Once a Hooker

a sequel to the fic To a Hooker,

both by TarnishedArmour

Timeline: Season 7. By necessity, this is A/U.

Summary: Adrianna had left hooking behind, moved to a new life in Virginia, and renewed her friendship with Spencer Reid. So why is she giving hooker lessons again? *To a Hooker's sequel.

A/N: I don't think I disclaimed earlier. Well, here it is: I do not own Criminal Minds, the CM characters, the FBI, or any locations herein mentioned; nor do I profit from this endeavor in any way. (Except maybe a little ego boost now and then, but that doesn't really count.)

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Reid was looking over the list of commonalities that were known from the files. There was no glaring point of convergence except for the marriages and children. None of the women had married badly; most were able to be housewives with generous allowances and even nannies to deal with the children. Several account numbers for wire transfers had matched from list to list, and client lists had also contained many of the same names. A lot of Roberts, Johns, and other generic names were present - too many not to be a statistical anomaly, so the names were obviously pseudonyms. Despite this expected phenomenon, none were the same over the long span of time when matched with account numbers or casinos, so narrowing down the field with alternate records-maybe by client requests and transaction details-would be more productive.

"Adia," he said, hoping she was still nearby. He looked over his shoulder. She wasn't in the dining area or the kitchen. He stood and walked into the living area. And blinked.

Carl had Adrianna pinned and was taunting her.

"Work for it! Think! What do you have to do to get out of this hold?"

Spencer studied the hold for a minute, noting the points of pressure and the range of motion Adrianna had with her legs, arms, and back. He thought if she arched her back and kicked up with her left leg, she could knock him off balance, but he was far from expert when it came to escaping holds in hand-to-hand combat. In fact, he still had waivers for most of the physical aspects of the job. As he watched, he started to wonder what it would take to get him into some kind of shape. He was clumsy, and he knew it. He also knew he was not physically imposing, not blessed with speed or athleticism, and would probably lose an arm-wrestling match with a nine-year-old girl. On the other hand, he was very, very smart.

At the moment, that didn't seem to count for much. He continued to watch as Adrianna tried several different escapes, then turned her head and bit Carl's thumb. A curse, a twisting motion and wriggle later, Adrianna was out of Carl's grip and had gotten to her feet.

Carl was…grinning?

"Good. Don't forget to use your environment to your advantage." He shook his hand. "You don't have to be stronger or faster if the other guy's too big to get close to you." He glanced up. Spencer gave him a little 'wow, that was neat' smile. Carl frowned. "You're next."

Spencer managed not to wince. He thought about trotting out the knee, or the waivers, but the frown was accompanied by an assessing gaze. Instead of the panic that usually struck him when confronted by the prospect of any form of physical confrontation, he realized something that made him relax a little. With Carl, there would be no pressure. Not like at the Academy, or with Morgan - he swore the older man hadn't left high school when it came to physicality and the tendency to use physical force - and Adrianna might be convinced to be a sparring partner. Which presented several pleasant possibilities, too. Morgan may be an aesthetically pleasing male specimen - and given the sheer number of females who flocked to him, that was not an unreasonable conclusion - but he certainly did not have Adrianna's curves, or her other anatomical appendages. And he did enjoy certain appendages, perhaps more than was commonly acceptable. Right now, those appendages were heaving in an intriguing manner. He was, of course, suitably intrigued.

"First, I need to talk to Adia," Spencer said. Adrianna nodded, still panting.

"Stretch. Cool down slowly. Walk for a little while," Carl said, taking his own advice. "I'll be here."

Adrianna nodded toward the kitchen and Spencer followed her. She grabbed the bottle of orange juice from the refrigerator, assessed the amount left, and didn't bother with a glass. Spencer waited while she drank, studying the line of her throat as she drank quickly. It was a nice line. The memory of the last time he saw her neck at that angle - last night - intruded. He let himself remember the sensation of her mouth, the easy way she moved to accommodate his whispered request to turn her body, putting her better in his reach. They way she laughed and hummed around him when he began to tease her in return. The way she gasped when his moved his mouth to cover her -

"Spence?"

