Chapter Text
Florence Jones stares at her reflection in the pink heart-shaped mirror, brushing the same strand of frazzled, bleached blonde hair into place for the tenth time. A vast collection of crucifixes surrounds the mirror; it's her way of maintaining her best luck. Surely, God will look kindly upon somebody this dedicated. Or, maybe, her being an atheist cancels it all out. In hindsight, buying 50 crucifixes was a bad investment for someone who can barely pay her rent.
I could’ve used that money on a better TV, she thinks to herself as she checks her digital clock — a pink Hello Kitty one, her mum got it for her 13th birthday as the main gift. She remembers being so overjoyed after opening it; she’d wanted one for years.
May 26th 2010, 5:00 AM. The first day of her BAU internship, she could almost vomit from anxiety. Sure, she still has two hours until she needs to be there, but that’s two hours of waiting. What if, in those two hours, they realise they’ve made a horrible mistake and accidentally hired the wrong Florence Jones? What if someone reads her file and decides she doesn’t actually belong there at all?
It's a damn cold night, tryna figure out this life- Florence jumps before picking up her phone from the dresser. Flipping it open, she presses the answer button.
“Hello, go for Flo!” She disguises all previous anxiety with an overly joyful tone.
“Dr Jones,” the person on the other end begins. “This is Agent Hotchner. I just wanted to apologise in advance for the team not being on your first day, we’re away in California on a case right now.”
Immediately, a wave of sickness hits her after realising she just told her future boss to “go for Flo”. His voice is softer than she had expected it to be; they had only communicated via email up until this point, which she had always read in quite a stern tone.
“No apologies needed, sir. I hope you guys can get it wrapped up soon, but I’m able to wait until then. Am I still okay to come in today?” Florence grits her teeth, gripping the dresser in front of her, holding back the urge to heave.
“As far as I am aware, yes,” he goes quiet for a moment, and she doesn’t attempt to fill the silence, not sure if that’s acceptable. “Florence?”
“Yes?”
“Good luck today.”
“Thank you, sir. I will let you go now, it’s about…” she looks at her Hello Kitty clock again. “2:30 AM for you, bloody hell- Sorry, sir.”
She thinks she hears a laugh from Hotchner— or at least a stifled one —“You'll do great.”
He hangs up before she can answer, and she's left to place her phone slowly back on the dresser. Her face scrunches up as she processes saying ‘bloody hell’ to her Unit Chief in their first official conversation. Really, what she should be focusing on is forgetting to thank him. Twice.
She runs to her tiny bathroom and dry heaves into the toilet bowl, crouching in front of it. Her body shakes as she closes her eyes tightly, trying to push away the feeling that she needs to throw up. Eventually, her legs give way, and she ends up lying back on the floor — it’s not like it’s dirty, it actually smells sickeningly like bleach. She curses herself mentally for obsessively cleaning everything several times last night.
☆°•○
Being stopped by security wasn’t part of her daily plan. It wasn’t even part of her general life plan. The man, at least, seemed apologetic about the situation. Eventually, after twenty minutes of fishing for an ID in her bag and getting him to search her up in the database, she was allowed entrance and slowly made her way to the bullpen.
It was strange trying to decide which desk to sit at. She had been told by Hotchner that she was to sit at whichever desks were available and that she’d probably end up switching multiple times per day. The lack of stability scared her. How could anyone spend their days like this? She was already beginning to doubt wanting this internship. Shaking those thoughts away, she turns on the computer and inputs the login information she remembered reading in an email from Hotchner.
PinkCatsFlyInSky1908
It was certainly a strange password, but he explained that random yet memorable phrases were safer than using more obvious ones. She even changed her personal, lifelong passwords after learning that.
Her inbox is already full of paperwork requests. She takes the time to find the ones she deems most important and sends them off to the nearest printer. According to the handy laminated map she brought with her, it’s right outside the office of Penelope Garcia (Florence remembers Hotchner writing that he thinks they’ll get along great). Looking around, she decides to give it a few minutes until she collects the printed files, wanting to take a moment to assess her surroundings. She doesn’t plan on being here forever, but she’ll definitely remain for at least a year, and that’s a long time when you’re twenty-two. Without any future promotions, Florence’s goal is to be out quickly and find a new field to excel in — maybe paleontology, she’s always loved dinosaurs. Or a cafe, she thinks she could handle making drinks for people.
