Fic: Post-Modern: A Play in Five Acts (Act One: Camille) (Criminal Minds, Rossi/Prentiss, FRAO)
Title: Post-Modern: A Play in Five Acts (1/5) - Act One: Camille
Author: wojelah
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi
Rating: NC-17/FRAO
Spoilers/Warnings: Through Demonology.
Summary: Four times David Rossi made a mistake and the one time he managed to fix it.
Notes: Blame smittywing. I'm not sure where this came from, but she encouraged me that it was not a terrible idea. And then she helped make it work.
---
"The postmodern reply to the modern consists of recognizing that the past, since it cannot really be destroyed, because its destruction leads to silence, must be revisited: but with irony, not innocently. I think of the postmodern attitude as that of a man who loves a very cultivated woman and knows he cannot say to her, I love you madly, because he knows that she knows (and that she knows that he knows) that these words have already been written by Barbara Cartland. Still, there is a solution. He can say, As Barbara Cartland would put it, I love you madly."
- Umberto Eco
---
Act One: Camille
There are few things David Rossi hates worse in this world than wearing a tux.
It's been four hours. His collar's too tight, the damn cummerbund keeps rucking up, and regardless of the fact that he shelled out a ridiculous amount for this penguin suit, it's just as scratchy as the one he'd rented with money saved from his after-school job to take his girl to the prom. Scratchier.
He raises a finger, flagging the bartender and calling attention to his lamentably empty glass of scotch. The guy's sympathetic - and attentive - and Dave's got a refill in hand in short order. He leans his elbows on the bar and wonders how many more hours this thing can possibly continue.
A flash of movement in the mirror catches his eye, and he remembers exactly why he's wearing this suit in the first place: Emily Prentiss can be terrifyingly persuasive.
"It's my mother's gala," she'd said beseechingly. "I have to go."
"Yes," Dave had agreed, "of course you do. But that does not mean I have to go."
She'd glared at him. "Jerk. Who else am I going to take as my plus-one?"
"Who says you have to take anyone?" he'd answered. "You're a modern woman."
She'd leaned over and thumped him at that. "Rossi," she'd said, "you are coming to this party."
"Prentiss," he'd replied, "not in a million years."
She'd huffed and sulked and gone back to reading and he'd thought he'd won, and had considered the conversation closed. Dave really should know better.
"Fine," she'd said a good five minutes later, her eyes on her book. "Of course," she'd continued, "if you won't put the tux on, then I can't take it off."
Which is how Dave ended up at the ambassador's gala in too-tight shoes and a bow-tie, watching Emily Prentiss in the mirror. She's wearing a slip of a dress, something the color of a good merlot that clings and slides as she mingles with the various guests. Maybe he can coax her out the door earlier than scheduled.
"Special Agent Rossi," says a voice behind him, "you are ogling my daughter."
"Madame Ambassador," he says, turning, "she'd kill me if I didn't."
Elizabeth Prentiss laughs, and Dave smiles back. It's taken awhile, but he and Emily's mother have gradually made their peace with each other, and he's come to enjoy her company. "Something to drink?" he asks - her hands are empty, after all.
"I wish," she says, "but someone here has to remember who pledged to give what amount to what charity, so I shall stay sober, thank you. However," she adds, "if you would be so kind as to pretend we're having an engaging conversation, I would appreciate the momentary reprieve."
He grins and leans back against the bar, watching the room. "My pleasure. Remind me again why we're here?"
Elizabeth raises an eyebrow and offers him a lecture on - he's not really sure, actually, because he's mostly enjoying his scotch and watching Prentiss, but he's making small talk and offering appropriate noises at appropriate intervals, and he seems to be doing okay. It's not until he realizes that her last words were "Oh my, won't this be interesting," that he focuses back on the actual conversation.
"Won't what be - " he starts to say, but he's followed the ambassador's line of sight, and he knows exactly who that is bearing down on Emily. "Oh, no," he says feelingly.
"Welcome back," Elizabeth says dryly. "You're just in time for the show."
Rossi isn't really interested in investigating a crime scene in a tuxedo, and three years of marriage to Camille Pryce Kensington have left him well aware of what that particular facial expression means: she's out for blood. "Excuse me," he says to Elizabeth, but she restrains him with a hand on his arm.
