Fic: Post-Modern: A Play in Five Acts (Act Two: Angela) (Criminal Minds, Rossi/Prentiss, FRAO)
Title: Post-Modern: A Play in Five Acts (2/5) - Act Two: Angela
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
Act Two: Angela
Dave gets home from the gym one Saturday morning and there's a bright yellow Miata in the driveway next to Prentiss's black Prius. The license plate reads "PFCT10" and Dave nearly calls Hotch to beg that he invent an office emergency. Hotch's likely reaction at hearing Dave's explanation, however, may actually be worse than what awaits him inside, so Dave musters his strength and walks in the door.
The kitchen smells like chamomile tea for some reason - he hates the stuff and Emily only drinks it at key times of the month, which he knows full well is not this time of the month. There is also, fortunately, coffee, along with the usual Prentiss-detritus of six or seven Splenda packets, which he sweeps into the trash before pouring his own mug. There's a murmur of voices from the living room at the front of the house. He's not sure he actually recalls ever having used that room before, although he supposes that this is probably the right occasion.
He dawdles down the hall, but it's no real use. As soon as he clears the opening, there's a squeal and a flurry of blue cotton and blonde hair - Dave barely manages to set his coffee cup on the nearest available surface before he's got an armful of Angie. She's hugging him tightly and exclaiming, which would be at least slightly more pleasant if he hadn't done an extra sixty sit-ups this morning. The cause of those extra sixty reps, he realizes as he shifts Angie's hair out of his face, is sitting on the loveseat, cradling a cup of coffee. She's wearing a sweat-stained t-shirt and running shorts that look like they're about three washes from falling apart. The expression on her face shares something with that of a deer caught in the headlights. It's not what you'd call uncommon when Angie's around.
"Prentiss," he says, slightly breathless, "I take it you've met Angie Davis, my ex-wife."
"Angie Davis Moran, apparently," Emily answers, poker-faced. "You're late to the conversation."
The vice-grip around his waist vanishes, as Angie whirls around, mock-pouting. "Emily," she scolds, "there you go stealing my thunder." Emily smiles and Angie turns back to Dave, holding up a perfectly-manicured hand, on which a very large diamond sparkles. "But it's true. I'm engaged - isn't that wonderful news?"
"Congratulations," Rossi says warmly. "Sit back down and tell me all about him."
Angie sashays around the coffee table and sits, talking a mile a minute about her young buck of a politician; Dave considers the opposing armchair and opts in the end for joining Prentiss on the loveseat. He asks a few questions along the way, when he can slip a word in edgewise, but mostly he just listens. Angie in full swing is kind of a force of nature - he's always enjoyed that about her - and he hasn't seen her in months.
"So," she concludes, leaning forward and taking a sip of what looks suspiciously like chamomile tea, "I came by to tell you, so that now you can stop this silly nonsense about alimony checks. He's like clockwork," she says to Prentiss, who just nods and smiles, damn her. "It's really quite gentlemanly of him. But now Andrew has everything well in hand," Angie smiles, "so you don't have to worry about me being taken care of. Not, mind you, that Daddy wouldn't have done that anyway."
Dave is not blushing. He does clear his throat, however. "That's as may be," he answers, "but listen, Ange - Angie," he amends at her frown. She's always hated that nickname, which makes no sense to Dave, since Angie's a nickname all on its own, but Angela Davis's internal logic is like nothing on this earth. "Angie. I think I'll just keep sending them, if it's all the same. Just promise me you'll keep them separate. In something with just your name on it."
"You worry too much," she says, and Dave admits that's true. She may be his ex-wife and an extremely capable press agent, but she's also a little china doll, blue eyes and blonde hair and an extremely expensive twin set and slacks, perched on the edge of that armchair. Not to mention she doesn't have the common sense God gave a duck. Of course he worries.
"Maybe," he allows. What the hell, he thinks. It's not like he can't afford it, and he's heard rumors about this kid she's marrying. "But let me do this. Call it an engagement present." She beams at him - and of course she'll let him, because things have fallen into Angie's lap her whole life and she doesn't seem aware of another alternative. He hopes she never has to be.
Emily stirs next to him and stands, gathering her cup and Angie's. His, he realizes, is growing cold on the sideboard where he'd left it. "I'm all out of coffee," she says. "Can I get you a refill, Angie, while I'm up? I'm sorry I've only got chamomile."
