A/N: Just something floating around in my head that I had to get out before the new episode on Tuesday.

Please please PLEASE review! I miss hearing words of encouragement from you beautiful people.

I see this life
Like a swinging vine
Swing my heart across the line
In my face is flashing signs
Seek it out and ye shall find

Old, but I'm not that old
Young, but I'm not that bold
And I don't think the world is sold
I'm just doing what we're told

I feel something so right
By doing the wrong thing
And I feel something so wrong
By doing the right thing
I couldn't lie, couldn't lie, couldn't lie
Everything that kills me makes me feel alive

"Counting Stars" - OneRepublic

JUST DOING WHAT WE'RE TOLD

It was six thirty in the morning when Spencer's alarm went off. Through the haze of semi-consciousness, it took Toby a moment to register where the source of the noise was coming from and recall the reason for its presence in the first place.

The night before came rushing back. Spencer appearing on his doorstep, suitcase in hand, quiet tears in her eyes and secrets on her lips. She had been so distraught by whatever disagreement had happened at home that she had not yet conceded to give him the full rendition of events. She had merely curled up in his arms on the couch, silently poring through what must have been an anthology of thoughts speeding through her brain, relishing in the protective bubble provided by his embrace until exhaustion had pulled her into its irresistible undertow. He had quietly carried her to bed, gently tucking her beneath the covers, his heart heavy with worry. He had then lain down beside her, carefully studying the planes of her peaceful, slumbering face, and at some point had drifted off himself.

And now it was morning. The alarm on her cell phone bleated loudly without reprieve, but she was nowhere in sight.

He reached over to quiet the source of the pounding in his ears, rubbing his face tiredly and forcing his legs to function. He wobbled sleepily out into the living room, some degree of concern lifted from his heart as he found her studiously buttering a slice of toast at the counter. She seemed to sense his arrival for she looked up, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

"Good morning," she chirped. "I made you breakfast."

He meant to say 'thank you,' but the incoherent grunt that left his lips instead sounded like something he had seen on The Discovery Channel. She chuckled as he plopped down at the table, carrying over a plate of toast to set in front of him. The smell beneath his nose instantaneously made his stomach rumble.

"Coffee, too," she added, gesturing aimlessly to the pot. "Sounds like you need it."

She smiled lazily at her, his brain slowly returning to functionality. He attempted to make use of his voice box once more.

"Thanks." He began to pick at the crust of his toast, watching her carefully as she continued to bustle manically around the kitchen. "How are you doing?"

She seemed caught off guard by his inquiry, as if suddenly self-conscious about how transparent her early bird cheer had been. She did not turn to look at him, but merely cleared her throat as she poured herself a mug of coffee.

"Fine. Everything's fine."

Her voice lilted at the end, a surefire indication of the strain required to lie to his face.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" he asked quietly, pushing his plate aside. It didn't feel right to eat yet when she deserved his undivided attention. And the breakfast, he was certain, had likely been a meek attempt at distracting him from worrying in the first place. He knew her well enough.

She stopped what she was doing, pausing at the counter as she seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of rehashing the night before.

"I just got into a fight with my dad. That's all."

Toby cocked an eyebrow. "That's not exactly anything new, Spencer," he said candidly. "What was different this time?"

She sipped quietly at her mug, still refusing to turn and face him. "It's complicated," she murmured.

His two least favorite words. He had lost count of how many times she had used that excuse in lieu of an actual explanation. It incited an impatient frustration in the pit of his stomach, but he tried to suppress it as best he could, attempting to understand where her hesitation came from.

With a quiet sigh, he pushed the chair back noisily, rising to his feet and making his way to the sink. She did not acknowledge him with direct eye contact, which he had come to learn often meant that there was something vulnerable in her expression that she did not yet want him to see. He slid his arms around her waist, holding her gently around the stomach and tilting his face against the nape of her neck.

"Whatever it is," he began gently, "I'm here for you."

She exhaled shakily, much of the tension disappearing from her body, and he knew instantly that he had said the right thing. She curled one hand behind her to caress his face in gratitude, and for the first time he caught her reflection in the window overlooking the dishwasher. She looked so much more exhausted than he had seen her in a very long time, and he felt his heart ache on her behalf.

They were disturbed from their trance by the sound of knuckles rapping at the door. She turned to look at him, perplexed.

"Who would that be, this early?" she asked.

The knocking continued, echoing fervently through the loft. Clearly the person did not appreciate being kept waiting.

Toby pulled on the sweater hanging on the back of the chair as he approached the door, reaching out to turn the knob.

He heard Spencer's breath catch in her throat.

"Dad."

Peter Hastings stood framed in the doorway, looking at Spencer as though he'd seen a ghost. Toby felt suddenly self-conscious in his sweat pants and the zip-up that revealed enough of his chest to give the wrong impression. It was obvious which dots were being connected in Peter's mind.