"Wait," she says.
"Did you know she was here?" Camille looks flawless, as always, wearing some silvery thing that looks like it could've fed a family of four for six months. She's smiling at Emily, and Dave remembers that smile.
"Of course I did," the ambassador retorts. "She's a major donor. And Emily was going to have to run into her somewhere."
Dave groans. Camille says something that makes Emily's eyes widen. And then says something else that makes her flush - and not in a good way. "Ambassador," he says, but she cuts him off.
"David Rossi," she snaps, "save the knight errant business for someone who needs it. My daughter has been attending formal functions since she was twelve. She can handle herself."
Which might actually be true, it turns out, because while Elizabeth's been talking, Emily's recovered her poise and said something in reply, and he's never actually seen Camille's eyebrows go that high without a Botox treatment.
"Now," Elizabeth says, with the air of someone dusting off her hands, "we can go say our hellos." She takes his arm. "Come on, Special Agent Rossi. Stop staring and move, or we'll miss all the fun."
Fun, Dave thinks, is somewhere on the far side of the galaxy from where he is right now, but he's hardly going to disobey. He's not that brave.
Elizabeth approaches and Emily and Camille step back slightly, opening up space. "Camille," the ambassador says, "so you've met Emily - I'm so very glad. And of course, you and Dave know each other."
Camille's teeth are showing, but that isn't a smile. "Ambassador," she says coolly. "David." He bares his teeth right back at her. "Emily and I were just talking about you."
"Really," he says mildly. "I'm sorry to have missed that." He's only sorrier that he wasn't listening in on this whole debacle somewhere far, far away from here. In an unmarked van. Wearing a bullet-proof vest.
"Oh," Camille laughs, waving a hand dismissively, "I was just saying to Emily how very refreshing it is to see that your taste in women hasn't changed."
He starts to bristle, but the Ambassador's nails are suddenly - and, to the rest of the world, invisibly - threatening to put holes in his suit jacket.
"And I said to Camille," Emily says, "how very nice it was to meet someone much like red wine - whose taste only improved over time."
Camille laughs again, but it's far more brittle. "Oh, my dear, but there's so much room for improvement, given the original vintage."
Dave reminds himself that he is an adult, and an FBI agent, and a best-selling author, and that this is not a pissing match, and opens his mouth to speak. Emily cuts him off, the color high in her cheeks. Her eyes are flashing, and he's surprised to realize she's mad as hell.
Prentiss shakes her head. "It's just such a shame, Camille," she says, "I mean, there's just nothing worse than not having the palate to appreciate a good wine."
Camille goes white, then red, and that's when the Ambassador detaches from his arm. "Good heavens," she says brightly. "All this discussion of wine and I haven't had a drop to drink all night. Camille, my dear, they're serving something lovely and Chilean at the bar - shall we go acquire a glass? I've been meaning to talk to you all night about our upcoming funding drive. David, Emily," she nods. "I'm sure you'd be bored to tears. Won't you pardon us?"
Dave manages a smile and watches Elizabeth walk Camille off.
"Well," Emily says tightly. "That was unexpected. No," she admonishes, holding up a hand. "No, first it's my turn. The who and the what, I've got covered. When, how - how long," she amends, "and most importantly, why are open for discussion. People are staring, however," she says with loathing, "so I think perhaps you should ask me to dance." She turns and smiles at him brilliantly, but her eyes suggest he's not off the hook.
"We could just leave," Dave suggests, but he offers her his arm because he knows her statement isn't really what you'd call optional. Prentiss's back is ramrod straight. She is pissed, and Dave can think of worse things than dancing for penance.
They've made it to the dance floor, where something slow and unobjectionable is playing. Emily winds her arms around his neck. "No," she replies quietly, "we can't. Not for at least forty-five minutes, and not without meet-and-greeting at least six more people. I wish," she snaps, "that someone had seen fit to tell me that we were going to run into an ex-wife."
"Prentiss," Dave fires back, "no matter how delightful I find the idea of you taking off my tux, if I had known Camille was going to be here, I would not have come."
