In the year and half of being Spencer Hasting's boyfriend, Toby has learned a couple things about her. She always forgets to lock her door (even with that gigantic brain of hers that can remember every geometric theorem ever created), she gets cold too easily, she hates clowns, she knows three different languages, and drinks at least three cups of coffee a day. But those things were easy to learn. They are just facts, and somewhat observations.But there are somethings that took Toby awhile to catch onto.
For example, when she lies, she can look you in the eye, but the second she spurs the lie out, she looks away, not wanting to witness the betrayal in action. When she is angry, she blinks a lot, her eyes unsteady and fidgety, almost on the verge of twitching, but not quite. And then there is the way she acts when she is hurting inside...
She'll avoid your gaze, and talk with crisp, but quiet words. Her eyes will appear vacant and her mouth will curve into the slightest frown. She'll stand straight--too straight, almost stiff. She'll act like nothings wrong, when something obviously is.
So it only takes him two minutes of being with her to notice something's off. "What's wrong?" he asks after pulling out of their greeting embrace.
Her frown deepens to something more distinct "everything and beyond," she responds, sardonically. He had seen her yesterday, and noticed her depressive behavior, but she hadn't given him a clue to what was wrong.
He brings a hand to her face, caressing the side of her face with compassion and affection. She sniffles a little, and looks down, not meeting his eyes. "Mrs. Dilaurentis is dead," she rasps out.
What?
"Wha--when, what happened?"Â
"Last night, they found her body in my backyard," she stiffens.
"Oh, Spence," he slumps a little. She doesn't respond. His hand falls down and catches on to her hand. "Come on, let's sit down," he states.
She nods absently, but follows him towards the couch. They sit next to each other, Spencer looking down at her lap. She pulls her hand from his and clasps her hands over her lap. "Someone killed her, it's obvious" she states, mostly emotionless. "The funeral's tomorrow."
"I can't say I'm surprised by that," he states. He is pretty sure seventy five percent of the deaths in Rosewood are murders.Â
"Yeah," she agrees, looking up.Â
"Why your backyard?" he suddenly questions.
"I don't know," her words are faint as she shakes her head.
"You don't think that--" and when she looks at him, her eyes watery and dripping in pain, close to the point of completely being washed in misery, Toby forgets his question completely. She sniffles and a tear falls off her cheek, he brushes it away with his thumb before kissing the spot in which the tear led. His lips continued to make gentle kisses on her skin--on her nose, on her eyelids, on her hairline. She accepted it easily, the stiffness that hung upon her melting away into something softer.Â
His arms wrap around her carefully, pulling her into his lap. She doesn't fight this either. Her eyes remain closed until he pulls her hands up to his lips, kissing each knuckle with care and adoration. Her eyes slit open, looking up at him hazily. She pulls her hand away from his possession. He easily lets it go, but it comes back quickly to him. She strokes his face before meeting his lips for a tender, long kiss. After, she tucks her head into his chest, her arm wrapping around him.
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There has been a number of times where Spencer has stayed the night at her boyfriend’s loft. So many times now that she should know to bring an extra set of clothes to sleep in. She is Spencer Hastings, of course; she’s notoriously known for her photogenic memory, but yet, she can never remember to bring a set of pajamas. It strikes Toby as kind of alarming, and curious, but usually he just lets it slide. Letting Spencer borrow—have, is more like it—his clothes is no big deal to him, mostly because he just loves seeing her in them.Â
But for whatever reason (maybe the fact that his closet is filling with more and more empty, lonely hangers), he decides to say something about it tonight. “You know, i’m beginning to question that brain of yours. You can remember geometric equations, and names of scientists who died over fifty years ago, without a problem, but you can’t remember to bring an extra shirt?”
She smiles at him, an innocent smile that brings his stomach to somersaults. She leans back more on the bed, her stretched out arms, holding her upright. “It is very strange. Somehow it always just seems to slip my mind,” her head falls to the side lazily, her endearing smile slanted. “Why? Is there a problem? Do you not have any extra shirts?” a wrinkle forms in her brow.