He blinked, returned to the present.

"What do you need?" She didn't seem irritated, so apparently he hadn't been spaced out long enough to require repetition of his name, though perhaps recalling sexual exploits when he was supposed to be concentrating on victimology was less than professional. On the other hand, if he didn't admit it, who would ever know?

"You mentioned videos and diaries," he said, more bluntly than he intended. He saw her grow still, nod slowly. The speed of his words increased in response. He had to get this out quickly, or he wouldn't manage to say it at all, especially with the way she seemed to just shut down at the mention of the videos and diairies. He'd leave the visual recordings out of the request. Maybe that would help? "Can the diaries be sent here? There are a few possibilities that-that we haven't addressed. Transaction specifics - particular requests from the clients, a common hotel, a similar physique or act, a common physical description of something unique to the client -" This was bad. But how else could he say it? Better to just put it out there and get it over with. Kinda like pulling duct tape off your eyes, you do it quick and try not to yelp when the eyebrows and eyelashes got ripped out. He should know, since he had a personal vendetta against duct tape. The comparison wasn't inaccurate, but, if anything, this felt worse.

"Stop," she whispered, eyes closed. "I see where you're going. They're not all in one place. Most are, but there are a few who…kept their information nearby." She had someone specific in mind, but he didn't want to hazard a guess who. Not even in his own mind. Sometimes it was better to remain completely objective. Or maybe it was better, in this case, to give his lover room to avoid something painful while mislabeling it as objectivity. That worked just fine for him. The longer they were together, the stranger things became - in a good way. This dynamic of friend-lover was interesting, and not at all the same as a romantic liaison, which would have made his request impossible…but he was getting distracted.

"What is it?" he asked, finally registering more than the reluctance to speak.

"I…I can have my own diaries sent. And the videos," she said. "Just…if there's… a need for…reference." Spencer stared at her. He hadn't asked for that. Didn't want to ask for that. Didn't want her to volunteer. Fuck. Oops. Fooey-darn. No, that wasn't any better. All of the good curses were failing him. Where was some good sixteenth-century German swearing when he needed it? Oh, she was still talking. Better pay attention… "There's a good chance…I know who…or…" She stopped there, looking down. She hadn't looked at him since he made the request. Maybe it was too much for her.

Spencer walked over, touched her arm gently, not daring to try an embrace. For one, he wasn't quite certain of hug protocol in this situation, and two, she might hurt him. But touch, that he knew was therapeutic. Sometimes. When she didn't reject him out of hand, he stepped a bit closer, tipped her face up to look at him with a gentle touch to her chin. He looked into her eyes, saw the worry, the fear, the pain.

"I would never ask you to do that." He whispered, carefully watching for her reactions. She wasn't giving him much to work with. He paused for a minute before he spoke again. "If you think it could help, go ahead. I won't read your journals, or watch your videos - or let anyone else - unless you bring them to me. I'll only look at the sections you flag as relevant."

He swallowed. Now how to phrase this next part? It felt bad, keeping a potential goldmine of information from the team, but he couldn't put her in the position that so many of the team had been in at one time or another. His drug problem, Morgan's experience as a victim of molestation, Rossi's problems with teamwork and the cases that haunted him, Hotch's life being opened to scrutiny during the Reaper hell, and everything with Emily…all of that was the team, and part of the job. Adrianna wasn't one of them. She was his responsibility, not theirs. The thought of Hotch and Haley flitted by, but he ignored it. This was completely different.

"I won't tell anyone where I got the information, and only excerpts will be used - if anything has to be." She closed her eyes as he talked. Was this correct? Was this what she needed to hear?

"How can you promise that?" she whispered. "They'll need to know. To…see."