"No?" she says, raising an eyebrow.
"Hell, no." he answers. She's about to ask something else, but the band shifts into an upbeat, swingish affair, and he earns a six-minute-and-thirty-second reprieve. Not that he's counting - not really, in all truth, because Emily is an enjoyable dance partner and she's annoyed enough that she's not at all self-conscious. Or she has something to prove, he supposes, as the song changes again and he reels her back in.
"Start with when," Emily says, "and keep going from there."
"Ah, hmm," he stalls, and she treads gently on his foot, which she has never done before - while dancing - so it's clearly on purpose. "Not long before I retired from the Bureau," he answers, finally. "We met during the publicity run-up to the launch of my first book."
"She's very lovely," Emily comments, and he draws back far enough to shoot her a look.
"She's also very intelligent, very outspoken, and very focused on getting what she wants. And after ten years as a prosecutor, she was equally disenchanted with government work." Dave still remembers the relief he'd felt at finally leaving. He hadn't been able to explain it to Hotch, not when the guy still had the shine on him and the drive to be a great agent. But the nineties hadn't been good to the Bureau, and he'd wanted out. Wanted to do it his way. Camille had understood all about that. "It was - it was a very appealing combination. We got married not long after I left."' Right before he'd left on his press tour. "We lasted three years. Probably because we spent a lot of time apart on travel."
Emily's hand brushes against the nape of his neck. He can't really see her face well, and he's not really sure he wants to. He never imagined, when the issue arose, that they'd be having this conversation surrounded by three hundred people and the dulcet tones of a Glenn Miller tune. She hasn't asked him a question, but he thinks she's just waiting him out - and he's surprised to find he might want to tell her. "It ended messily. We both had affairs. We both found out. That didn't matter so much as the fact that I wasn't sufficiently pedigreed for her ambitions." He pauses, reconsiders. "To be fair, I hated wearing a tux and glad-handing strangers just as much then as I do now."
She chuffs a laugh, but doesn't say anything else. He has no idea what she's thinking. "We fought. A lot. From the beginning, really, but at the beginning it was attractive."
"How very Beatrice and Benedick," she murmurs dryly, and it's his turn to laugh.
"I'm not sure I believe they lived happily ever after either." He gathers his thoughts. "There was always something. And she and I - we're both bastards when we don't get our way." He's trying very hard to be fair. "We were very good at knowing what buttons to push." He rubs a circle on the small of Prentiss's back, the silky material cool and soothing against his fingers. "She served me with papers when I got back from my second press junket. We'd had a pre-nup. The divorce might have been the most bloodless part of the whole thing."
He lets himself drop a kiss against Emily's hair, enjoying the smell of her shampoo. "That's it, really." They dance without speaking for a few moments, and then Dave says what he should've said ten minutes ago. "Prentiss - I'm sorry." It doesn't actually kill him. "I didn't know she was here."
Emily's been lost in thought - she pulls back and stares at him blankly for a second. "Hmm?" she queries. "Oh," she says, her brain catching up. "Camille's reputation is legend. I just didn't realize she was your ex."
"That's odd," he says. "Your mother knew exactly who she was."
"My mother," Emily retorts, clearly annoyed, "was making a point of her own."
Dave just gapes at her for a moment. "To whom?" he asks.
Prentiss barks a laugh. "If you have to ask, then her mission's accomplished."
Rossi spares a moment to be intensely grateful that he was not privy to the Prentiss household when Emily was a teenager. Then, because it needs to be said, he offers, "Still. I'd have diverted Camille if I'd seen her coming."
Emily smiles at him, and it's genuine, much to his relief. "How very gallant," she says. "But I'd have been just fine. After all, I'm the one that gets to take you home." The music changes, and she leads him off the dance floor. "Come on. Let's meet and greet, and then we can get the hell out of here."
Dave follows, but stops short after a few steps when Prentiss turns around abruptly. She walks back towards him, her face determined, and kisses him soundly. She pulls away, just a little, and murmurs, "She didn't deserve you," then threads her arm through his. "Come on," she says, and tows him with her. Rossi doesn't resist - he couldn't even if he wanted to, anymore than he can stop the grin from spreading.