"Spencer. Your bed wasn't slept in," he declared brashly.

Spencer scoffed in slight. "It's no wonder you're the most sought-after attorney in the tri-county area. Your powers of deduction are infallible."

If Peter was annoyed by her sarcasm, he did not indicate it. He seemed more concerned with cutting right to the chase.

"It's time to come home," he announced.

Spencer merely stared at him, furrowing her brow indignantly. "You made it very clear that I'm not welcome under your roof."

Toby turned back to Peter, feeling a strange sort of stirring in his gut at the very notion that he could send his youngest daughter packing. Nothing Spencer could have done could possibly warrant that degree of punishment.

"That car parked outside is in my name," Peter said hotly. "So unless you want me to report it stolen, I suggest you get in it immediately and drive home."

She looked as though she'd been slapped. A wave of sick realization marred her features, her mouth tightening into a thin line of incredulity. She was clearly contemplating this ultimatum on the same wavelength as Toby, for a thin sheen of moisture suddenly clung to her eyes, a malevolent prelude to the weight she was assuredly feeling in her heart.

Because it wasn't just about control of the car. Peter Hastings could care less about ownership of a vehicle he'd never have reason to use.

It was about lining his ducks in a row. Dotting his 'i's and crossing his 't's and manipulating whatever threat hung heavy over his reputation. Eliminating problems that he didn't have "time" to pay heed to.

No. It wasn't about control of the car. It was about control of the wily, rebellious daughter that had so inconveniently brought question to the Hastings name, on so many occasions.

It was all Toby could do not to slam the door in his face, right then and there.

"You want the car?" she said evenly, her tone only barely anchored by what little dignity she had left. She marched over to her purse, digging violently through its contents until she found what she was looking for. She threw the keys at her father with such brevity you'd think they'd burned her, and he only barely caught them in time. "Take the goddamn car. It means more to you than I do, anyway."

Peter sighed exasperatedly, as if he were merely regarding her blatant heartbreak as an everyday, ordinary temper tantrum from a child who simply wasn't getting her way. "Spencer, you're making a fool of yourself. Get your stuff. I'm taking you home."

She inhaled sharply, her voice coming out in an icy tone that Toby was unfortunately all too familiar with. "No."

Something flashed in Peter's eyes – a terrible, proud beast that was not accustomed to being disobeyed. "Spencer – "

"You got what you came for," she spat. "I'm 18 years old. That car is the last thing tethering me to you. There's nothing else that I owe you. There's nothing else you can possibly take from me."

The reality of her statement was clearly sinking in now, as all pretenses of composure and politeness vanished from his face. He was horrified by the thinly veiled implications of her declaration, but for all the wrong reasons.

"Stop making a scene," he growled, stepping forward to take hold of her elbow. "You're coming with me."

She struggled against his vice grip, tears freely spilling from her terrified eyes. "Let go! You're hurting me!"

Toby had had enough. He inserted himself between them, and Peter was so startled by his audacity that he immediately released his daughter.

"She said no," he began quietly, his voice dripping with unspoken warning. "You need to leave, Mr. Hastings."

Peter's nostrils flared, and for a moment Toby was certain he was going to strike him.

"This is none of your concern, Toby."

"It damn well is my concern," he continued. Spencer had shrunk behind him, allowing his frame to shield her from any further confrontation. "This is my home and you are no longer a welcome guest."

Peter shook his head in utter disbelief, the unbridled fury in his eyes increasing with every moment. "Boy, you better mind your own business if you know what's good for you."

Toby unearthed his cell phone from the depths of his back pocket, his challenging gaze never leaving the elder's. He waved it shortly in front of him, as if to dangle the threat more tangibly in his face.

"I have no problem calling the police, Mr. Hastings."

Peter scoffed indignantly, but took a hesitant step back nonetheless. "You think I don't have Rosewood PD in my wallet? And let's not forget who their favorite suspect in this town is."

Toby shrugged noncommittally, fighting to conceal his faltering resolve in light of this reminder. "Stick around and we can see what happens."

There was a beat. Mr. Hastings looked from Toby to Spencer and back again, and Toby could surmise even through the subtleties of his mannerisms that the fiery beast within him had begun to cower with uncertainty.

Toby had won this round.

"This isn't over, Spencer," Peter barked, pointing a finger in his daughter's direction. "You'll come to your senses soon enough and realize that I'm right."

She pursed her lips in disagreement, but said nothing.

Mr. Hastings looked at Toby one last time, his cold, calculated mind working in overdrive behind the veil of his glare, and turned on his heels. He stalked out the door, slamming it so viciously behind him that the dishes in the sink clattered from the impact.

Toby immediately turned to her, gripping her protectively by the shoulders to peer into her eyes. "Spencer, are you okay?"