She watches two gossiping agents at one of the desks, one with a badge that says Anderson and the other with one that says Sharp. She seems to be from a different department; Florence thinks she might be fixing Anderson’s computer. His lips move in a way that seems to say something about the name “Spencer”. She recognises that name; it’s the one most mentioned to her when referencing her role in this workplace. Spencer Reid. Doctor Spencer Reid. People are quick to include the title in a way they’re often not when it comes to her name. That always frustrates her, but perhaps it’s his experience. He’s made quite a name for himself, and she’s simply lucky if her parents remember she got her PhD. It does make her jealous, though. It’s difficult to accept the existence of someone who joined at the same age as her, failed the same qualifications, and yet somehow was still hired as an actual agent. Why must she be confined to an unpaid position? Do the 15 points of difference in IQs do that much heavy lifting? Is his eidetic memory superior to her photographic one?
A computer pop-up lets her know her printer request was successful, and she forcefully tears her eyes away from Anderson and Sharp, realising she was staring. It takes a few seconds to decide whether or not she should leave her stuff at the desk, but she decides it's fine, considering she doesn’t plan on being gone long. She does, however, make sure to log out of the computer, remembering the course she had to take on how to protect potentially private information.
Penelope’s “lair” — as Florence has heard it lovingly described — is thankfully not too far from the bullpen, so she does not rush on her way there. The printer has her blank case files perfectly laid out for her, not a single one missing, and she instinctively runs her fingers over a small, silver crucifix necklace as a silent thank you.
Voices are coming from behind the slightly ajar door. Florence knows it’s bad to eavesdrop, but surely an open door in a building as secure as this is an invitation to listen in. She can just about make out a voice that’s coming through a phone speaker. The other voice is much clearer, most likely belonging to the infamous Penelope Garcia.
“She seems nice, but you guys didn’t need to be away on her first day. What if she’s all geniusey in a bad way, not the Reid way? Do you know how many geniuses have the capabilities to kill? It’s a lot. Like, ‘a lot’ a lot.”
Her face falls as she listens. Still, she moves closer to the door as the voice on the other side of the phone responds — it’s unintelligible but definitely male. She can see Penelope properly now; her hair is red, she has a fun sense of clothing (one that Florence can find certain scene elements in), and she almost blends in with the decor of the computer lab.
“What if she’s dangerous, Morgan? I looked into her files, and she’s allegedly an unpaid intern. Not even a paid one. Can the FBI even have those? Why send an intern to replace a Media Liaison? Another unit could be using the fact that she’s a genius who doesn’t require payment to hide the fact that she’s one second away from killing us all.” Penelope pauses briefly. “Most importantly, me all. Has anyone even run a background check on her? Because I have. You tell me what business a PhD holder has as an intern. Dodgy business, that’s what.”
Florence accidentally presses against the door, and it makes a creaking noise, causing Penelope to turn around quickly. She freezes for a moment, but before she can say anything, Florence darts away — paperwork in one hand, the other digging nails into her palm.
☆°•○
At 12:48 PM, according to the clock on the wall, Florence entered the BAU break room after three hours. A ham sandwich remains uneaten in front of her, while she stares at her shoes. The break room wasn't the kind of place she felt safe to eat — she doubts most places make that list, minus her mum’s dining table and the small patch of floor right in front of her TV. Perhaps one day she'll adjust to being able to manage a few bites of sandwiches (if she lasts long here and isn’t ostracised for her likeness to kill everyone here). She can’t quite shake the feeling that hearing the conversation gave her. She’s aware that she really shouldn’t have been listening and how suspicious her situation sounds now that someone’s said it all out loud, but that doesn’t get rid of the sick feeling brewing in her stomach. Just the thought of causing anyone the anxiety that must’ve led Penelope to a conclusion like that makes her want to sign a resignation letter already. She couldn’t do that, though. It was either this or fly back to England… No, she had to make things right and show Penelope that she’s more or less completely harmless. She had to do something drastic — befriend the redhead.
Florence closes her eyes and pictures the room she saw, flashes of colourful accessories and bright screens fill her mind. She has to put extra effort into focusing purely on the pink pen Penelope had been holding; there was a pad of paper there too — it looked like the writing was fading the more it went on. A new pen. She would buy Penelope a new pen, a fluffy one. Sure, it’s not guaranteed to foster a friendship, but this wasn’t exactly her expert area. If someone brought her a pen, she’d certainly consider them a friend from that day on.