"Confidential informant," he said, thinking quickly. For Spencer Reid, quickly moved very fast indeed. "Information from someone who had been in the business, but who had, for several personal reasons, left the trade and become an ordinary citizen. After recognizing a few of the victims from her past, though not by their legal names, she came forward with her own personal information to help find the unsub. Because of the position she holds now, she won't speak to anyone but me about her past, as her previous occupation could endanger her current employment and reputation. The single condition is that there is no reference to her in any way - and the feminine pronoun is used in the relative generic, much like the original use of the masculine when referring to any person. Since the profession in question is dominated by women, the use of the generic feminine is more than acceptable, though not necessarily accurate. The deal would be if-if I allow any information about her to leak, if she even suspects it, then she'll bolt and take everything with her."

"I wouldn't do that -" The objection had some heat behind it. He was glad to see something flash on her face, something other than that hesitation. Adrianna was not supposed to hesitate. And that was something of a ridiculous assertion, even in the privacy of his mind. Of course she would hesitate. She was human, and the past was painful for her to talk about. He knew that. His mouth had been moving for a few seconds, and he really needed to catch up.

"They won't know it's you. Unless you tell them." He paused again. "And I didn't ask, Adrianna. I would never ask." He wouldn't. He hadn't. He didn't want to know, because he had yet to learn how to unknow something. Utilizing skills learned in a previous profession in order to provide one another mutual pleasure was a far cry from examining the details of that profession, especially the way she was reacting. Honesty was one thing, but full disclosure…well, maybe he had been a little rough on Emily about some of the things she hadn't told the team. Then again, the Irish separatists weren't killing off ex-hookers who had become mothers and wives. No, not a comparable situation. It was still permissible for him to be upset with Emily, who wouldn't know the difference now, anyway. If she was really dead, which he was trying not to doubt, given that the ceremony had been closed casket, and there was something else nagging at him about that whole full-honors thing…something he should remember. Damn! Why hadn't he written it down?

"You're not asking, Spence," she whispered. "I'm offering." She opened her eyes then. "I'm scared. What if this," she motioned between them, unable to put a name to their relationship any more than he could, "is enough now? What if…what if he comes here next?"

"That's not the profile," Spencer replied, brushing a tendril of hair from her face. "It doesn't fit."

"The ones we know about. There are eight others, and they don't match either." That was the problem. That was what had her scared. That was why Carl was still here. And why she was practicing with Carl.

"The probability that they do is much higher with what we know about the victims so far," he said, speaking quickly. Too pedantic. Damn, he was losing her. "And we're still looking. It's too early to give up, to expect the unsub to come here. Adia, if I thought you were in danger, I'd arrange for a safehouse. I promise, as soon as there's any indication that he's coming here, that it's not about the marriage or potential for marriage, I'll have you moved. Adia…"

He didn't know what to say. So he squelched his doubts, his tendency to veer off onto tangential rants, even in his mind, and pulled her into a hug. He kissed her hair, forgetting about words, about his personal haven built of words. He'd talked unsubs down, victims down, families into calm and local cops into confidence. But how was he supposed to handle her? The others, there was a logical answer, based upon behavior, relationships, precedent, and observations of his team members in the same kinds of situations. But this was Adia. His lover, his friend, his…just his.

And that scared him, too.

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Adrianna left after the hug ended. She faked recovering enough to go in to the bedroom and make her calls. She was still good at faking it when she needed to, but it hurt her now. She didn't want to put on the front, to make it look good. She wanted to be honest, but this whole help-the-feds thing wasn't prompting her to honesty. If anything, she was falling back into the old thought patterns. And that wasn't a good thing.

Outside, she heard Spencer's lesson start with Carl. Voices were muffled, but Carl was probably not impressed. He was used to physical guys, men who knew how to fight. He had been special forces, but never said which branch. When asked - and someone always asked - he said it was part of his discharge requirements. Whatever branch, whatever he'd done, he was still able to do it. She knew that very well because she''d gotten the benefit of his teaching, and all she'd had to do was ask.