Her gaze reluctantly came to meet his, and the misplaced composure he found there gave him a sense of unease. She was upset. He knew that she was upset. He had seen the way she reacted while her dad was there. But now she was making a valiant effort to bury all of that back beneath the surface, because it was the only way she could continue on with her day with any degree of success. Thinking too much about what had just happened would only serve to distract and upset her, and if he knew Spencer as well as he thought he did, she likely already had a very strict agenda for the day that she was not willing to deviate from.

But the effort it was clearly taking for her to hold herself together made his chest feel tight.

"I have to get to school," she said, ducking out of his hold to retrieve her backpack and purse. "And since I don't have a car, I guess I'm walking."

Toby watched her sling the strap of her bag over her shoulder, toying mindlessly with the loose frays near the buckle. She looked so small standing there, trying with every fiber of her being to stay so strong.

"Let me drive you," he murmured.

She shook her head, quickly moving past him to the door. "No. I need the fresh air."

"Then I'll walk with you," he said urgently, sliding his feet haphazardly into his shoes and snatching his keys from the rack.

"I don't need a chaperone, Toby," she hissed, though the fight in her tone fell miserably flat.

"I'm not your chaperone," he insisted. "I'm the boyfriend who loves you very much, and just wants to be able to help you through a tough time."

She stopped in her tracks suddenly, as though really hearing him for the first time all morning. When she turned to hesitantly face him, he saw once more that there was moisture pooling in her eyes, betraying her best efforts at appearing resilient and unfazed.

He knew how much she had been through in the past couple of years. She had dealt with sociopaths and murderers, and threats of life or death magnitude, and a boyfriend she thought had committed the ultimate betrayal. She had been torn apart and put erratically back together so many times that she had come closer to losing herself than anybody her age should have to.

So when something as seemingly petty as a family feud came to a head in the manner that it had with Peter this morning, he couldn't necessarily blame her for trying to sweep it under the rug. It seemed insignificant when paired with the threat she faced on a daily basis. She felt guilty even letting it rank when there was so much more going on.

But it was that very same champagne cork effect that had wound her up so tightly in the first place a few months ago. It was her continued determination to remain strong, even when she could barely drag herself out of bed in the morning. It was her burning the candle not only at both ends but in the goddamn middle too, finding when the wax depleted that there was literally nothing left to keep her from collapsing under the weight of despair.

It was what landed her in Radley.

He was what landed her in Radley.

And he would be damned if he watched it happen all over again. Not when he could be the supportive boyfriend she had counted on him to be in the first place. He had every opportunity now to begin making up for what he had so recklessly destroyed. And though he would spend the rest of his lifetime putting those pieces back together, he would never stop trying to fix it. So much of the anxiety in her heart was still on his hands, and he regretted every single day that he had contributed to the pain that nearly incapacitated her.

She hesitated for only a moment, her bottom lip quivering involuntarily. And then, she dropped both her purse and her bag unceremoniously on the floor and rushed into his arms, collapsing against his chest with an anguished sob. He hugged her tightly to his frame, whispering feeble words of encouragement in her ear. With each ragged, tear-laden exhale that escaped past her lips, he felt the hairline fractures of his heart spread.

"I'm sorry, baby," he whispered. "I'm so sorry this is happening to you."

It seemed like such an insignificant thing to say. But she pulled him closer upon hearing it, as though its meaning had resonated with her weary spirit.

He lowered his face against her hair, planting a kiss where his lips rested. "I'm here for you no matter what. Okay?"

She nodded against the crook of his neck, taking a few deep breaths to steady her composure once more. When she pulled away to look up at him, he saw that her makeup had smeared and a dusting of patchy red splotches had appeared beneath her eyes. But twisted though it was, he always thought she looked most beautiful after she had finished crying. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she allowed him to see a vulnerable piece of her. Maybe it was the peace that settled in her expression after she had gotten everything out, and the relief that it gave him to see some of the pain released from her heart. Maybe a bit of both. But nevertheless, he could not resist the urge to briefly entrap her lips with his own.

The kiss lasted only a moment before she pulled back to stare lovingly at him once more. "I love you," she said raspily, cupping his face in her hands. "You know that?"

He offered what he hoped was one of his more adorable smiles. She giggled a bit in reply, though it came out sounding hoarse in the epilogue of her tears.

"I love you, too."

She pulled him into another hug, and he tried to convey all of his unspoken support through that simple embrace. Because in the wake of all that had happened, and all of the terrible things he had done, and all of the pain he had caused her by joining the 'A' Team, there was only one certainty: he would go to any lengths to protect the woman he loved. It didn't matter how small or large the threat. Her safety and her happiness were of the utmost importance to him – and nobody was going to ever lay a finger on her as long as he was around.

And suddenly, it didn't even matter what she and her dad had fought about. It was insignificant. What started the argument made no difference – the only thing that mattered was that she was hurting, and all he wanted to do was make it right.

He owed her that, and so much more. Because the last time she had needed him, he hadn't been there for her.

And that was never going to happen again.

END