"No," he dismisses her question with ease. "I have an extra shirt," he confidently supplies, falling down next to her on the bed. She keeps her lightened eyes weighing on his, "I just don’t know if I want to give it to you," he lets out in a low octave, a mellow smile smoothing out on his lips.
"Are you flirting with me?" she questions quietly, a half, curious smirk appearing below her nose.
He leans closer to her, smiling. She smiles too, meeting his lips with a deep kiss. She pulls him down with her on the bed, both grinning happily into the kiss, their bodies aligning with one another easily. Her hands instantly run up his shirt, eager to remove it.
It is safe to say that neither of them slept with a shirt that night. Â
iloveprettylittleliars1234567Â requested:Â extension of the spoby scene form 4x12 where they just start talking about when Spencer had her breakdown.
The two sit there for awhile, drifting away into the silence. It is neither awkward, or comfortable. Just full of tension; the tension that hangs between them. And perhaps there will always be that lingering tension, because how do you really come back from what they’ve been through? You don’t. You can’t. When you get hurt, all you can do is pick yourself back up, and adjust to the new scar. And, maybe, with the help of some medication, it will fade away. Maybe.
“This is always going to be a setback for us, isn’t it?” she speaks mindlessly, her words coming out in empty chords.
She hears him gulp, “I hope not…” he says in a thick, desperate, breathless, way. Then a moment later, “but I would understand.”
“I don’t it to be though,” she shakes her head a little, her mocha eyes becoming victims of torment. He’s always hated that look most on her. It always hurt too much to see, and it hurts even more, knowing that he is the reason for it. “I don’t want this to keep coming back—keep surfacing fights, and hurt feelings,” her words are quiet, hiding from the possible sobs that will find her.
“I don’t want that to happen either,” he admits. But he isn’t sure how to fix his mistakes—all the problems he has caused. Spencer has always been the fixer—the problem solver, the smart one. You put an equation in front of her, she solves it. Within seconds, the answer is clear, and the question no longer exists. She finds the solution easily, but this is not her solution to find. It is his. It is his problem, his equation, his mess, and he is the only one who is capable to clean it. “I don’t want to worry you, or cause you pain…” the words lurk off his tongue in a mumble.
Silence.
“Sometimes you don’t realize how badly you are hurting someone till you see the bruise,” he states, his voice devoid of emotion.
“But you saw the bruise,” she argues. “You saw it, and you didn’t—you didn’t do anything,” her voice catches, her eyes finally aligning with his. “How couldn’t you do anything?” her throat was closing in on her. Her emotions have stolen her ability to breathe.
He frowns, because honestly, he doesn’t know. He made a mistake. A horrible mistake. It was, like, seeing Spencer, and all the suffering he was putting her through, was only a motivator for him to keep going. If he was going to cause her so much heartache, so much turmoil, he should at least have gotten something out of it. The more she hurt, the more he felt the need to make up for it. But it got so out of hand, so—inhumane, and awful. Mona playing him out to be dead was the line. He decided he would end it all there. But it all happened so fast. He never had a chance to plan something safe. The next thing he knew, he was sitting across from her at a remote diner.
She is waiting for an answer. Waiting for something to assure her that she isn’t crazy for forgiving him (but she is crazy for forgiving him, that’s the thing.)
“I just—I got so caught up in it,” the injured words stretch from his mouth. His throat was closing, too. He hadn’t realized how torn up he was until now. “I wanted to make everything right, so badly. At first it was just about protection, but it became more than that after awhile. It was about redemption, too. But…” he shakes his head, placing her hand in his. He stares at their jointed hands, wondering how on earth she hasn’t pulled away, yet. “You—you’re so important to me, Spence.”
A sniffle enters his ears, “you have to stop scaring me. I can’t—I just, if you are going to leave. Whether it is for a few days, or forever, I just—I need to know you’re okay. I need you to be okay, Toby,” her voice breaks him.
He looks up at her, and nods.
“When I thought I lost you,” the words barely escape from her, hardly holding an octave, “I didn’t just lose you. I just—lost,” she heaves a heavy breath.
“I’m going to stay right here, with you,” he promises. “I’m going to make it up to you, whether it’s with –A, or some other way, I will.”
“Please don’t get involved with –A again,” she frowns. “It’s too dangerous, Toby. If you want to make it up to me, just…just stay as far away from –A as you possibly can.”