She sat, staring at the phone, wondering what possessed her to offer him her videos and diaries. She wanted to forget. Forget the past, forget her time as a prostitute, forget everything about Vegas. Well, almost everything. Not him.

After her parents died, there were few truly good things in her life. Her sister, her schooling, and Spencer were the only three she could count on. But she was scared. If he saw her life, what she had done, he would probably leave. He'd heard parts of it. Not all of it. Not by half.

Yes, she used whore's tricks in bed with him. He knew that. Now. She thought he knew he wasn't like one of the men in the past to her. She hoped he understood that this friendship with him wasn't about using tricks and what she'd learned in the past. He'd said he understood. He hadn't lied to her yet. But there was always the question: When would he lie to her?

All men did. Even Carl.

For the first time in her life, she trusted the man in her bed with more than just her name and a few hours of work. She let go with him. She let him touch her. Not her body, that wasn't special. She let him touch her…the only word that came to mind was spirit. Hiding wasn't an option with Spencer. And she liked that. Had liked that. Until now.

When this series of murders came to light, it was like the beginning of the end. Maybe. Maybe it was a new kind of beginning. She didn't know. That was part of the problem. Life was so much easier when she knew what to expect from people.

And now she had offered him her diaries. The videos. The first video. He would see her with other men, doing with them for money what she did with him for free.

He respected her. It was there in his voice, in the way he was so careful with her.

When he saw those videos, read those entries…how could he continue to be good to her? He was a good man, but so were a lot of the guys that dropped their ex-whore girlfriends, lovers, wives when they found out.

Why did she tell him she would let him read them? See them? They could get all the information they needed from the diaries and videos of the other women.

But he said he didn't need to see them, read them. He wouldn't touch them unless she gave them to him. That was very sweet, chivalrous, in a way - like he was. But it wasn't practical. Oh, she knew all about practical. She didn't know what to look for, so her watching it all again was pointless. And there was no way in Hell she was going to let anyone else from the team see her videos, read her diaries. No. Way.

It was too hard to think right now. Too hard to consider, to weigh, to deal with at all.

So she picked up the phone, dialed ten digits. Requested the personal effects of those identified. Mrs. Ibsen agreed, sending along a prepared confidentiality statement. Then she requested her own records. Mrs. Ibsen agreed. That was all. There was nothing else to say.

She hung up. Took a deep breath. Dialed another ten digits.

"Hello?" came the soft, cultured voice.

"Hi, Dominic?" she managed. "It's Adia. Juliette," she corrected quickly. "I-I heard about Phoenix…"

She managed to keep the tears out of her voice, but she couldn't keep them from falling.

This was going to hurt. With Master Thorn, it usually did.

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Ashley Seaver thought about the ex-hooker murders. Maybe it wasn't very professional to think of it that way, but she knew better than anyone what giving an unsub a nickname could do. So this guy wasn't the Hooker Killer or the Mommy-Whore Murderer, he was simply the unsub. And the women were all former hookers who had been mothers and wives. And murdered.

The case in New York had broken quickly, even without Reid. Which was odd. Normally, he managed to put together something that pushed their ways of thinking into a different direction, kind of like a catalyst in a chemical reaction - thank you, Dr. Martin, and Chem 1021. No, Reid being gone felt wrong. And she worried that her reaction showed, at least to Rossi, who was the only one who seemed to care one way or the other about how she was fitting in to the team. And then there was that whole scene before they left, the one where Reid's girlfriend had, well, lost it. She wasn't up for the task, or so the expert said, and Ashley wanted, wanted, wanted to prove the bitch wrong.

The problem was, she wasn't. Not entirely. Maybe she was too innocent, but Ashley knew she could do it. Knew it. The way she had known she could be part of the BAU. And she was. Kinda. There were some bumps in the road. Okay, so the road was a massive series of car-eating potholes with a few ribbons of asphalt here and there, but she was improving. Again, there was a problem. Or problems. One for each member of the team, including herself.

