title: this will be our last time
fandom: pretty little liars
summary: it hurt, it hurt a lot, death hurts.
pairings: spencer/toby
timeline: post 5x12, but it isn't really relevant
rating: I'm bad at ratings, but I think K+?
warnings: major character death, angst
notes: the quotes are from Lang Leav, Love & Misadventure.
disclaimer: I don't own anything.
What was it like to love him? Asked Gratitude.
It was like being exhumed, I answered, and brought to life in a flash of brilliance.
He never thought it would end like this.
He was never worried about dying, never worried about himself.
Her - yes, of course. He always worried about her, her safety, how she was, where she was, what she was doing, and when would – A inevitably cross a line that they couldn't come back from.
She died in his worst nightmares, and they lived happily ever after in his best dreams.
There were no other options.
He didn't think maybe he'd be the one to die.
Even when he joined the Police Academy, even when he risked his life every day for the people of Rosewood, he didn't worry. She did, of course, but that's how they worked. They always worried more about each other than themselves. It was love, he supposed.
And every time she fretted over him, he tried his best to soothe her, to calm her, whisper reassuring words in her ear, hold her close until she felt better. But it was always just that - he never entertained the idea that there might be some foundation to her fears. He knew he would never leave her.
And now he's lying on the ground, blood pooling around him, his own blood, from a wound he can't even recall how he got.
It's all fuzzy. He doesn't know how he got here, what's happening, who injured him. There's just the throbbing pain in his lower abdomen, and the sinking realization that he's not going to make it.
Sirens blare in the background, but he knows, he knows without a doubt, that they'll be too late.
When you're dying, you know.
Spencer's not here. He can't decide how to feel about that. More than anything, he's glad she doesn't witness this, - his death scene, essentially - but a small, selfish part of him wants to see her one last time. Wants to feel her hand in his, squeezing it in comfort, telling him that it's all going to be okay, and do not worry, because he would be fine, and they would be fine, and easing his pain.
Because, God, it hurts, it hurts a lot.
Physically and mentally too.
His wound makes it unable to breathe, unable to think rationally, and the thought of abandoning her makes him wish for more pain. He promised her she would never be alone, didn't he, he promised her. He doesn't want to break promises.
Dying isn't easy. It isn't painless. But the hardest part is Spencer.
And that he wants to stay with her. Have a life with her. Grow old together.
He doesn't want to leave just yet, he doesn't want to go. He's too young. Too inexperienced. Has too many unfulfilled dreams. He hasn't yet done half the things he always wanted to do.
But he can feel himself growing weaker by the second, and somewhere, deep down, he knows it's inevitable. It's happening. But he refuses to let go. Not yet, not yet. He knows it's futile, he knows his time is up, but he refuses to accept it. Maybe if he just holds on long enough... If he just stays alive till the ambulance gets here. If he could just talk to Spencer one last time, tell her to take care of herself, to move on, tell her to be happy and kiss her once more.
He can't leave her behind.
The pain in his stomach worsens, and it's almost unbearable. But he can't leave her behind. So he tries to hold on - for her. He tries really hard to hold on.
He closes his eyes for just a split of a second and when he opens them, she's there. Towering over him with a soft smile, a kind expression, gentle eyes. A white glow surrounds her, making her look even more angelic than usual. It suits her.
He smiles.
She caresses his cheek with tender hands and smiles back. "Close your eyes, baby," she whispers in a soft tone, reassuring. "It's okay, close your eyes."
And he does.
What was it like to be loved in return? Asked Joy.
It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I replied. To be heard after a lifetime of silence.
There is no dramatic death scene for her.
She doesn't see his eyes drop close for the last time. She doesn't hear his breathing slow down. She doesn't feel the slowly pulsating beating of his heart under her hand, she doesn't see his eyes beg her to forgive him because he can't speak anymore, she doesn't see the blood pouring from his mouth, doesn't see his suffering, - because it hurt, it hurt a lot, death hurts - doesn't see the torment he feels, etched on his face, for leaving her behind.
She isn't there to watch him die.
But she's there at the morgue, sobbing on his chest, after she spends thirty minutes screaming at someone and everyone to let her see him, because she has to be sure, she has to be sure this isn't just a hoax again - and, oh, of course, she thinks it is. At first. Because there's no way Toby would leave her, he promised - he promised, he said "You're never alone," never - and Toby Cavanaugh doesn't break promises. Not to her. Not after everything they've been through.
So he isn't dead. She will not believe that, not again. This obviously has to be a trick, a cruel act to break her once more, but she will not fall for it, not this time.
Any minute now, he could see the numerous texts she's left him and the three dozen missed calls from her, and he will call her back, all apologetic and regretful and pained for making her worry, again, but who the hell will care about that when he's fine, he's okay, and not laying on a dissection table in the morgue?
That's what she convinces herself of. At first.
But then they let her in. And she sees him.