He gives her a conflicting look, frowning. Spencer wants to keep him safe, just as he wants to keep her safe. This has always caused trouble between them. It is quite ironic how most of their fighting births from this desperate need to protect each other; they are both working with the best, and truest intentions.  “I can’t promise that.”
When he says it, she sighs, looking as if she is about to plead again.
“But I promise that I’ll always let you know—I won’t do anything like last time,” he vows.
She sighs, leaning her body into his. He drapes his arm around her shoulders, and presses a soft, lingering, kiss into her hair, taking in her scent, and giving his hundredth “thank you” to whoever made it possible for this to happen again. He never thought they would be able to get to this point. He never thought his hands would know of her again—he thought her presence would become only something off afar, but here they are. “Thank you,” he murmurs into her, quietly.
“For what?” she questions in a whisper.
“For letting this happen. For giving me another shot.”
floatingbookshelf requested: Jacket…. as in Toby’s jacket…. and go! Haha :)
[warning: this is really cheesy and short and fluffy]
Toby gives it to her at 9PM, and she keeps it on for the rest of the night.
It fits her well. It is a little big on her, but not to the point where it is hugging her knees, or falling off her shoulders. It is just right. Just like he is for her.
It smells like him, which only increases her affection for it. All his clothes smell like him, but this particular article of clothing seems to lead a stronger scent. It is probably due to him wearing it so much. In addition to that, it isn’t always being soaked in detergent. It goes longer without being washed, like most jackets do.
Spencer loves wearing his clothes, especially when he is away. It brings her a sense of security. It narrows her desire and longing for him, (not completely, but it helps a great deal.) It gives her a part of him to keep.
But seeing him shivering beside her is enough to execute a sacrifice.
She begins to shrug it off of her arms, but he stops her, pulling it back on her, a tender smile stuck on his face. His arms cling to her shoulders, securing the jacket on her.
Spencer gives him a curious look, her eyebrows pushed together in an arc of confusion.
“You keep it on,” he tells her.
“But your freezing,” she fights, her voice soft.
“I’m fine,” he assures her.
She keeps staring at him, pursing her lips in disapproval.
“Besides,” he begins, his tone changing to something more gentle, “it’s yours.”
“What?” she questions.
“I’m giving it to you,” he explains.
“But it’s your favorite jacket,” she murmurs the rebuttal.
“Exactly,” he replies, stopping in their walk. He turns to her, his hands still cupping her shoulders. She looks back at him, a furrowed brow hovering over her doe eyes. “It’ll be something you can remember me by,” he elaborates.
“Remember…?” her brow tilts more in an arch.
“When you go away to college in August,” his hands fall off her shoulders.
“I don’t need anything to remember you by,” she fights, stepping close to him. “I’ll call you every day, and there is still the weekends…” her voice holds hope; something Spencer Hastings is notorious to go against. She cups his face in her hands, a small smile encountering her lips. “Don’t worry,” she promises. And then a second later, her expressions change to something resembling bewilderment, “wait…this isn’t some weird, break up is it?” she questions, only half joking.
He chuckles, shaking his head, and taking her by the forearms, guiding her hands to his. Their hands cling to each other as the words leave his mouth, “no, of course not,” he dismisses the idea. “I just wanted to give you something that means something…I don’t know,” he looks away for a second.
“That’s really sweet.” The comment attracts the blue eyes to her brown ones. “And really thoughtful,” she adds, a lightness in her tone. “But, won’t you miss it?” she asks.
“I think I’m going to be too busy missing something else to even think about it”
 A pinkness rises to the girl’s cheeks, along with a toothless smile. “Well,” she clucks her tongue, “don’t expect to get it back.”
“I wasn’t counting on it,” he leans close to her, nuzzling his nose against hers, causing his girlfriend’s smile to grow into something more livelily. “I’m missing half of my wardrobe, and we both know whose fault that is,” he eyes her.
She gets a look on her face. That look she gets on her face whenever she is trying to come up with an insult. He noticed this expression of hers, right before their first kiss.
As he did that morning in front of the motel, he pushes his lips into hers, halting whatever back firing comment she had come up with. She doesn’t take this as offense, instead she leans into him more, ditching his hand for the side of his face.