She was new, green, and inexperienced, but she was able and willing, which didn't count for much. Morgan didn't have much patience with her; Garcia kept calling her kiddo and talking to her like she was five, which didn't help; Prentiss was gone, so she was the only female on the team, which made certain aspects of the work a bit awkward, given the lack of experience she had in some areas; Reid was nice to her, but that was the standard, out-of-the-box Reid operating system, and what he really thought about anything was a mystery to everyone; and Hotch…was Hotch. That was a huge problem.

She knew Hotch had reasons for how he was. Knew he had a kid, that he'd lost his ex-wife to a serial killer, that he was always stressed and never relaxed, but she had no idea what he thought of her. She'd asked once. He had told her simply that if he thought she couldn't do the job, she wouldn't be in the unit, no matter who had assigned her to the BAU. She'd tucked her tail between her legs and slunk away.

And she couldn't figure out why she'd reacted that way. Hotch wasn't a cruel man. He wasn't particularly nice, but he was never cruel. He didn't yell at the agents, not like some of her trainers had. He didn't do a lot of the things she had come to expect from the people who worked for the FBI.

So who could she talk to? Talking to Reid was kind of like explaining the Theory of Relativity the wall: he'd listen, but all she'd get back was a blank stare. He didn't relate well, and his own problems fitting in were not hers. Morgan would pat her on the head and send her off with the figurative milk and cookies. Hotch…would be Hotch; therefore, singularly unhelpful. Garcia would listen, ramble on about something completely unrelated, and give a big happy smile like she'd helped immensely. But Rossi…maybe he'd listen.

Only one way to find out. Morgan and Hotch had taken the unsub in to the station, so she was loading the car with Rossi. When would another time to ask come up? Answer: It wouldn't. The jet was not a good place to have a conversation like this, not without an impromptu team meeting. Which would totally suck.

And she had to get that phrase out of her head. So she wouldn't say it again. Ever. Especially not in a consult meeting, like she had three weeks ago. Never, ever again.

"Hey, Rossi?" she said, getting the older man's attention. She wished he'd been her father. Then again, she'd once wished a half-dead, stray, mangy coyote had been her father, just to get rid of the one she'd had. It wasn't much of a compliment.

"Yeah, kid?" he asked, putting the box he carried in the back. "Whatcha need?"

"I just had a question for you. Maybe two," she hedged.

Rossi must have heard something in her voice. Trepidation? She hoped not. Damn, it was hard to talk to profilers!

"Something been on your mind?" he asked, watching her like the proverbial hawk. Which wouldn't be so bad, if she hadn't felt like the proverbial mouse. It struck her that he had pretty eyes, which was completely out of line and inappropriate and sooo not her way of thinking. He was Rossi. Not a pair of pretty eyes and certainly not a mentor. She didn't really have one of those, not anymore. Not since she was transferred off Cooper's team.

"Is it always this…strange, when Reid's not on a case?" she asked, the simpler question first.

"Define strange," he asked, voice dry. She remembered the looks he sometimes gave Reid. Maybe strange had been the wrong word, after all.

"I-I've gotten used to him, the way he always has some odd factoid ready to add to the mix. Then there's the geographical profiling - he's way faster than anyone else, even Garcia, when it comes to that. And his recall…" She shrugged, trying to play it off. "It just felt like everything was off on this case. Like it could have been cracked sooner, if he'd been here."

"Maybe it could have," Rossi said, nodding slowly. "Maybe not. He's not always right, you know. In fact, he's been spectacularly wrong a few times."

"But not many," Seaver supplied. This wasn't what she meant. "It's not…it was…the dynamic. It was off. There wasn't the same feel to the team. It was more, more in-your-face than usual."