Not just his helmet, not just his jacket and motorbike, not just his tattoo. She sees him. His face. His lips which kissed her and smiled at her just this morning, his hands which touched her and soothed her and made her feel good, so, so good, and his eyes, which are now closed, but used to look at her with the utmost adoration and love, in which she used to get lost because they were just that beautiful and hypnotizing. And the rest of him, - the characteristic shape of his jaw, the masculine built of his body, the color of his hair – all the things that makes Toby Toby. All the things she knows by heart.
It's him. It's more than obvious it's him from the moment she steps inside the cold, ominous room. It just takes a moment for what this means to sink in.
She takes a step forward, - stumbles actually - wide eyes staring at the corpse of the man she loves in shock. Unable to look away. Somebody touches her arm from behind but she flinches away, on reflex. She doesn't even know who's there with her. Her friends? Her parents? Caleb? The coroner? It doesn't matter.
Only the boy on the table matters, and the fact that he's not moving. Not even an inch. But it can't be true.
She takes another step forward, legs shaking. Her voice is but a whimper when she begs him to wake up, barely audible, barely articulate. She doesn't even recognize it as her own. "Wake up. Don't," she's interrupted by the beginnings of a sob, but she tries, tries hard to hold it in. Not yet, "do this to me," there's another sob trying to break free. She's close to succumbing to them, "again." She presses her hands against her mouth, waits, watches him intently, but nothing happens.
He's unmoving.
And she knows, she knows with absolute clarity that this is the end, this is the end for her. She will not survive this. She won't be able to go on without him, to live without him, laugh without him, love without him, breathe without him. This is the end. Over, game over.
She's done for.
And then she's breaking down, falling on his chest, clutching at his uniform, clawing at his arm, as if that will somehow bring him back. She strokes his hair, his cheek, his hand, weeps against his neck, presses kisses against the corner of his mouth - trying to touch him everywhere, feel his skin against hers everywhere, one last time.
But one last time will never be enough, she knows.
She wants more, craves more, always more - more, more, more. More than just the few years she had with him, more than just a relationship which ends in a violent and heartbreaking death and not with kids and grandkids and growing old together. She wants more time with him, more of him, more of them.
God, is it possible his skin still feels warm under her hand? Is it possible she'll die here with him, in this very spot, in agony and tears?
She sobs his name, repeats it desperately, over and over again, ("Toby. Toby, please... Please, don't leave me. Toby... Toby.") hoping against hope that he'll hear and come for her and take her with him, hoping to die here with him. She wants to stay with him - or rather, go after him, and stay with him forever. Because what else is there for her? What else is real? What else matters?
The rest is a blur.
They give her his belongings - her, because who else? His father isn't here, and his mother is dead, just like him, just like him. She accepts them but doesn't look at them - she doesn't want to see his cellphone or his wallet, - which, she knows, contains a picture of the two of them, captured in the summer when they were the happiest - or his watch, the watch she gave him.
For graduation.
For starting the job which would kill him.
She stares ahead, blank eyes, on the whole ride back to her house, (not her home, because he was her home and now she doesn't have one) and doesn't move. (He didn't move either.) Doesn't speak. (He didn't speak either.) Tries not to think. (He would never think again either.)
The numbness is welcomed.
She tries not to remember. Not right now. Not remember his kisses which tasted like heat and passion and love. Not remember the touch of his soft hands, or the whisper of her name, falling from his lips.
He always spoke her name like a prayer.
She tries not to remember the color of his eyes, or how much she wanted to keep him with her. Tries not to remember that she would swap places with him in a heartbeat. It doesn't help, thinking about these things - it's only torturing herself over a boy who would never come back to her.
But even so, even with trying to shut down her brain and not feel, because it is just too damn painful, it's agony, there are silent tears flowing down her face. There's a dull ache pounding in her chest, reminding her of what she's lost. There's a gaping hole, in her body, and something's missing. Someone is missing. Someone fundamental.
This is pain like she's never experienced it before - worse, so much worse than she ever imagined it can feel.
She's grieved for him once, she knows what's it's like - but this is different. Realer. Permanent.
She doesn't want to grieve for him again. She can't do it again, God, please, please, she can't do it again.
She begs to someone who will listen. Anyone who will take pity on her. Just let him come back. Let this be a nightmare. Let her wake up and find him curled up next to her, his arms around her middle, his face buried in her neck, his breathing slow and steady against her skin. Anything. Just let him be alive.
The one thing to break her out of her reverie is the beeping of her phone. It's instinctual for her to react to it by now. It's reflex, her subconscious ordering her to reach for it. The thought of - A doesn't even enter her mind - nothing does, truth be told. She's empty until she reads the new message she received.
Sorry for your loss. Cops are too much of an inconvenience. I hope you understand. - A
Her hands tighten around the phone, staring. She doesn't move, just blinks, once, twice, unable to comprehend. Trying to process.
When the meaning of the text finally sinks in, she can't breathe.
The white noise in her ears is deafening.
What was it like to lose him? Asked Sorrow. There was a long pause before I responded:
It was like hearing every goodbye ever said to me—said all at once.
*shrugs* I wrote this today in a few hours. not quite sure about the ending, (the last few paragraphs, basically after she leaves the morgue,) but it is what it is. lemme know what you think?