hey hey hey! hope you're all doing well, and are enjoying your weekend :) i'm so sorry for neglecting to update this. my muse has been finicky, to say the least, and the past few months have been crazy for me. hopefully you guys can forgive me.
buuuut in other news. i have a proposition for you guys. since i'm torn on what "deleted scene" to post next (and as aforementioned, my inspiration is running dry), i figured i'd let you, the readers, pick. so here's the deal. leave me a review (or shoot me a pm, tweet, tumblr message, whatever) letting me know which "missing moment" you'd like me to write next. the first three requests will be flagged as priority, and the requester (is that a word?) will absolutely be credited for their idea. sound good? okay.
as always, THANK YOU ALL so much for reading, following/favoriting, and for your lovely reviews. you guys seriously, seriously rock.
extended scenes from 5x13, based on a prompt i received on tumblr :) enjoy and review!
-:-
twelve: warmth
The fire crackles invitingly in the hearth, washing the Hastings' living room in a dull orange glow. Spencer sits on the couch before it, and despite her proximity to the burning flames and the cashmere blanket tossed over her lap, cold permeates her skin, seeping into her bones. It's cold from fear, from hopelessness, from a sadness she can't quite identify, much less shake herself from.
Aria, Ezra, Hanna, Caleb, Emily, and Paige had left hours before, once "A"'s message had been removed from the barn and the roads had been declared safe enough to travel on. They had families worried about them, parents missing them, gifts to open excitedly and Christmas traditions to honor.
The Hastings' tradition has sure as hell been honored. Peter is in Chicago and Veronica is stuck in New York, and neither have called to check up on their younger daughter, even on a night like tonight. As usual, 'tis the season for absentee parenting. And God only knows what Melissa is up to in London; she hasn't contacted her sister since she confessed to being the one who buried Bethany alive.
It should infuriate her, her parents' utter carelessness, their inability to repair the fault lines that have plagued their family for years. But it's just heartbreaking instead. Even after an affair, a messy divorce, and having two daughters, one under suspicion for murder and one an actual maybe-murderer, they can't seem to want to try to be there.
Flipping another page of the embossed photo album she's been numbly perusing, she's startled by a thump behind her, and immediately drops the book on the couch, jumping up. Maybe it's "A", Alison, whoever, coming to make sure this really is her last Christmas...
Her terror turns to quick relief when she realizes the source of the thumping is of a pair of crutches on the stairs, and when their carrier finally limps off the final step and smiles at her, she chastises, "You should've asked for help, Toby. It's dangerous for you to go up and down stairs alone. You could hurt yourself, or-"
"Shhh." Inching towards her, he places a finger over her lips, effectively silencing her as he maneuvers himself into a sitting position beside her on the couch. "It's fine. I'm fine." His eyes are almost hypnotic in the dancing firelight, and some of the weight of the baggage she carries - her home life, her arrest, "A" - seems to fall away, to ease. "What are you up to?" He asks, draping the blanket back over her as she toys idly with the binding on the photo album.
She shrugs noncommittally. "Just looking through some old stuff." She moves to rise, to put the long-lost memories away, but he stops her.
"Can I see?"
His voice is tentative, almost shy, and she can't deny him, so she sits back down and hands him the album.
He flips through, landing on a page featuring Spencer and Melissa as children, wearing matching reindeer pajama sets, posed beside a lighted Christmas tree, huge grins splitting their faces. He's struck by the sight of her, young and innocent and hopeful, with no idea what tragedies and horrors she'd eventually be forced to face.
"Christmas '99," Spencer says, and her voice is melancholy, dull, as she stares straight ahead, into the flames. "My parents were actually home, and it was before the war started between my sister and me. I was five, Melissa was twelve, and she was, like, my hero, actually." She lets out a short, humorless laugh. "It was the best Christmas I can remember. Nobody fought, my dad didn't get drunk on Scotch halfway through the night...we were a real family," she finishes quietly. "I don't know when that changed."
Toby swallows. He knows what it's like to have a less-than-ideal family life, but sometimes the complete lack of attention, of love, the Hastings' give their beautiful, brilliant younger daughter is startling. He knows that Spencer can care less about material gifts on Christmas; all she really wants is affection, and it's affection that Peter and Veronica have deprived her of, leaving her cold and lonely and starved for it.
So he takes her hand, lacing their fingers together, and she looks at him, startled from her reverie. "I can be your family," he tells her solemnly, and the look in her eyes, the gratitude and the warmth as she absorbs his words, floor him.
"We can be each other's," she says softly, and then her lips meet his, as delicate as the snowflakes swirling outside. He pours all he can into the mating of their mouths, tries to relay to her with the kiss what he can't with words: that she's not alone, that she's loved, that she'll always be loved, no matter what.
She pulls away from the kiss, cupping his cheek in her palm, her mocha eyes brimming with unspoken emotion. "I'm so glad you're here tonight," she murmurs, and he trails a finger over the dimple in her chin, prompting a slight smile from her. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be," he assures her. "Tonight, or any other night." Remembering something, he leans away slightly to reach into his jeans pocket. "Actually, I have a surprise for you."