She usually thought of the cases like chess games, with the unsub as the white king - the aggressor - and Hotch as the black king - the defender. If anything, Morgan was a knight, quick, cagey, and able to move around the board without much difficulty. Rossi was definitely a bishop, always moving at an angle, never straight-on, and he was unlimited in his moves. She, as a newbie, might qualify as a castle, limited as she was, and Reid…Reid was definitely the queen, an incredibly powerful piece, but not one that was quickly or easily sacrificed. Losing him, well, it felt like losing the entire game, even if they had won this one. Back at Quantico, Garcia was the other castle, but her computers and the local LEOs were definitely the pawns. There was a delicate dance, when the team was in place. Strategy and moves, pushing and pulling back - but this time, the board was much bloodier. More chances had been taken, which was like pieces had been sacrificed. The patience, the long game, wasn't there. That's what it was: There was a distinct lack of finesse to this game, even though the good guys, the defenders, had won. Barely. Not that she'd ever, ever, ever tell that metaphor to anyone. If she did, well, psych evals weren't that hard, but they weren't that good, either.

Rossi smiled suddenly. "Ah. I think I get it." He patted her shoulder, which he didn't usually do. Rossi was not exactly a demonstrative man, despite his Italian upbringing and panache. "Look, I know a thing or two about office romances, Ashley, and I can safely say that it's not a good idea to get involved with or emotionally invested in Reid, even if he is, ah, sexually gifted. He's a nice guy, don't get me wrong, but he's not equipped to handle a romantic relationship - he may never be. Just let it go, and, if you're jealous about Adrianna, well, I'm sure Garcia could give you some suggestions on how to deal with that."

Ashley felt her face go numb as she listened to his advice. That was not what she meant. That was so far from what she'd meant that it wasn't even in the same universe. She felt her mouth move, but there was nothing coming out of it. She was staring at him like a she was the village idiot who'd just been handed a calculus problem.

FUCK!

He was walking back into the precinct. She was alone at the SUV, having just supplied Rossi with enough ammunition to get her kicked out of the BAU without a backward glance. She turned and looked at the boxes and bags, everything from the hotel rooms was in the back of the SUV she'd be sharing with Rossi on the ride to the airport. She rearranged some of the boxes on autopilot - the man may be brilliant, but he couldn't pack a car to save his life - and started muttering to herself.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckety-FuckFucK-FUCK!" she ended the muttering on a rather loud note as she started lowering the hatch, not registering her volume had been growing steadily throughout her litany of curses.

"Is there a problem, Agent Seaver?" came the ultra-calm voice of one SSA Aaron Hotchner. Ashley let go of the door handle as she turned too quickly and bonked her head against the rising back hatch.

"Ow!" she clapped one hand to her now-aching head and faced her unit chief, blushing. "N-no, sir," she managed. "Just…fixing some of the luggage."

Hotch gave her one of his patented Hotch stares, and she manage not to squirm.

"If there were a problem, you would tell me," he stated. Stated, not asked. The man didn't ask about his agents, not really. He demanded, the agents supplied, and that was the end of it. It sucked.

"Of course, sir," she replied. He nodded once and turned to his SUV, Morgan already waiting in the cool interior.

"Seaver," he said, not turning around, "don't call me sir."

"Yes, sir - Hotch," she answered. This time, she closed the hatch without incident.

Fuck.

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Carl looked at the young man who was trying, not very successfully, to catch his breath. The kid may be a freakin' genius - and God's gift to sex, if he'd heard correctly last night - but he was about as aggressive as a plate of spaghetti. Soggy spaghetti.

"Okay, kid, what's the deal?" he asked, trying not to sigh.

"I…never…was any good…at…athletics," Spencer panted. He was sprawled on the floor of the living room, spread eagle, trying to expand his lungs enough to avoid passing out.

"You're an FBI agent. How the hell did you pass the physicals?"

"Waivers," he panted. He didn't have to say anything more. Carl understood.