Act Two: Angela
Act Three: Erin
Act Four: Maria Elena
Act Five: Emily
Author: wojelah
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi
Rating: NC-17/FRAO
Spoilers/Warnings: Through Demonology.
Summary: Four times David Rossi made a mistake and the one time he managed to fix it.
Notes: Blame smittywing. I'm not sure where this came from, but she encouraged me that it was not a terrible idea. And then she helped make it work.
---
"The postmodern reply to the modern consists of recognizing that the past, since it cannot really be destroyed, because its destruction leads to silence, must be revisited: but with irony, not innocently. I think of the postmodern attitude as that of a man who loves a very cultivated woman and knows he cannot say to her, I love you madly, because he knows that she knows (and that she knows that he knows) that these words have already been written by Barbara Cartland. Still, there is a solution. He can say, As Barbara Cartland would put it, I love you madly."
- Umberto Eco
---
Act One: Camille
There are few things David Rossi hates worse in this world than wearing a tux.
It's been four hours. His collar's too tight, the damn cummerbund keeps rucking up, and regardless of the fact that he shelled out a ridiculous amount for this penguin suit, it's just as scratchy as the one he'd rented with money saved from his after-school job to take his girl to the prom. Scratchier.
He raises a finger, flagging the bartender and calling attention to his lamentably empty glass of scotch. The guy's sympathetic - and attentive - and Dave's got a refill in hand in short order. He leans his elbows on the bar and wonders how many more hours this thing can possibly continue.
A flash of movement in the mirror catches his eye, and he remembers exactly why he's wearing this suit in the first place: Emily Prentiss can be terrifyingly persuasive.
"It's my mother's gala," she'd said beseechingly. "I have to go."
"Yes," Dave had agreed, "of course you do. But that does not mean I have to go."
She'd glared at him. "Jerk. Who else am I going to take as my plus-one?"
"Who says you have to take anyone?" he'd answered. "You're a modern woman."
She'd leaned over and thumped him at that. "Rossi," she'd said, "you are coming to this party."
"Prentiss," he'd replied, "not in a million years."
She'd huffed and sulked and gone back to reading and he'd thought he'd won, and had considered the conversation closed. Dave really should know better.
"Fine," she'd said a good five minutes later, her eyes on her book. "Of course," she'd continued, "if you won't put the tux on, then I can't take it off."
Which is how Dave ended up at the ambassador's gala in too-tight shoes and a bow-tie, watching Emily Prentiss in the mirror. She's wearing a slip of a dress, something the color of a good merlot that clings and slides as she mingles with the various guests. Maybe he can coax her out the door earlier than scheduled.
"Special Agent Rossi," says a voice behind him, "you are ogling my daughter."
"Madame Ambassador," he says, turning, "she'd kill me if I didn't."
Elizabeth Prentiss laughs, and Dave smiles back. It's taken awhile, but he and Emily's mother have gradually made their peace with each other, and he's come to enjoy her company. "Something to drink?" he asks - her hands are empty, after all.
"I wish," she says, "but someone here has to remember who pledged to give what amount to what charity, so I shall stay sober, thank you. However," she adds, "if you would be so kind as to pretend we're having an engaging conversation, I would appreciate the momentary reprieve."
He grins and leans back against the bar, watching the room. "My pleasure. Remind me again why we're here?"
Elizabeth raises an eyebrow and offers him a lecture on - he's not really sure, actually, because he's mostly enjoying his scotch and watching Prentiss, but he's making small talk and offering appropriate noises at appropriate intervals, and he seems to be doing okay. It's not until he realizes that her last words were "Oh my, won't this be interesting," that he focuses back on the actual conversation.
"Won't what be - " he starts to say, but he's followed the ambassador's line of sight, and he knows exactly who that is bearing down on Emily. "Oh, no," he says feelingly.
"Welcome back," Elizabeth says dryly. "You're just in time for the show."
Rossi isn't really interested in investigating a crime scene in a tuxedo, and three years of marriage to Camille Pryce Kensington have left him well aware of what that particular facial expression means: she's out for blood. "Excuse me," he says to Elizabeth, but she restrains him with a hand on his arm.
