked up the bottle of water she'd grabbed from the fridge the night before, and made her way towards the bathroom.

He was brushing his teeth, the now clean bucket resting at his feet. She watched him from the doorway for a minute, not sure if he wanted her there or not. When he spit into the sink and rinsed his mouth, she stepped inside and wordlessly handed him the bottle.

"Thanks," he murmured, not quite meeting her eyes as he took it from her and guzzling down at least a third of it in a few huge gulps. His palm found his forehead when he was done, and she could barely make out him muttering, "My head is killing me."

She nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, you should take something for that. I'll make coffee," she added, finally feeling like she was able to do something useful.

He came to sit at the counter a few minutes later. She pushed a steaming mug of hot coffee in front of him, with milk and just a tiny smidgen of sugar, the way he liked it. She smiled slightly in spite of herself as she watched his eyes close, clearly reveling in the fresh aroma that accompanied it. She loved watching him enjoy the little things in life.

They sat in tentative silence for a while. He seemed to be in a world of his own, and she didn't want to disturb him. Finally, when her own mug was almost empty, she reached out and gently placed her hand on the inside of his forearm. His eyes slowly looked up to meet hers while her thumb patiently stroked the softness of his skin.

"Whatever you want… whatever you need, it's yours, okay? I will help you figure this out."

He swallowed and reached for the hand resting on his arm, clasping it in his own for a moment before pulling it to his lips. To her horror, she saw his face start to crumble again, but this time – unlike last night – there wasn't a doubt in her mind that it was her that he needed. Not space, not alcohol. Her.

She got up from her stool and wrapped herself around him. He leaned into her touch like he'd never had a hug before in his life, and she could feel his fingers grasping at her clothes.

"It's okay," she heard herself whisper as her eyes closed and her hand cradled the back of his head, "It's okay, sweetie. Oh, my sweetie..."

She pushed her face into that spot where his neck met his shoulder, wanting to be closer still, because somehow closer was still possible. She breathed deeply, inhaling his familiar scent. It was her favorite smell in the world. It lingered it his shirts that she kept at home, never washing them because she never wanted that scent to disappear.

Her hand trailed down his back, finding its way under tis T-shirt, wanting yet more contact with warm flesh. Slowly, she stroked his bare back, his shoulder blades, his hips. Any part of him she could reach. Her other hand remained against his head, holding his neck against her face. It was as if she wanted to cover every part of him with a part of her. As if that would somehow, miraculously, take his pain away.

She made the mistake of wondering if anyone had held him like this when his mother died. His loneliness hit her like a punch in the gut, and she only realized she was crying when she felt wetness between his skin and hers.

She could have stayed like this for hours. It was he who pulled back, not all the way, but enough for her to get a good look at his face. She saw with relief that for the first time since he showed up in her room two days ago, he seemed calm. Still pained, still heartbroken, but calm enough to send the smallest of smiles her way.

He leaned his forehead against hers. "Spencer," he said softly, "You're a sight for sore eyes."

It took her a split second to process what he said, and then she couldn't help the laugh that escaped her lips. Never mind that she'd just spent the night on the couch with her clothes on, or that the closest thing she'd done to fixing her hair was ignoring it, or that her eyes were probably red and her nose was runny. It was hysterical how much that did not matter right now.

"Well, you're not exactly hard on the eyes yourself, Mr. Cavanaugh," she responded lightly.

He kissed her then, deeply, passionately. She grasped at his shoulders, pulling him closer, wanting all of him. They hadn't done this yesterday, or the day before. It was genuinely frightening to realize how much she'd missed it.

She was about to suggest they move into the bedroom when he gently drew back. She looked at him questioningly, and he nodded at the clock behind her.

"What time are your parents back?"

Crap.

With everything that had been going on she'd completely forgotten they were coming home today. She hadn't seen them since before the lodge burned down, and while they hadn't been concerned enough to return early to see her, they had informed her that they expected her to be home when they arrived.

"In like an hour," she said regretfully, "I guess I'd better go if I want to meet them."

He nodded, his face carefully neutral in a way that made her suspect he dreaded being left alone more than he let on.

"Did you have plans today?" she asked carefully, hoping against all odds that the answer would be positive.

But he shook his head, and she could see melancholy slowly start to corrupt his features once again.

"I'll come back later, okay?" She reached for his hand, suddenly anxious. "Don't dwell on it too much…"

He nodded and tried to smile, but it ended up looking more like a grimace. She squeezed his fingers before letting go, moving to locate her shoes. He hid his eyes from hers as she stepped away.

She could barely stand to think of what would happen if there was absolutely no truth to what -A was tormenting him with. If his mother had jumped after all, and this was revenge pure and simple for double-crossing them. It seemed exactly like something -A would do, and she felt her whole body tense up with fear at the thought of him ending up more broken than he already was before.

How could she protect him from this? She fretted about it while she pulled her boots on, feeling his sad eyes on her back as he watched her from the kitchen counter. He didn't want to hear her reservations about trusting -A. That much was obvious. So what else could she do? There was nothing.

Except…

She moved back over to him, cupping his face with both hands, not unlike she had in his motel room barely ten days ago (was it really only ten days? It felt like a lifetime).

"No matter what we find," she spoke, her voice low and quiet, "No matter what we discover, if it was suicide or not, she obviously loved you so much."

Raw emotion flashed across his face, and it took her a moment to identify it. Part of it was love – love for her, love for his mother. But the other part was shame. Shame that he had doubted the depth of his mother's devotion to him.

She struggled to express something else, something she'd wanted to tell him ever since reading Marion Cavanaugh's thoughts word for word. "And that boy she talked about in the transcript? That sweet, selfless, beautiful boy? I know that boy. I recognize him. He has the best heart of anyone I know... and he makes me so happy."

He drew her into his arms, and she allowed herself a moment of bliss. Then she pulled herself together and pulled back, knowing that if she didn't walk away now she was never going to find the strength to leave him. She kissed him quickly, not giving herself the chance to linger.

"I'll see you later."

And with that, she was out the door.