"Okay," Carl said. "You listen and breathe. Tell me if I got this right." Spencer nodded, so Carl kept talking. "You're a genius. You were a child prodigy. You got your ass kicked a lot in school, didn't ya? Just nod." Spencer nodded. "You graduated from high school real young, which made you an easy target." Another nod. "Okay, I got that much from Adrianna. We talked about you, her FBI friend. She told me not to expect the usual agent, and so I asked for a few more particulars. Don't worry, she didn't say a lot." The kid looked a little relieved. "But you're from Vegas. I had one of the guys look you up." He looked more worried now, which may not be good - or maybe it was. Carl was flexible. "It wasn't hard to get the info from your old school. You might want to talk with them about that." At the kid's disbelieving look, Carl shrugged. "Just sayin'. So, here's the deal: You're too used to getting your ass kicked. You still think like the midget twelve-year-old kid who maybe came up waist high on a linebacker. That's not a bad thing to remember, given you're about as intimidating as a plate of spaghetti -" why pass up a good simile? "- but it's not a good thing, either.

"See, you're an adult now. You can get aggressive, but it's usually in the form of intellectual intimidation. That works pretty well in an interrogation room, but you're not stuck in those all day long. You're in the field. It's time for you to learn how to fight. And I don't mean that namby-pamby crap they teach to subdue a criminal. You're too fuckin' skinny and weak," the kid looked hurt, "because you're not built for the field. Not really. So chances of you really hurting someone enough to take them down with that crap, especially someone who's psychotic and on a killing spree…not too good. What you need to do," Carl said, smiling easily, "is consider the physics of fighting. It's all about leverage, balance, and torque. The strikes are about maximum effect for minimal effort. And if it takes more than thirty seconds from beginning to end, just shoot the fucker." Carl shrugged. The kid stared at him. "In the leg or something. It's real hard to resist when you can't stand up. Knees are good." The kid winced. "What?"

"Got shot in the knee," he said, able to actually talk now. "Not fun."

"Yeah, but the morphine made up for it, right?" Carl used an old joke, one soldiers had used since the dawn of morphine.

Spencer shook his head. "No. No narcotics. Nothing that strong. The strongest medicine I had was Tramadol, which is the high end on non-narcotic analgesics. It's prescription, but the next step up is Loratab, and that's controlled."

Carl nodded. "Okay. So why none of the good stuff? And trust me, when you're hurt bad enough, it don't give you the warm-fuzzies. It just lets you sleep."

"It's kind of a long story," Spencer hedged.

"We got time, and now you got the breath to tell it," Carl replied, settling in for something good. "But try to make it short."

"The team was in Georgia, one of the more rural areas, working at the request of the locals. I was…abducted and tortured by an unsub - a bad guy." Carl gave him a look. "Unsub means 'unknown subject' - only by then, a couple of us had figured out he was the one killing people, especially women, and using the Bible to come up with justification for the murders. Problem was, he had…multiple personalities. The personality of Raphael, well, he thought he was an archangel, come to punish the wicked. He wanted me to tell the truth, to pick someone to die, so he played Russian roulette with me until I gave him a name. Then he did it again to get me to pick one of my team to die."

"Seriously fucked up," Carl murmured. "Sounds a lot like a POW camp in Vietnam. No," he said, seeing the curious look. "I'm too young for that particular FUBAR. But I know some guys."

Spencer nodded and continued. "There were two other personalities: Charles, the father he'd killed - this guy had serious issues - was the brutal one that beat the hell out of me to get me to confess my sins. So he could kill me. After making me dig my own grave. Then there was Tobias, who was actually a gentle person, but who had been completely overwhelmed by his father and his father's warped version of Christianity, which was heavy on Revelations and not to long on any of the 'love thy neighbour' and 'do unto others' sections. Long story, but it started when Tobias was about seven years old and continued throughout his life.

"As time went by, Charles became more unstable and vicious and life got worse at home, so, as a teenager, Tobias had become a drug addict, and he went out to a-an old private cemetery to shoot up. He'd been clean for years, but when he killed his father because the father was ill and demanded that Tobias kill him out of mercy, it caused a break with reality. To cope with the murder of his father, whom he killed only because his father demanded it and he had been brainwashed into obedience through the misuse of Scripture, well, in response he developed the personality of Raphael and took on the personality of his father as well.

