PROMPT: Spencer and Toby after the A fiasco, Spencer has scars from a final battle with A team, and Toby remorseful and hating himself for what he let happen to her.

One Last Time

The guilt had been gnawing mercilessly at him the entire night. It wasn't as though he hadn't tried to sleep – oh, he had most certainly tried. There was no doubt about that – he had completed an extensive workout (which usually exhausted him), had sipped some warm milk, and had tried to turn the stereo on low to lull him to slumber. Hell, he had even gulped gratuitously on some Nyquil, but nothing seemed to be working.

He knew what had transpired only a couple nights ago. Mona had texted him in a fury only hours before it happened, demanding to know where he was and why he wasn't by her side. He had started ignoring her some time ago, after Spencer had discovered his secret. He had finished playing his part, and he was done. But that didn't mean that everything was over. Far from it, in fact.

The very same night of the text messages, he had turned on the television to find that Mona had been arrested after a gruesome showdown with the girls. Staring in awe at the screen before him, he felt his heart plummet into his stomach as he watched the news story unfold.

He wasn't sure how she did it, but he had received one last text from her while watching the broadcast: 'I'm sending them for you next.'

He knew he didn't have much time. He could only hide for so long before the police would track him down, too. It didn't matter that he had reduced his involvement in the whole mess – they'd be looking for names of Mona's allies, and lots of them. And she was selfish enough to deal them out in order to gain a lighter sentence.

The prospect terrified him and put him on high alert. He had already spent time in juvenile reform school; he had surpassed the possibility of just receiving a slap on the wrist. He was 18 years old now – he'd be going to prison.

With a heavy heart, he had accepted his fate. But there was somewhere he needed to be first. One last thing he needed to do. And because slumber was evading him, it was the perfect time to take care of it.

There were no cars in the driveway besides hers. Not that this was out of the ordinary. Her parents were notorious for leaving her alone in her darkest hour. He'd be surprised if they'd even returned home long enough to ensure that she was okay. It was likely that they were off somewhere in the Bahamas, or on a cruise – miles away from the daughter that craved their reassurance.

The back door was unlocked. He thought it unwise to sneak in after all that had happened, but he knew that she would never allow him entrance if he knocked. So instead he crept in quietly, hoping with all of his heart that he would not frighten her too much.

She was asleep on the couch, one arm dangled over the side with her cell clutched desperately in hand. The fire was burning in the hearth, crackling lightly as the flames lapped hungrily at the logs within.

He approached her quietly, not wanting to disturb her. As the light danced across her figure, he felt his breath catch.

She was wearing a tank top, revealing a great deal of vulnerable skin. And he could immediately see why. There was a large piece of bandaged gauze that stretched from one shoulder to the apex of her bosom, and even in the dark he could see the spider web tracks of the wound peeking from beneath it.

He knelt down beside the couch, carefully brushing a piece of stray hair from her face. There was a burgeoning bruise donning the majority of her left cheekbone, discoloring her features to a nasty black and blue.

"Oh, God," he murmured to himself, choking back the urge to cry. He found himself suddenly grateful that Mona was being put away – if he ever had to see her again, he'd be getting a life sentence, himself.

The guilt was welling up somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, rising into his throat like bile. He desperately blinked back tears as he took her free hand in his, bringing it to his lips. He kissed each knuckle – one at a time – and savored the taste of her skin.

He had never deserved her. Not the day that she first came to his door to tutor him in French – and certainly not now. He had done horrific, unspeakable things. Things he would never be able to take back. And when she needed him the most, he wasn't there. If only he had agreed to help Mona one last time…he could have been there to stop it. He could have prevented Mona from breaking this beautiful girl to the point of permanent scarring. Past the point of no return.

But as usual, he had been a coward. Had skipped town and lurked in the shadows when the going got tough. He thought that if he washed his hands of the entire thing, he would no longer be to blame.

But he was. He was to blame more than anybody else. Because when it came down to it, he had only looked out for himself. If only he had done something months ago. If only he had reported Mona at the very beginning, when her sanity truly began to suffer. He could have changed everything.

He could have still had Spencer.

And then, she began to stir. Toby's heart rate increased twofold as her eyes began to open, and he knew there would be no way out now.

