What a mess.

Sunken brown eyes stare at the holding cell wall, one half open, shadowed by a nasty bruise, another weighed down by a purple ring of sleeplessness. Her hand, shaking and covered in cuts, holds her drooping head as she watches the police officers file paperwork and attempt to ignore her glare burning into their backs. Her brunette hair flows limply in a messy ponytail and she looks miles away from the fresh faced, ready to rule the world young woman she once was. Everyone grows up sometime.

But he recognizes her instantly anyway.

An officer walks in, face weary from a hard day's work. His gait is slower, burdened with unresolved problems and worries, and his shoulders are hunched, but he still looks the same. His blue eyes watch her for just a second - that's all it takes - and the memories hit in him a tsunami. His breath catches in his throat and by the time he can breathe again, it feels as if there's no air left in the room.

"It's almost midnight, Chief," another officer addresses him, and he tears his eyes away from her long enough to reply, feeling like a scared teenager again as he clears his throat.

"You can head home, officer. I'll take care of this one." He confirms, nodding her way and hoping that the crack in his voice wasn't evident in his speech. The confident chief falters for a moment, his gaze falling back on the woman as all of his worries melt away with only her on his mind.

"You want me to book her in?" The officer offers, tapping away at his computer eagerly. "I was the one who brought her in."

"No," he says, glancing at her once again, "I'm not booking her in." The woman's head snaps up at this comment, and before she realizes who she's talking to, she scoffs.

"Rosewood cops are still crooked, then," she retorts, her eyes narrowing. Both officers ignore her as she stares at them, barely daring to believe her own eyes. She barely blinks in the moments following, scared that he'd disappear.

"You sure, Chief?" The junior officer confirms, his forehead creasing in concern, for his boss always followed the law to the letter. His boss nods impatiently, and waves his hand to the door.

"You can leave now." He repeats, barely bothering to glance at his inferior. "And that's an order."

"Toby." The woman whispers, immediately after the door closes, signalling the other officer's exit. Her hands wrap around the bars of the holding cell, desperately clinging to her last shred of hope in a cold world and she watches him closely. His haircut may be different, and his clothes may indicate a higher position in the world, but the way he sighs to himself and the way he balls up his fists is a mirror image of the boy she left behind.

The boy whose heart she broke.

He struggles to look at her, so broken and vulnerable and so far away from the girl he remembered. Strong. Brave. Courageous. Caging her felt so wrong, for someone who fought so desperately for her freedom. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Like blood on a butterfly's wing, acid on a red rose.

Toby shuffles the notes on the desk beside him, and murmurs to himself as he reads the reason for arrest. He glances up at her, an attempt at scorn on his features, "Possession of a controlled drug?" He asks, shaking his head. "Really, Spence?" He sighs as he throws the file down on his desk and she flinches.

A guilty expression clouds her features as she stares at him, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. When he can no longer bear to look at her shaking hands and rabbit-in-the-headlights eyes, he slams open the door and stands aside. "I'm not letting you go to prison for this." He shakes his head angrily, like he always used to, and Spencer doesn't move. "I have some paperwork to do, but then we'll go home."

Home.

She starts at the word. Within seconds she has recovered and a false bravado is in place of the vulnerability. "Are you kidnapping me?" Spencer asks, her sense of humour shining through even in times of crisis. "Because I'm pretty sure that's illegal."

"So is possession." He counters back, sounding unimpressed. "But the Spencer I know would rather be kidnapped than have a blemish on her record. What happened to her?"

"Well," Spencer replies, absently ripping a hangnail from her finger and letting the blood drip, "She grew up." Her eyebrow raises at him as he tries not to make her overly self-conscious by staring at her, though taking his eyes off of her is proving difficult. He shakes his head and puts down the paper he's scanning.

"I'll do the paperwork tomorrow," he sighs, filing the papers away in a cabinet.

"Don't let me stop you," she remarks, leaning against the bars of the cell and reaching for a cigarette from the desk of the junior officer. With trembling hands, she attempts to light the cigarette, and fails pitifully a couple of times before succeeding. After taking a long drag from it, she stares at him again. "I never did before."

He doesn't reply, but shows his feelings towards her statement by snatching the cigarette from her fingers and stubbing it out. She stares blankly, and half of him had hoped that his actions would get a rise out of her. Instead, she shivers in her mini skirt, her skinny arms and legs scattered with goosebumps. "Where did you come from?" He asks, frowning at her outfit. Her feet were covered in blisters, the heels she'd once worn kicked off to the corner of her cell.

She smirks – an infuriating, smug smirk that forms on her face, causing the blood to rush to his face in a blush that only she could ever bring out. "Not a street corner, if that's what you're thinking." She rolls her beautiful eyes and he winces.

"You could have done great things," he says quietly, beginning to stand. She moves away from him, a self-defensive action that hurts him, as if he'd ever do anything to cause her any harm.

"No," she snaps. "Spencer Hastings could have done those things." She spits out the name like a dirty word, and shakes her head, her ponytail swishing behind her. She bites the nail on her finger, and frowns at the floor. "I haven't been her in a long time." He watches her as she watches him, regarding him as a threat, and shakes his head again. How couldn't she see? He wondered.

Her mind was still always working. Her wit was still sharp as a tack. She was still as brave, as strong, as courageous as she was before. She was just a little off-track.

And as he watched her, he was sure he could put Spencer Hastings back on the right track.