𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐈𝐂 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄.
❝ Lay off it, you bespeckled tadpole! ❞
━━━ or in which charlotte harrow decides to trade her place in the forensic lab for profiling killers, and spencer reid is not happy about it.
spencer reid...
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❝ The farther backward you can look, the farther forward you will see. ❞
winston churchill
FBI HQ, QUANTICO [ VA ] SEPTEMBER 2005
IT WAS NOT UNUSUAL FOR A NEWCOMER to third floor of the FBI headquarters in Quantico to experience mild nausea, a slight bleariness of sight as a result of sharp, sterile white floors and tiles reflecting the light coming from the rows of bulbs overhead. Glass doors separated different labs, lively hives filled with buzzing scientist; long white coats and clear, plastic glasses; light blue protective scrubs stained with mysterious substances; agents in dark suits and even deeper frowns with case files underneath their arms.
If one happened to make a wrong turn while searching for the toilets, they could find themselves facing a biohazard sticker covering the password-protected, heavy doors in the south-west corner, right between the Toxicology lab and the shared office kitchenette.
Exactly twelve months ago when she first stepped into the FBI headquarters, the newly graduated forensic anthropologist felt overwhelmed by those sights. Even swiping her official card at the entrance made her heart skip a beat.
Now, the smell of alcohol based disinfectant and faintest sense of blood floating around the air brought on a weird sense of comfort when she arrived to work in the morning, washing away all the sights and vivid scents of the DC to Quantico metro line.
Charlotte Harrow leaned her head on one of the windows in the hallway, balancing her phone between her ear and shoulder, and a scalding cup of coffee in her hands. She held it carefully, the white mug littered with charming doodles of dinosaur fossils, washed out from everyday use and cheap office soap. It was a graduation gift from her youngest sister Cecelia, and never failed to make her smile every time she brewed her bitter poison.
Pressing in the digits of the county code for England, she waited for the other side to pick up. Less than ten seconds later she was greeted warmly by her sister's personal assistant who, after a few polite sentences about the weather on their respective continents, connected her with one of the phone lines in the house.
A piece of classical music was playing on the other end — Rachmaninoff, she recognised, a family favourite — when her sister finally picked up the call. "Hey you, how are you doing?" Charlotte asked quietly into the device. The position of the window gave her a clear view of the ever crowded courtyard, the agents and visitors milling around like ants.
An exaggerated groan came from the other side, the music now turned down. "Never give birth, Charlie. Everything they say is a lie. My boobs hurt, Maggie doesn't want to eat, I haven't slept in two days, I can't go to–"