 His free hand pushes at the small of her back, the leather beneath his fingertips. He smiles into her mouth, liking the idea of Spencer in his jacket.
keeganisacupcake requested "Â one word spoby prompts: jealously, sex, drunk spencer please any of them thank you in advance xxx"
and I sort of did all of them, and combined them into one.
So, it is kind of AU, and set in the future, like in their mid twenties. And it is sort of OOC because they are broken up, and let's be real, they would never break up? and also we are just gonna say they get back together after this and haves tons of babies. OK BYE.
It is a Saturday, and her heals are killing her. She doesn’t normally go out to bars. They are too noisy and busy. She doesn’t like crowds—being surrounded by tons of people she doesn’t know. It is a terrifying concept to her, mostly because of how badly high school fucked her up.
But every now and then she goes out with her friends, because it has its occasional appeal. It is a night to just let go—to throw your hands up in the air, and scream against the raging music. So, she doesn’t regret coming tonight, regardless of how she feels right now. It has been a fun night, but it is getting a little too late for her, and that unsettling feeling is coming upon her. She wants to go home, away from this whole organized mess. But she has no idea where her friends are, and it doesn’t help that she is seeing everything in blurs.
In the search for her friends, she finds someone else. Someone she knows well. It at least knew well. The last time she spoke to him was probably a little over a year ago. It was at Emily’s wedding, and of course she invited him. They were friends.
She ponders on whether to speak to him. And then she notices something—or someone. Some girl, some, tall, big chested,Â
flawless girl, whose hair falls in luscious strawberry blonde curls. They are talking, or flirting, maybe.
"Toby Cavanaugh!" Her voice chirps out before she can stop herself. She slides between the two, wrapping her arms around him. It seems, sort of, inappropriate, considering their past (and nostalgic.) But she is drunk, and there is some hot girl talking to him, and doesn’t she know that Toby will always be hers?
"Hi," he greets in a shock, the word barely getting past his lips. The words shape right at her ear, raspy and breathless. She pulls away, but her hands stay put, and so does his. "Spencer," he breathes, baffled. "I can’t believe it’s you." His words are soft against the raging music behind their conversation.
Something in his eyes creates a fluttering motion in her chest.
"Hi," a hand pulls at her shoulder. She steps away from Toby, and looks at the girl behind her.
So, maybe Spencer was imaging things. She is taller than the strawberry blonde bimbo, but her rack only seems larger up close. When did Toby get so superficial? When the hell did he decide to go to clubs, and flirt with random girls until his pants were off. He was such an introvert before.
"I’m Trish," she greets.
"Spencer," she coolly replies.
A challenging look blossoms in the girl’s eyes—blue like Toby’s, but not nearly as kind. “Well, Spencer, you must be an old friend of Toby’s…?”
"You could say that…"
"Well, it’s nice to meet you," she responds, smiling—surely a wicked one, at that. One that slithers up, and bites you.
"Yeah…" she breathes, narrowing her eyes.
"Well, look at that Toby, this night brought something other than misery," the shorter girl—Trish, more like Trash—smiles at the man, squeezing his bicep. "Toby never wants to come to any clubs or bars, or anywhere," she complains to Spencer. Then she shoots a teasing look at Toby, "he’s boring with a capital B."
Spencer is not amused. In fact, the fact that anyone, especially this Trish, would say Toby is boring, is unacceptable. Toby is far from boring. He is one of the most interesting, complex, individuals she has ever met, and will ever meet.
She is going to give Trish a piece of her mind.
Sensing Spencer’s potential attack, Toby steps in.
"Trish could you give us some space?" he asks her.
"You’re kind of drunk, Tobes," she laughs. "I think you need me."
Tobes? That is her name for Toby. How dare this girl.
"I’m fine!" He protests. "Go—dance. You have been complaining all night how I have been holding you down. Now is your chance!"
"Fine, but I’m not going far…" she sighs. She holds up her phone, tapping it, "call me if you need anything," she states, before disappearing.
The drunken words fall off Spencer’s tongue before she can catch them, “is that your girlfriend?”
"No. We’re just friends."