"Wait," she says.
"Did you know she was here?" Camille looks flawless, as always, wearing some silvery thing that looks like it could've fed a family of four for six months. She's smiling at Emily, and Dave remembers that smile.
"Of course I did," the ambassador retorts. "She's a major donor. And Emily was going to have to run into her somewhere."
Dave groans. Camille says something that makes Emily's eyes widen. And then says something else that makes her flush - and not in a good way. "Ambassador," he says, but she cuts him off.
"David Rossi," she snaps, "save the knight errant business for someone who needs it. My daughter has been attending formal functions since she was twelve. She can handle herself."
Which might actually be true, it turns out, because while Elizabeth's been talking, Emily's recovered her poise and said something in reply, and he's never actually seen Camille's eyebrows go that high without a Botox treatment.
"Now," Elizabeth says, with the air of someone dusting off her hands, "we can go say our hellos." She takes his arm. "Come on, Special Agent Rossi. Stop staring and move, or we'll miss all the fun."
Fun, Dave thinks, is somewhere on the far side of the galaxy from where he is right now, but he's hardly going to disobey. He's not that brave.
Elizabeth approaches and Emily and Camille step back slightly, opening up space. "Camille," the ambassador says, "so you've met Emily - I'm so very glad. And of course, you and Dave know each other."
Camille's teeth are showing, but that isn't a smile. "Ambassador," she says coolly. "David." He bares his teeth right back at her. "Emily and I were just talking about you."
"Really," he says mildly. "I'm sorry to have missed that." He's only sorrier that he wasn't listening in on this whole debacle somewhere far, far away from here. In an unmarked van. Wearing a bullet-proof vest.
"Oh," Camille laughs, waving a hand dismissively, "I was just saying to Emily how very refreshing it is to see that your taste in women hasn't changed."
He starts to bristle, but the Ambassador's nails are suddenly - and, to the rest of the world, invisibly - threatening to put holes in his suit jacket.
"And I said to Camille," Emily says, "how very nice it was to meet someone much like red wine - whose taste only improved over time."
Camille laughs again, but it's far more brittle. "Oh, my dear, but there's so much room for improvement, given the original vintage."
Dave reminds himself that he is an adult, and an FBI agent, and a best-selling author, and that this is not a pissing match, and opens his mouth to speak. Emily cuts him off, the color high in her cheeks. Her eyes are flashing, and he's surprised to realize she's mad as hell.
Prentiss shakes her head. "It's just such a shame, Camille," she says, "I mean, there's just nothing worse than not having the palate to appreciate a good wine."
Camille goes white, then red, and that's when the Ambassador detaches from his arm. "Good heavens," she says brightly. "All this discussion of wine and I haven't had a drop to drink all night. Camille, my dear, they're serving something lovely and Chilean at the bar - shall we go acquire a glass? I've been meaning to talk to you all night about our upcoming funding drive. David, Emily," she nods. "I'm sure you'd be bored to tears. Won't you pardon us?"
Dave manages a smile and watches Elizabeth walk Camille off.
"Well," Emily says tightly. "That was unexpected. No," she admonishes, holding up a hand. "No, first it's my turn. The who and the what, I've got covered. When, how - how long," she amends, "and most importantly, why are open for discussion. People are staring, however," she says with loathing, "so I think perhaps you should ask me to dance." She turns and smiles at him brilliantly, but her eyes suggest he's not off the hook.
"We could just leave," Dave suggests, but he offers her his arm because he knows her statement isn't really what you'd call optional. Prentiss's back is ramrod straight. She is pissed, and Dave can think of worse things than dancing for penance.
They've made it to the dance floor, where something slow and unobjectionable is playing. Emily winds her arms around his neck. "No," she replies quietly, "we can't. Not for at least forty-five minutes, and not without meet-and-greeting at least six more people. I wish," she snaps, "that someone had seen fit to tell me that we were going to run into an ex-wife."
"Prentiss," Dave fires back, "no matter how delightful I find the idea of you taking off my tux, if I had known Camille was going to be here, I would not have come."
"No?" she says, raising an eyebrow.