"Between rounds of Russian roulette, murders caught on tape and published to the internet, and the various forms of torture 'Charles' indulged in, Tobias made his appearances. And gave me Dilaudid." Carl wasn't familiar with the name. "Basically drugstore heroin." Carl winced. "After that, I was pretty fucked up." Carl was impressed that he admitted it. A lot of men couldn't - even the spaghetti men. "Got everything straightened out again, but I can't take narcotic pain relievers, even if I really, really want them."

"Have you needed them more than just for the knee?" Carl asked, voice soft.

"Yeah, but the reason's classified," Spencer said, now levering himself up off the floor a little. He managed to sit up. "And I didn't take them then, either." There was a hint of pride in his voice.

Carl looked at the younger man for a long time. This was someone who should walk a lot taller than he did, who should get more respect than he did. So many people had no idea what it took to deal with a gunshot wound and other traumas without the aid of the happy-juice. Or deal with them with the happy-juice. He let the younger man see the first glimmers of that respect from him, one veteran to another, as it were. When he spoke, it was quiet and utterly confident.

"You're tougher than you think, kid. You've got confidence, in some situations, and I'm not sayin' you shouldn't. But there are times you're going to need to kick a little ass, and it's better if no one thinks you can do it at all." He paused. "Take a look at Adia. She's soft and sweet and sugar and spice - everything nice, right?" Spencer nodded. "But she's got a helluva kick when she needs it."

"Like ginger," Spencer murmured.

"Huh. More like a can of whup-ass," Carl snorted. "She's been hurt a few times, sure, but she's also saved her own ass from bad situations before. Normally, she's easy-goin', nice as can be. But she can fight if she needs to." Carl gave Spencer a long look. "And so can you, if you learn."

"I've tried," Spencer said, and Carl thought he sounded frustrated. "I've tried, but it just doesn't work out the way it should."

"And your teachers, they were the usual combat instructors, right? The hand-to-hand guys that teach tackling and cuffing? Escape from specific holds?" When Spencer nodded, Carl gave him a grim smile. "That ain't the kind of fighting I'm talking about. I'm talking the quick, vicious kind that gets the other guy down and you away - or cuffing his ass, whichever you need to do. This isn't the FBI approved version, son. It's…more suited to your style."

"I have a style?" Spencer asked, apparently confused. Either that or dazed. Carl couldn't tell the difference.

"Yeah. The tougher-than-he-looks brainiac style." Carl laughed. "Reminds me. I gotta tell you about a buddy of mine. We went through selection together for special forces. He was tall, skinny, and looked like a strong wind would knock him over. Tough son-of-a-bitch, though. He could gut it out better than anyone else - which is how he got the recommendation to Selection, but that's another story - and a lot of that had to do with his background. His father beat the hell out of him since he was a kid, so…"

Carl kept talking while Spencer listened, rapt. He didn't look over at the bedroom door. He didn't have to. When Adrianna was ready, she'd come back out. Until then, he needed to keep Spencer occupied, and it wasn't that difficult. Dangling something in front of the kid like the ability to take care of himself in a fight without caving was the way to go.

Hell of it was, Carl wasn't even lying. The kid could do it, if he was willing to put in the effort.

"…so one of the instructors broke it down into the basic physics for him. Once they did that, using the constants he was more familiar with, he learned to fight back, not just take it all. A little push here and there to get him over the mental speedbumps, and he was one of the best." Carl smiled. "Now, let me show you one of the first things he learned…"

Spencer stood up, more curious and thoughtful than before. Thoughtful was good. Curious was good. It meant he was paying very close attention. Those eyes were bright with the kind of intensity he'd seen over at the table, going through piles records like shit through a goose. Now, if the kid was as serious as he looked, Carl would bet it all on the underdog.

Years ago, his instructors had done the same thing.

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