Suddenly, those eyes don’t seem so mean. The smile doesn’t seem as fake.
"Oh."
“How are you doing?”
She shrugs. Life sucks, sometimes it doesn’t, but those little glimpses of happiness only pop in every couple months. “All right,” she admits, leaning her side into the bar. “In the middle of getting my masters,” she elaborates.
 “Psychology, right?” he questions. She had told him at Emily’s wedding.
 She offers a curt nod, “yeah, I’m going to be in school forever…” she groans. “But you know, that’s the only way to get anywhere with Psychology. And I love it, so,” she shrugs, her copper eyes roaming off for a moment, “what are you going to do?” the rhetorical question falls off her tongue.
 “How are you doing Mr. Architecture?” her voice raises a pitch, a coy smile turning up on her face.
 He laughs. She always loved his laugh. It was so refreshing—so genuine and pure. It was proof that the world wasn’t completely bad.
 It still is.
 “I’m okay…well, not really. Ever since I announced myself an independent architect, I’ve sort of been scraping for everything. I had ramen noodles for dinner every day this week,” he recounts. “Trish bought all my drinks tonight…mostly anyways,” he explains.
“Well, how about we give her wallet a break, and I get you a drink instead,” she raises an eyebrow, a mischievous smile dancing across her face. She turns to the bar, and calls over a bartender, ordering two drinks.
 He has a grin on his face when she looks back at him.
 “You’re welcome,” she whispers, leaning closer to him because the music is oh-so loud (and also she just wants to be closer to him.) Whilst leaning into him, she catches a waft of his cologne. It is a utopia to her nostrils.
 “You smell nice,” she murmurs, still only inches away from his face.
 A half-smile twitches up on the man’s face, a look of curiosity and lust pining in his eyes.
 “Thank you,” he expresses, his eyes not leaving hers.
 She giggles, biting her lip, leaning away from him.
 Soon, the drinks are at their hands.
 And then a couple more.
 And then some more.
 And suddenly they are in the back of his truck (not the one he had before, but still a truck. Maybe a little less spacey? Or maybe they just take up more space now…)
 She is on top of him, her heels left on the floor of the truck. Her hands are up his shirt, feeling the matured muscle hiding beneath the fabric. His body is familiar to her, but at the same time, completely reconstructed. It is safe to say that he hasn’t let himself go.
 A feeling of nostalgia fills her, as their lips mold and shape together. She can’t remember why they broke up. Or why she ever thought this feeling could come with anyone else—this feeling of empowerment, and being alive. Electrifying, and stilling, all at once. It is like her body was paralyzed before, and she is finally generating feeling.
 She tugs off his shirt in a hurry, needing to cut the barriers between them to a minimum. He leans up to help her, extending his long arms out so she can pull the shirt off with a greater ease.
 Her anxious lips dive into his chest, pressing plump kisses along his collarbone, neck, and shoulders.
 She hears him release a delighted sigh, before asking, “is this a good idea? Or are we just…drunk? “
 Truthfully, she doesn’t know. Maybe that is a sign that she is clearly too intoxicated to be making decisions. But he is half naked at her fingertips, and she can’t pull back now. The desire and lusting forming in her growling stomach won’t allow it.
 “It’s not like we haven’t done it before,” she counters, her face hovering inches above his.
 And then he gives in, and pushes his lips into hers, his hands inching their way up, under her dress. And soon the thin material that desolated her from him is gone, and his buckle is coming undone. They demolish all the walls that segregate them, and become one.
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Spoby AU where Toby is there to see Spencer in that wedding dress.
a/n: iwasalwaysaromantic requested:Â Spoby AU where Toby is there to see Spencer in that wedding dress.Â
this really sucks idk
Spencer Hastings stands in front of the mirror, examining her appearance.
If someone told her a year ago that she would be a hanger for a beautiful, extravagant, white gown, she would have probably mauled them. Although sometimes it does not seem like it, she is in high school. She is seventeen. Seventeen year olds aren’t supposed to be in this attire. But, like most of the time, there is more to the story.
Mrs. DiLaurentis—shivers—is hosting another fashion show fundraiser, except this time, it is a bridal show fundraiser. Spencer ponders on why she would ever want teenager models for this, but she supposes it doesn’t matter. Nothing makes sense anymore, why should something as frivolous as this?