"Toby.." Spencer sighs, pulling away to give him a pointed look. "I thought we agreed on no gifts."
"This isn't a gift," he grins, amused by her aggravation as he hands her the small, wrapped box, "it's a gesture."
"I thought you already presented your gesture," she smirks, tilting her head at him.
"Well, this is part two." He nudges her. "Go ahead. Open it."
Shooting him a perplexed look, she carefully tears apart the wrapping paper, then cracks open the box. Then she rolls those big, expressive eyes.
"You know this is cheating, right?" She asks, waving the sprig of mistletoe at him, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"Are you complaining?" He leans in closer so that their noses brush, their breaths mingle together, their heartbeats synchronize.
"No," she murmurs, and their mouths are so close yet not close enough. "Just making an observation."
"So..." Teasingly, he withdraws an inch. "We should take advantage of my gesture?"
She instantly eradicates the distance between them. "Yes."
This kiss is different. It's not sweet or soft or delicate. It's messy and desperate and raw, and when they break away for air, her skin is flushed and his lips are swollen and they're both grinning.
"Now that," she purrs, "that is a real gesture." He chuckles, then reaches for the discarded blanket, wrapping it around them both. She lays her head against his shoulder, flashing him a quick smile, and they sit there in silence for a while until she finally speaks, her prior, fleeting cheer stifled under sorrow.
"I'm scared, Toby." She burrows deeper into his hold. "I'm scared of what 'A' is going to do...I'm scared of going to jail...I'm scared of losing you-"
"No," he says firmly tightening his arms around her. "No, you never have to be scared of that. Whatever happens, you'll never lose me."
She raises her head to meet his unwavering gaze, eyeing him searchingly. "The letter that Hanna found, I feel good about it. I do," she assures him. "I just..." She rubs a hand over her face. "When we brought Ali back to Rosewood, and we thought it was over, I thought I could finally be happy again. And that's all I want. To not have to worry. To just live my life and be at peace."
"I know," he murmurs, rubbing her shoulders to ease the tension resting there. "I know."
"Do you think it'll ever be over?" She asks, her eyes pleading, and in that moment she's not the tough, put-together, ass-kicking Spencer Hastings she shows the world. She's vulnerable, a little messy, and human. She's just Spence, and she needs enough reassurance to carry on, and he's the one she turns to when she needs it. "Really over?"
"Yes," he tells her, because he refuses to accept anything less; for Spencer, for himself. "Someday, we'll look back on all this, and it won't be able to hurt us anymore."
"You really believe that?"
He kisses her forehead, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "I believe in you."
Their lips have just barely touched when the sound of a door slamming startles them both. Seconds later, Veronica Hastings sweeps into the living room, Burberry coat covered in snow, looking annoyed.
"The roads are absolute Hell," she says by way of greeting, not batting an eye over the entangled position of the obviously caught-off-guard couple on the couch.
"I figured you'd be stuck in New York," Spencer says, extracting herself from Toby and standing up, careful not to disrupt the injured leg her boyfriend had propped on a cushion.
"What, and leave my daughter alone? Of course not. I battled through to make it here, although," she adds with a frown at her Rolex, "it's technically the twenty-sixth now."
"It doesn't matter." As she hugs her mother, Spencer blinks back tears, because while they may not show it often, even the infamous Hastings' do care. "I'm just glad you're here."
"So am I." Veronica gives her a quick squeeze. "Did you eat anything?"
"Yeah, Toby and I had dinner with the girls and Ezra, Caleb, and Paige..." Spencer's voice trails off, then she brightly continues with a quick look at her boyfriend, still on the couch, looking like a deer in headlights. "I was just about to walk him back out to the barn." The barn had been Toby's residence since the car accident he'd been involved in the night before her arrest; after seeing the rickety stairs leading up to the loft above the Brew and Spencer's unease about it, Veronica had offered it to him.
"Oh, he doesn't have to go yet," Veronica waves her hand dismissively. "I thought we could decorate a tree. We haven't done that in years."
They haven't done that since Spencer was seven, and in spite of herself, she's flooded with a childlike excitement. "But we don't have a tree," she points out, pushing it back.
"Sure we do, somewhere in the basement." Veronica shrugs. "It's a fake, but it'll do."
An hour later, Spencer, Toby, and Veronica sit before the fireplace, drinking egg nog and admiring the tree they'd strung with old lights Veronica had dug up, and peppered with ornaments Spencer and Melissa had made in school over the years. Toby is discussing is police academy training with Veronica and the elder Hastings is obviously impressed, and as Spencer leans back in her seat, her boyfriend's hand in hers, she feels a warmth she hasn't felt in so long.
Sure, her life isn't perfect. Her family isn't perfect, her relationship isn't perfect. But perfect doesn't mean what it used to mean to her. She doesn't care about perfection, she cares about happiness. Peace.
And despite the fact that the war is far from over, as she looks up into Toby's blue eyes, she thinks that maybe hope isn't just a dirty four-letter word after all.
