i wanted to write something fluffy to counter the rockiness spoby is currently enduring, especially after that last disaster of an episode, i really did, but my brain said no, thus we have this angsty little thing. hope you like it anyway, though.

also: to the lovely reviewers who have been leaving me requests for future chapters: i see you, i promise. i have a masterlist of prompts, and i'm adding all of your suggestions to the list. keep those suggestions coming; i can always use ideas.

(and to the guest reviewer who asked - and anybody else who may be wondering - yes, i do have a tumblr. it's cavanastings dot tumblr dot com. while i don't usually take prompts there, if you wish to leave me one, feel free.)

set post-2x12.

-:-

ten: let her go

She's released from police custody after a mind-numbing five hours of questioning - Where did you find the shovel? How did you know where to look? What were you digging up? - and by the time she gets home it's past one in the morning and she's exhausted, drained not just physically but emotionally. All she wants to do is curl up in a ball and sleep for the rest of her life, but she knows that's not an option.

Both of her parents had been silent on the seemingly-endless ride home, their mouths pressed into thin lines of disapproval and barely-restrained anger. She wishes they would just yell at her; that would be easier to deal with than this deafening silence.

She has failed. She has screwed up. She's gone from the straight-A, obedient, tie-and-blazer-wearing, perfect daughter, to a rebellious screwup, a disappointment, who has just spent the night at the precinct and may have just thrown her future out the window.

All because she has allowed herself to be manipulated by a psychotic bully.

So as she stares at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, at the gaunt face, red-rimmed eyes, and straggly brunette locks staring back at her, it takes her a moment to recognize herself. But when she does, what she sees disgusts her.

She rips off the mud-caked dress from the wedding that never happened, hurling it at the wall with what little energy she has left. And then she puts her head in her hands and cries.

Maybe she cries for herself, for all the stress and helplessness and defeat she feels. Maybe she cries for her parents, whose golden child has been tarnished beyond repair. Maybe she cries for her friends, for the panic on their faces when they'd been arrested, for Emily's almost-death and Hanna's destroyed relationship with her father and Aria losing Ezra.

Maybe she cries for Toby, for the look on his face when she'd told him she'd lied, for the desperation in his voice when he'd called after her at the police station. For the fact that she's hurt him so much just by letting herself into his life.

Isn't it ironic that the one person she needs to console her is the one person she can't allow to console her for his own protection?

Her cell phone chooses that moment to beep, and she picks it up, already anticipating the scathing taunt from "A." What she sees instead is almost worse.

Call me when you get this, please. I love you.

Her eyes will with fresh tears, blurring his words. She wants to do as he's requested, she wants so badly to call him and beg him to take her back and run away with him to some faraway place.

But she can't. She can't taint this angel in white with the darkness that surrounds her, with her own black actions.

So she deletes the text, tries to delete him from her thoughts.

It's another thing she fails at.

-:-

The next morning, her parents both leave for the courthouse to try to negotiate some sort of plea deal for her and the girls, leaving her strict instructions not to go anywhere or take any calls.

She doesn't mind. She's not really feeling up to human interaction.

A knock at the back door startles her from the cup of coffee she'd been staring at without drinking from for the past twenty minutes, and she eyes it wearily. Her parents hadn't said anything about taking visitors, and it's probably Aria, Emily, or Hanna stopping by to check in.

But when she goes to the door, she's greeted by a pair of dazzling blue eyes, and she almost chokes on her own tongue.

Of course. Of course he wouldn't give up on her. Of course he would come to see her, to try to shake some answers out of her.

Swallowing, she opens the door, and her voice is deliberately flat, toneless, when she says, "You can't be here."

He breezes by her, and she realizes that as awful as she looks, he looks pretty bad, too. His eyes are bloodshot, indicating that he got about as much sleep as she had the night before, which was none; his hair is tousled, from his hands or the wind or the fact that he hadn't bothered trying to tame it that morning; he looks sad and desperate and all she wants to do is hug him, but she wraps her arms around herself instead.

"Are you okay?" Are the first words out of his mouth, and she almost laughs, because she has no idea what okay even means anymore.

"I'm fine," she tells him, staring at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but those pleading baby blue orbs that she knows will be her undoing.

"No, you're not." He takes a step closer to her, and she immediately takes a step back. Hurt ripples across his face, and the ache in her heart intensifies.

"What happened last night?" He asks her. "How did you find that shovel?"

Sometimes she forgets he's as doggedly determined as she is.

"Someone...tricked us," she admits hesitantly, "into finding it."

"Who?"

"I don't know!" She snaps. "It doesn't matter. Everyone thinks we did it. That we killed Alison. It's over." Suddenly unable to stand, she drops down at the kitchen island.

"Spence..." the tenderness in his voice, the nickname, makes her throat burn. "Nobody could think that."

"The cops do. My parents are down there trying to bargain them down to a reduced charge. Either way, we'll always be those girls," she curls her lip. "We'll always be those four pretty little liars." She squeezes her eyes shut, as if that will help her escape the harshness of the world she lives in.

He's silent for a moment, then softly says, "Whatever happens, I'll be here for you." Her eyes fly open, falling on him, standing in her kitchen, the kitchen of the girl who mocked him when he was the town's pariah, who lied to him, who broke his heart with no warning, who is now in hot water. Even after all she's done to him, he's still willing to stand by her.

He deserves a million times better, and yet he looks at her and sees someone worth loving, despite her tonnage of emotional debris.

"Toby-" she begins, but he cuts her off, crossing over to sit beside her, his azure irises searching her face. "I know you said there are things you can't tell me, but that's okay. I can wait until you're ready to-"

"I'll never be ready," she interrupts. "I can never tell you. And it's not because I don't trust you," she adds, because she can't bear to see the hurt reenter his eyes.

"Then why?" he crosses his arms.

In that moment, she can feel the words on the tip of her tongue, can imagine the weightless relief of coming clean, of telling him the truth. The secrets are suffocating her, and all she wants is to just let them go, to breathe again.

But then she hears the disembodied voice of "A"'s Chucky doll warning her to Keep Toby safe. And she knows that, as much as she wants to, she can't.

It's her own choices that have gotten her into this mess after all; now she must pay the price.

"It's because I can't...I just can't." She stands up again, then pads over to the door, opening it. "You should go. My parents will be back soon."

"Spencer," he reaches for her hand, but she jerks away, hot tears burning behind her eyes.

"Don't make this harder than it has to be," she begs. "Please, Toby. Just...just go."

He stares at her for a beat, as if waiting for her to change her mind. She stares back, willing him to just leave, to save himself from the impending storm that is sure to destroy her and everyone close to her.

Finally, he turns to leave. Halfway out the door, however, he turns back.

"You can't just expect me to stop loving you." His voice is low and rough, and she remembers the first time she heard it, on his porch a thousand years ago. Had she ever anticipated that they'd end up here?

"If you love me," she says, her voice cracking, "then just, please...let me go." A tear slips down her cheek, but she's far beyond caring.

He takes a step closer, and before she can blink, his arms are around her, and she buries her face in that soft spot between his neck and his shoulder, her tears soaking into his shirt. She can hear him murmuring soothing words into her hair, feel his hands rubbing her back, smell his cologne. And it's okay, for the moment, it's okay.

And then the moment ends, and she realizes it's far from okay, they're far from okay, and she pulls away, opening her mouth to say something, though she has no idea what, but he beats her to it, brushing a lingering tear from her eye.

"Call me if you need anything."

And then he releases her, and she watches him go, thinking that if she was anyone else, she would hope against hope that someday they can be together again.

But she's Spencer Hastings, and she knows that hope, of course, breeds eternal misery.