At first she wasn’t going to go. Her mother actually declined the offer before Spencer could even give it thought, but then they got an –A text.
“Here comes the bride, all dressed in lies. You think I know who I am? Come find me. Red’s my usual color, but I think this time I’ll be wearing white, and someone else will be wearing red. Xoxoxo –A”
Spencer cringes at the thought. The girls were so quick to put her down on Mrs. DiLaurentis being –A. But what if this is all a trap? Why else would she invite them? Why would she invite Spencer? First, she yelled at her in the brew, announcing to the whole world she had an affair with her father, and then she came into her house, demanding answers. Not to mention if she saw her hurt Ali! None of it made sense. It made Spencer’s mind hurt.
She shook her head, needing to sit down.
A knock at the door.
It is probably Dean. She told him about this whole thing—she had to convince him to convince her mother to let her go. The only way she would let Spencer go is with Dean’s approval. And the only way she could get Dean’s approval, was to invite him to the thing.
She pushes her shoulders back, sucking a confident breath; trying to collect her composure, before opening the door.
And it is not Dean who stares back at her.
But Toby.
Her mouth forms something that she forgot existed—a smile. She can’t even remember the last time she smiled, really smiled. It feels almost unnatural…but good, really good.
Her arms wrap around him before he can even say anything or look at her, really. He holds on to her, his hands pushing against her back, making her fall forward a little bit. She doesn’t mind. She is actually glad. She is more embedded with him. She is closer, and the space and troubles and worldly problems can’t come between their strong locking.
“You said in the letter that you wouldn’t be back until you found Melissa…” Spencer finally got out, pass her arched up lips.
“Well…I didn’t sleep much,” he explains. “I wanted to come back to you. I wanted to be here for you,” his words embrace her ears, softly. His hands run through her loose curls, “I missed you.”
“I missed you,” she responds.
He is about to pull away, but she tightens his grip, killing the couple inches that separated him. “Sorry,” she immediately reclines. Because she does this a lot; because she’s never ready to let him go. “I just—I want this for another second,” she whispers, thinking about all the horribly, chaotic, things that have gone rampant in her mind.
“Of course,” he mumbles, his hands roaming around her back.
They stay like that until she initiates a departure.
It is now when his eyes beam at her, skirting up and down her body as if she was unclothed. But she isn’t bare. She is covered in a stunning, white, material. His gaping blue eyes are accumulated with so much praise and admiration, she wonders if he is seeing something she is not. What could ever bring that look to his eyes? Her? In this gown? She still isn’t in her best shape—circles still wrap around her eyes like the rings of Saturn. She is still wiped out, and a look like that—it just doesn’t seem fitting to be associated with the image of her.
“You look…beautiful,” his admiring eyes find hers. Her heart dives into her stomach, no parachute to stop it from the abruptness and force of the impact. It isn’t that he has never told her this before—he has. And he’s meant it before, too. But it is that look in his eyes. He is just so in awe of her, and she doesn’t understand why. She doesn’t deserve the admiration.
“Thanks,” she heaves a heavy breath, her fingers pinching the dress and draping it out a little. She tries to think of something witty to say, but she is still too dumbstruck on him. Her heart is running an Olympic marathon. She breathes in and out, trying to dispose of these symptoms of love.
“Really, you’re gorgeous, Spence,” he sweeps a piece of hair behind her ear. He is so close to her. Only a couple inches keep their faces from colliding. “One day you’re going to make a beautiful bride,” he promises.
Your bride, she immediately thinks, because even though she is just a high school student, and she has only met a microscopic fraction of the world’s population, she can’t ever imagine letting Toby go. She can’t imagine being with anyone else. She doesn’t want to ever be with anyone else. And she knows Toby feels the same way.
Their eyes flicker back and forth, their souls connecting in a way that can never be explained, not even with years of scientific study. She meets his lips, the tips of her fingers meeting his cheek.
When they pull away, she finds her voice, finally, and is able to say, “I’m sure you won’t look too shabby as a groom, one day, either.”
Her groom.