She gazed at him sleepily, an expression of perplexity grazing her features. He saw now that she could hardly open that left eye with her cheek as swollen as it was, and he felt an instantaneous lashing against his skin, as though he'd been violently whipped. There was sleepiness in her eyes as she studied him, as if unsure whether she was still dreaming. He was certain she was probably on a number of pain killers, and felt woozy even when she was awake.

"Toby?" she slurred.

"It's me," he confirmed. He pressed his lips to the hand he held at his face once more, suddenly aware of the tears trickling down his cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Spencer. I'm so sorry that I wasn't there."

She was blinking rapidly now, trying to clear the confusion. "But you're one of them. You wouldn't be protecting me."

He felt as though he'd been slapped. The statement stung something fierce, but he knew he deserved it.

"I would never do anything to hurt you," he whispered softly, leaning his cheek into her hand. "I know how it looks…but you have to believe me. If I had been there…"

He trailed off, unsure if he had the strength to finish the sentence.

She seemed eerily calm through all of this. Perhaps it was the fact that she had just endured the most horrific night of her life only 48 hours ago. Maybe she was so numb to everything now that fear and anger were emotions she did not have the energy to feel. Or maybe she was so drugged up that she thought she was dreaming. Maybe all of the above. But as long as he had her attention, he was going to say what he had to say.

"I love you. I never lied about that," he promised, his voice breaking in slight. "I know I did some terrible things. But if there's ever one thing you want to believe about me – one thing not to let go of – it's that."

She whimpered quietly, likely from the pain, as she adjusted herself on the couch. Her eyes probed his for a moment – there was still a fogginess in their depths – as she slowly began to speak once more.

"You broke my heart," she murmured. "I loved you."

He sniffled loudly, impatiently wiping away the tears that were now freely cascading down his face. "I know that. I know that, Spencer…And I'll never forgive myself for it. For any of it."

She fell silent once more, her eyes beginning to drift shut again. He gulped past the lump in his throat, wishing she would look at him one last time. It was more than he deserved, but he needed her to see him – really see him – before he was gone forever.

As if on cue, the door burst open wildly against the wall. He was on his feet in an instant, his adrenaline crying out in panic as he realized what was happening.

"She told us we'd probably find you here," the cop stated brashly as he and two others drew their weapons. Mona. He knew that was the 'she' that he was referring to.

He put his hands up in a surrender formation, indicating that he would cooperate. That he would go quietly.

Spencer's eyes were wide open once more, but she still seemed borderline catatonic. She was fighting to pull herself into a sitting position. "What's going on?"

"Don't worry, Miss Hastings," the officer declared as he pulled Toby's hands behind his back to cuff. "He won't be bothering you anymore."

God, she was so out of it…she looked as though she were still half asleep, but was trying desperately to wake up. There was intense confusion etched in her marred features: she didn't understand what was happening.

"Toby?" she said meekly, surveying him with her eyes.

He returned his gaze to hers, and realized that the way in which she spoke his name was one last plea. One final request for him to explain what was going on. To help her.

He didn't reply. He wasn't sure he would have been physically able to, even if he had wanted. The lump in his throat was so grossly overgrown now that his voice box had locked up entirely. If he tried to speak, he would completely break down.

They guided him none-too-gently through the doors. He chanced one last glance over his shoulder – one last look at her chocolate colored doe eyes. It was more than likely that she'd fall back to sleep within moments, awakening the next morning to a very blurry recollection of what had happened. She would probably regard it as a dream, and think nothing more. She wouldn't remember that he was actually there. That he had actually come to apologize for all the trouble he had caused her – that he had confessed how much he loved her, even despite everything he'd done. No. Instead, her last memory of him would be that fateful night in her kitchen – of him turning around to face her in that black hoodie – of slapping him across the face in betrayed fury.

She wouldn't remember him as the man who loved her. She'd remember him as the one who broke her heart.

He wasn't sure which was worse. But in the end, he realized he was somewhat grateful for her catatonic state. She didn't need to remember this moment. He had confused her and broken her down enough as it was. Remembering him as a villain would be a much cleaner break for her. She would get closure – and she would move on. She could relax again someday, with all of this behind her. With their relationship nothing more than a distant memory – a long-healed bruise that was only minutely tender to the touch. Nothing more – nothing less.

She would continue on with her life, doing what she always set out to do. She would find peace. She would live a long, healthy life and grow old, feeling as though she had lived every day to its fullest after he was gone.

She would be happy. And that's all he had ever wanted for her.