The next time Florence looks up, the clock reads 13:02. She scolds herself mentally for wasting so much time and decides to skip unnecessary lunch breaks in the future; she can easily use this time to get extra work done.
She stands up, picking up the nearly solid sandwich and swinging her messenger bag onto her shoulder. She drops the sandwich in the bin on the way out of the break room — no one's going to be able to eat that anymore, it’s no waste. She takes her time making her way to the closest empty desk. According to the desk jockeys, as an intern, you must constantly change desks because they don't give you a permanent one. She doesn't mind that much since she doesn't use the tops of the desks, anyway; the floor beneath them is much more efficient for her. She selects around ten case reports from the desk that haven't been filled out yet and crouches down so she can sit underneath the desk. It's an eccentric method, but she's found that sitting on the floor keeps her calm and less likely to have a panic attack during stressful situations — like her first day of work.
Time flies by for her while she's in aeroplane mode, doing case report after case report with no breaks for two hours. Her neck may hurt, and she may have lost feeling in her legs an hour ago, but sometimes good work requires a physical sacrifice. It takes someone knocking on the top of the desk to pull her out of the zone. Looking up, she sees the man from earlier crouching down to look at her. She smiles awkwardly, digging her nails into her thigh through her black trousers.
“Hi?’’
“I’m Anderson, you must be Florence,” The man offers a smile back, “I thought you’d run away already, which would have won me a small bet some of us have going on, but I noticed your shoe poking out from under here,” They both look towards her black Mary Janes at the same time. “You need any help getting up?”
Florence nods, studying Anderson carefully. He doesn't seem dangerous; he’s small (for a man) and not opposing. She decides to take his extended hand and let him help her out from under the desk. Her attempts to flatten her now disastrous hair aren’t very successful, but Anderson is nice enough to hold in his laughter.
“How much money did I lose you?” she asks, trying not to focus too much on the fact that there’s a bet centred around her. “I can leave now, if that’ll help you win it.”
“It’s only fifty, I’ll be fine without it. Besides, if you leave now, Kevin from IT will win the money,” He grimaces. “A lot of us dislike Kevin. Well, it’s just me so far, but I’m sure you will too… Is that an English accent? It doesn’t sound like you’re from here.”
“Born and raised in England,” Florence confirms, nodding. “I moved here about two years ago, but the accent lingered.”
Awkward silence fills the space, both of them seemingly studying each other carefully. She notes that he has no tie on and his top buttons are undone — perhaps the unit chief being away signifies a period of relaxing about the rules, which is highly unprofessional. She wonders what mental notes he could be making on her; she hopes it’s all good things.
“So…” he begins, staring at her like she’s some kind of martian. Maybe not all good things, then.
“So…?” she echoes.
“Why were you hiding under your desk?”
“I wasn’t hiding,” there’s a hint of defensiveness in her tone; she doesn’t like it when people misread her actions. “I do my best work under a desk.”
“I would not advertise that if I were you,” Anderson mumbles with a small smile before speaking in a serious tone once more. “I do need to ask you to stay above your desk from now on; it’s probably a security risk, and you don’t want to risk getting written up during your first day.”
“Yes, sir,” Florence salutes him.
“No…” he grimaces. “Don’t- Yeah…”
She watches him sigh before he walks away, and then covers her face. Yes, sir? It would’ve been only slightly embarrassing if she had left it at that, but why did she have to salute afterwards? She wonders whether it’s too late to fake a demon possession and get herself transported out of the building by security. Unfortunately, that would limit her future job options with the government and make it difficult to board a plane. So, instead of pretending she’s been possessed by an evil spirit, she sits herself down on the chair that goes with her desk.
It’s fine for about 15 minutes; she’s able to do her work without much difference, but it feels odd. Every nerve in her body is screaming at her to move, to run, to do something. A chair has nothing special to it; all she can do is sit there. She can’t even cross her legs! It’s a barbaric way of living, actually. Who could cope with existing in such a rigid way? Minus everyone around here, who are clearly comfortable with sitting still in their seats.
They’re federal agents, though, she thinks to herself. They don’t count as regular people.