Because anything other than that just sounds wrong.Â
Prompt: Spencer finally beating the almighty Scrabble champion Toby
a/n: requested by hastingstocavanaugh aka nikki
urm i sort of branched out a little, but eh w/e i tried
Toby Cavanaugh watches his girlfriend as she decides her next move. Above her focused, mocha eyes is a crease—one produced by concentration and deliberation. Her slender finger is lightly pressed against the side of her mouth, occasionally tapping against her porcelain skin. A stray curl hangs in front of her steady eyes; he wishes desperately to push it behind her ear. But he stays put. He cannot fraternize with the enemy.
It all started a couple hours ago.
Spencer was packing up for college. She asked Toby to come over and help. Toby didn’t want to. Of course he wanted to help her, but he didn’t want to help her pack. The idea of her leaving just didn’t sit well with him. They finally could live a normal life, without –A or anyone else’s torment, and now she was leaving.
He knows he is just being idiotic. The only reason he even stays in Rosewood is because of Spencer. He can just pack up all his things and leave without ever looking back, but he has to wait. Wait till his few college courses at Hollis end (he takes them during summer because of how much he missed during the actual school year.) He also has to fix up his loft more if he plans on getting any money for it. And that’s going to take him a while, which means he’ll just be taking more courses at Hollis when September hits.
It is all frustrating to think about, but if all goes well, he’ll be able to with Spencer by January. Until then he’ll just have to try not to miss her too much (like that can ever happen.)
But he knows that Spencer doesn’t like the idea of being apart either. Everything she is doing to prepare to go away to school is getting done at the last minute. It is nearly two weeks till school starts for her, and she is just now packing. It isn’t typical behavior from Miss Hastings, but she has been pushing it off because she knows when the packing starts, the tears begin.
In the middle of helping her pack, she found the first scrabble board they ever played with. He doesn’t know if Spencer was just delaying her packing with it, or if she was really curios, but she decided to open the game box. It still had the notepad they used in it; the one that lists the words goofball and glyceraldehyde.
She brought the notepad up to her chest, cherishing it, “this is the only failure that I never want to forget,” she professed.
He beamed at her then, telling her never wants to forget it either.
Somehow that led to a rematch. He is trying to go over what happened that led them here, but he just can’t put the pieces together. He thinks he might have teased her—instigated her to demand a rematch. That sounds about right.
Spencer finally makes her move, arranging letters out so the word spells out, Zikkurat.
Her finger dances above the board, her eyes lightening up at the sight, “with the Z on the double letter score, that gives me 20 points, which leads me to 29 points, adding the triple word score and fifty point bingo bonus is…”
“137 points…” he declares, moving his eyes from the board to his girlfriend. He squints at her, “I’m starting to think you have just been reading dictionaries since the first time we played.”
She laughs, taking the very last of the letters from the velvet bag, arranging them in front of her.
“You’re just mad that I’m kicking your ass…” she murmurs, still staring at the letters in front of her.
“I can still make a comeback,” he defends. Although not much confidence seeps through his words.
She stares up at him, arching her eyebrow, “this better be one hell of a move.”
A sheepish expression washes over his face as he stares at his letters. He knows, she knows, he is bluffing.
“Okay, I’ve got nothing,” he finally relinquishes. “Nothing that could beat you anyways…”
She laughs, “so is this you admitting defeat?”
“mmm,” he holds up a finger to her. He places his tiles out on the bored, spelling out the word squint.
“Nice try, but you’re still a little behind…” she murmurs, not even needing to calculate the points. In order for Toby to catch up with her score, he would have to receive 187 points.
He sighs, pasting a defeated smile on his face, “looks like you won.”
“Kicked your ass,” she corrects him, a smug smile taking shape on her face.
“It was not a complete ass kicking…” he says, mirroring the words she told him the morning after their scrabble match.
She laughs, shrugging her shoulders down, and locking her eyes on her tiles. She does not have much of a choice left, she is glad Toby was only bluffing before or he might have actually miraculously beaten her.
An idea forms in her head as she stares at the letters, a small frown weighing at her lips. She picks up the pieces of tile and moves them to the board, shifting pieces around so she can make the words she is picturing in her head.