"Hell, no." he answers. She's about to ask something else, but the band shifts into an upbeat, swingish affair, and he earns a six-minute-and-thirty-second reprieve. Not that he's counting - not really, in all truth, because Emily is an enjoyable dance partner and she's annoyed enough that she's not at all self-conscious. Or she has something to prove, he supposes, as the song changes again and he reels her back in.
"Start with when," Emily says, "and keep going from there."
"Ah, hmm," he stalls, and she treads gently on his foot, which she has never done before - while dancing - so it's clearly on purpose. "Not long before I retired from the Bureau," he answers, finally. "We met during the publicity run-up to the launch of my first book."
"She's very lovely," Emily comments, and he draws back far enough to shoot her a look.
"She's also very intelligent, very outspoken, and very focused on getting what she wants. And after ten years as a prosecutor, she was equally disenchanted with government work." Dave still remembers the relief he'd felt at finally leaving. He hadn't been able to explain it to Hotch, not when the guy still had the shine on him and the drive to be a great agent. But the nineties hadn't been good to the Bureau, and he'd wanted out. Wanted to do it his way. Camille had understood all about that. "It was - it was a very appealing combination. We got married not long after I left."' Right before he'd left on his press tour. "We lasted three years. Probably because we spent a lot of time apart on travel."
Emily's hand brushes against the nape of his neck. He can't really see her face well, and he's not really sure he wants to. He never imagined, when the issue arose, that they'd be having this conversation surrounded by three hundred people and the dulcet tones of a Glenn Miller tune. She hasn't asked him a question, but he thinks she's just waiting him out - and he's surprised to find he might want to tell her. "It ended messily. We both had affairs. We both found out. That didn't matter so much as the fact that I wasn't sufficiently pedigreed for her ambitions." He pauses, reconsiders. "To be fair, I hated wearing a tux and glad-handing strangers just as much then as I do now."
She chuffs a laugh, but doesn't say anything else. He has no idea what she's thinking. "We fought. A lot. From the beginning, really, but at the beginning it was attractive."
"How very Beatrice and Benedick," she murmurs dryly, and it's his turn to laugh.
"I'm not sure I believe they lived happily ever after either." He gathers his thoughts. "There was always something. And she and I - we're both bastards when we don't get our way." He's trying very hard to be fair. "We were very good at knowing what buttons to push." He rubs a circle on the small of Prentiss's back, the silky material cool and soothing against his fingers. "She served me with papers when I got back from my second press junket. We'd had a pre-nup. The divorce might have been the most bloodless part of the whole thing."
He lets himself drop a kiss against Emily's hair, enjoying the smell of her shampoo. "That's it, really." They dance without speaking for a few moments, and then Dave says what he should've said ten minutes ago. "Prentiss - I'm sorry." It doesn't actually kill him. "I didn't know she was here."
Emily's been lost in thought - she pulls back and stares at him blankly for a second. "Hmm?" she queries. "Oh," she says, her brain catching up. "Camille's reputation is legend. I just didn't realize she was your ex."
"That's odd," he says. "Your mother knew exactly who she was."
"My mother," Emily retorts, clearly annoyed, "was making a point of her own."
Dave just gapes at her for a moment. "To whom?" he asks.
Prentiss barks a laugh. "If you have to ask, then her mission's accomplished."
Rossi spares a moment to be intensely grateful that he was not privy to the Prentiss household when Emily was a teenager. Then, because it needs to be said, he offers, "Still. I'd have diverted Camille if I'd seen her coming."
Emily smiles at him, and it's genuine, much to his relief. "How very gallant," she says. "But I'd have been just fine. After all, I'm the one that gets to take you home." The music changes, and she leads him off the dance floor. "Come on. Let's meet and greet, and then we can get the hell out of here."
Dave follows, but stops short after a few steps when Prentiss turns around abruptly. She walks back towards him, her face determined, and kisses him soundly. She pulls away, just a little, and murmurs, "She didn't deserve you," then threads her arm through his. "Come on," she says, and tows him with her. Rossi doesn't resist - he couldn't even if he wanted to, anymore than he can stop the grin from spreading.
Act Two: Angela
Act Three: Erin
Act Four: Maria Elena
Act Five: Emily