an ode to a conversation stuck in your throat | s.r.
in which Spencer tries to talk you out of taking a job across the country
margotober masterlist
who? spencer reid x fem!reader
category: fluff
content warnings: miscommunication (sigh), very cheesy, brief mention of wine, defining the relationship, insecure spencer, easily confused reader, chemist!reader
word count: 1.04k
a/n: if i could go a week without writing a dwg song fic that would be crazy. also surprise it's chemist!reader again.
"Thanks for stopping so I could change,” you say to Spencer, leading the way into your apartment and locking the door behind you. “I’m sure lab dress code and David Rossi dress code are miles apart,” you continue, hanging your backpack on the wall.
Spencer hums in response, “You’d look great in anything you wear.”
Your face warms at the compliment, “You’re sweet. You can just wait out here, I shouldn’t be more than a couple of minutes,” you gesture to the living room, smiling at him before heading off to your room.
Nervously, you pull off your lab-safe attire and discard all of it into the laundry hamper before putting on the dress you’d chosen for dinner tonight. It’s not overly fancy, but you hope his team will like it. You hope his team will like you.
Looking at yourself in your dresser mirror, you reconsider your choice of shoes, switching from a pair of kitten heels to flats before walking out the door, “Hey, Spence, is Rossi’s patio heated, or should I bring a sweater for when the sun goes down?” You stop in your tracks when you find Spencer, still in the entryway, looking at the color-coded whiteboard calendar you keep by your front door, “What’s up?”
His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his slacks, and he looks upset. What’s worse is you think he might be upset with you. “What’s this dinner you have planned next Friday?”
You feel like a child who’s been caught doing something they shouldn’t be, draping the proposed sweater over the back of a kitchen stool and crossing your arms in front of your stomach. “It’s a work dinner,” you answer nervously.
“With?” Spencer asks, but he’s not pushy about it, there’s something desperate in his tone.
Pursing your lips, you look at the purple writing on the calendar, “The chair of Biochemistry and Molecular Genetics at Northwestern, and a representative from the college's dean. They’re offering me a job with a private lab and my own team of researchers… so they’re taking me out to dinner.”
Spencer’s face fell, “They’re offering you a job in Chicago?”
“Well, that’s where Northwestern is. Evanston, if you want to get technical about it,” you respond, chewing on the inside of your cheek.
He looks at you dumbfoundedly, “I don’t want to get technical about it. When were you going to tell me that you’re taking a job in Chicago?” It almost seems like he’s afraid.
You raise your eyebrows in curiosity, you’ve been seeing each other for a month, and you’ve never known Spencer to jump to conclusions. “I’m not,” you tell him, keeping your tone void of any accusation, “They’re just taking me to dinner.”
Spencer sighs, “But they’re offering you a job. In a different state. In a different timezone.”
Admittedly, he was beginning to sound a bit ridiculous to you, “Don’t you field offers from colleges all the time? They want you to teach or tell you to become Spencer Reid, PhD, PhD, PhD, PhD, or whatever?”
His eyes follow you as you move to sit down at the kitchen counter, “It never gets as far as dinner.”
“I’m not taking the job,” you tell him simply, shrugging your shoulders demurely.
Spencer falters at that, knitting his brows together as he tries to piece together the answers you’re willingly giving him, “If you’re not taking the job then why are you going to dinner with them?”
Hiding a small smile, you give him the truth, “They pick up the tab. I go to a lot of these and I get good food out of the deal. These people love to schmooze but I’ve never been offered anything that I would be inclined to accept.” This specific job seemed perfect on the surface, but they weren’t willing to let you choose what to research. That was non-negotiable for you.
“I could schmooze you,” he insists, “You don’t need other people to schmooze you.”
You giggle at him, waving him over to you so you can look him in the eyes when you tell him, “I go for free food and good wine. No other reason.” Your smile was gentle, but inside your heart was pounding. He was scared I was going to leave, you think to yourself.
He sighs, “Will you… will you tell me in the future when you get these dinner offers?” His voice is tentative, almost as if he’s afraid you’ll think he’s asking too much of you.
Nodding, you reach out and take one of his hands in yours, “I can, but I didn’t think were at the ‘I’m being courted by another workplace, and I wanted to let you know’ stage yet. That’s kind of a girlfriend thing,” you explain.
Spencer frowns, “Aren’t you?”
Tilting your head to the side, you look at him curiously, “Aren’t I what?”
“My girlfriend,” he clarifies.
Your eyes go wide, “Oh! I didn’t think so, I thought you had to ask yet.” Although you’re far from a relationship expert, you’d had to ask your PhD advisee what to wear before your first date with Spencer.
The panicked look on his face returns, “I’ve been telling people you’re my girlfriend. Should I not have been doing that?”
Shaking your head, you beam up at him, “I don’t mind. I just thought you had to ask about that kind of thing.”
“I don’t know,” he admits, “I’ve never really done this before.”
The two of you sit in an awkward silence for a moment before you decide to speak up again, “So, just so we’re on the same page. I’m not moving to Chicago.”
Spencer frowns again, and you have to hold yourself back from using your thumb to smooth out the crease on his forehead, “Will you?”
Confused, you lean your head back, “Move to Chicago?”
“Be my girlfriend,” he amends quickly.
You nod, “I would love to.”
“And just so we’re on the same page,” he ducks his head down, so close to a kiss that it makes you feel dizzy, “I like to think I’m the only one who can really court you.”
Laughing, you lean forward and peck his lips, “I would be insulted if you didn’t think that.”
James Connolly was executed by crown forces in 1916. Despite a doctor saying he had two days at the most to live due to injuries sustained during the Easter Rising, he was brought by military ambulance to Kilmainham Gaol where he had to be tied to a chair to be shot, because he couldn’t stand. He was then dumped in a mass grave with the other executed leaders.