“Hey, Spence…that’s cheating…you already won…” he goes on until he sees what she has spelled out.
I’ll miss you.
His shoulders fall, his smile dispatching. Attributing their new found game, he shifts a few scrabble pieces next to the word she made.
I’ll miss you, too.
This goes on for a few minutes. Both shifting letters around, paying no attention to the rules of scrabble. It is their own way of communication. The only sounds that fill the room are the letters sweeping across the board. It is comforting and peaceful, and Spencer wishes she could keep this moment with her forever. She is high not only off her victory, but the love she feels for this boy across from her. Â
Victory or loss, she is definitely going to miss this.
morning sickness + spoby ; requested by anon! this is very short, but idk.
It is mornings like this where everything just seems perfect. Their past no longer exists in these moments. All the horrid memories that nag in the back of their minds replace with the good ones. Like when they got married, and the day they found out they were going to become parents. The world seems good in these moments—magical even. How could something so wonderful and perfect be crafted by the same universe that they had lived in throughout high school?
They lay on their sides, both facing each other. Their hands dance with one another to the soft music of their low, drowsy, voices. The blankets cover both of them from the cold, harsh, winter breeze that manages to seek through the walls.
“Can we just stay here forever?”
He smiles at her, taking his hand away from hers to cup her cheek, “Spencer Hastings laying in bed forever? Relaxing? What about work? What about coffee?”
A smile forms on her face almost instantly, a dimple engraving to prove her sincerity. She settles her hand on the calloused hand that cups her face. “I don’t need any of that, I have you.”
He raises his eyebrows, a smile tugging on his face.
She laughs a little, moving closer and putting a kiss on his lips. She moves her hand from her own cheek and puts it on his, pulling him into her more. He mimics her actions. She can feel him bringing her close to him, so close that there is no room in between.
“ugh,” she moves away from him a little.
“Something wrong?” he murmurs, a concerned look coming across his face.
“I just—” she winces. “I—” she runs up and off the bed to the bathroom.
She falls to the floor, and attempts to hold her hair as the contents of dinner from last night scramble into the toilet. Horrific, gruesome, sounds echo off the bathroom walls, and Spencer is reminded that life is not nearly perfect. It sucks.
“Let me help you,” comes the earnest voice that she knows and loves so well.
She shakes her head weakly, “no…save yourself.” She doesn’t try looking at him, she doesn’t want to. She feels disgusting. And she doesn’t doubt that she looks disgusting.
“Spencer—,”
And here comes round two.
Toby is holding her hair back before she can even grab it herself. She grips the toilet, and prays it will end soon.
She doesn’t even realize till this trial ends that Toby’s hand is on the small of her back. She wants to look at him and offer a grateful smile, but the gesture will be more fearful, than affectionate. She keeps her eyes on the toilet, and flushes it. Hoping that is the last of it.
He is rubbing her back now, and she wants to fall back into him, but she can’t. Not like this.
“Here, I’ll get you a towel.”
“Thanks,” she murmurs softly.
He goes to the cupboard below the sink, and rinses two towels under warm water. He hands a towel to her and sits against the bathtub, his legs straightened out and meeting the sink.
She rubs the warm, damp, towel against her face, washing away any debris. She has turned away from the toilet now, so she is facing the opposite wall—the wall where the bathtub, and Toby, resides on.
He puts out his hand for her to take the other towel, and for her to give him the dirty one. She is reluctant at first. She hates being taken care of. Ever since she was little she has been taking care of herself. She became so accustomed to it. But Toby never stops trying to help her—even if she doesn’t want his help. Sometimes she thinks it is annoying, but deep down, she loves that about him. He doesn’t quit on her.
She lets the warm towel cover her face. It feels good there. It makes her feel better. Like it is cleansing her somehow.
When she takes the towel away, Toby is watching her. He has a small smile on his face, and is patting the open spot beside him.
She hesitates a little, but goes to him. He takes the towel from her, and puts it with the other one beside him. His arms wrap around her almost inherently. She lets herself fall into his embrace—his shoulder hosting as her pillow. He presses a kiss against her temple, and she doesn’t understand how he can kiss her after seeing all that gore. But he does. And it feels good and right, and maybe even perfect.