"You've stopped drinking coffee?" Dave has to ask. She used to mainline the stuff almost as badly as Prentiss.
"Oh, heavens, no," Angie says, standing, which means Dave stands with her. "I've stopped drinking milk, and you don't have soymilk. Have you ever seen an industrial milking machine?" she demands. Dave hasn't, nor does he have any idea where she's seen one, but Angie keeps going without pause for discussion. "And thank you, but no - I've been yakking at you for nearly an hour, and I've got so much yet to do today." She picks up her purse from the table. "Emily, I'm so glad to have met you. Do say you and Dave will come to the wedding - I so want you to be there."
Emily says absolutely nothing. Dave just blinks, and says, "Send me an invite, Angie - I'll get there if work will let me."
"You and your work," Angie sighs, but she lets him escort her to the door after Prentiss makes her farewells and heads for the kitchen. He busses her dutifully on the cheek and congratulates her once again, threatening, in all seriousness, to kneecap the guy if he doesn't do right by her - which is when Angie leans up on her tiptoes to return the kiss and says, "By the way, Emily's lovely. You could do much worse." Then the Miata's peeling out of the drive and he's shutting the door, feeling like he's been run over by a steamroller, which is not that far from the truth.
Rossi reclaims his coffee mug and takes a swig, making a face at the lukewarm liquid as he follows Emily's footsteps. She's leaning on the island, sipping a fresh cup. When he walks over, she looks up, and her lips are twitching.
"We were married seven months," he says without prompting.
"Mmmhmmm." Prentiss looks like she's biting the inside of her cheek.
"She bought a horse," he offers. "One day she came home and told me she'd bought a horse. I asked her where the hell we were going to keep a horse. She gave me plans for a stable in the backyard. I said no."
Emily has given up any pretense and is laughing out loud. "No?" she chortles.
"Hell, no," he confirms. "I think that's when we both realized it wasn't likely to work for very long," he finishes. "So we drew up the paperwork and she moved out. Every so often she comes by without calling first and knocks me over with a feather."
"Apparently," Emily says, and at least she's aiming for a straight face. "And she's already told me about your whirlwind romance."
"We spent every day together for six months on my fifth book tour. Despite appearances," Rossi protests in self-defense, "the woman is an incredibly competent publicist. The news media loves her. And competence is," he points out, "a very sexy trait in a woman. "
Emily grins at him and sets her mug down. "Feeling a little ambushed, are we?" She saunters over, shorts riding low on her hips, and Dave takes a moment to appreciate the view. "Poor Rossi," she mocks. "Knocked askew by a blue-eyed pixie." She runs a hand through the hair at his temples and sobers. "I like her. And although I find your protective streak occasionally infuriating," she says, "in the present instance, I find it a very sexy trait in a man." She lets go, and heads for the stairs. "I'll be in the shower, if you're looking for proof."
Which is, Dave realizes, setting his mug on the counter and heading the same direction, all the reassurance he needs.
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
Act Two: Angela
Dave gets home from the gym one Saturday morning and there's a bright yellow Miata in the driveway next to Prentiss's black Prius. The license plate reads "PFCT10" and Dave nearly calls Hotch to beg that he invent an office emergency. Hotch's likely reaction at hearing Dave's explanation, however, may actually be worse than what awaits him inside, so Dave musters his strength and walks in the door.
The kitchen smells like chamomile tea for some reason - he hates the stuff and Emily only drinks it at key times of the month, which he knows full well is not this time of the month. There is also, fortunately, coffee, along with the usual Prentiss-detritus of six or seven Splenda packets, which he sweeps into the trash before pouring his own mug. There's a murmur of voices from the living room at the front of the house. He's not sure he actually recalls ever having used that room before, although he supposes that this is probably the right occasion.
He dawdles down the hall, but it's no real use. As soon as he clears the opening, there's a squeal and a flurry of blue cotton and blonde hair - Dave barely manages to set his coffee cup on the nearest available surface before he's got an armful of Angie. She's hugging him tightly and exclaiming, which would be at least slightly more pleasant if he hadn't done an extra sixty sit-ups this morning. The cause of those extra sixty reps, he realizes as he shifts Angie's hair out of his face, is sitting on the loveseat, cradling a cup of coffee. She's wearing a sweat-stained t-shirt and running shorts that look like they're about three washes from falling apart. The expression on her face shares something with that of a deer caught in the headlights. It's not what you'd call uncommon when Angie's around.
"Prentiss," he says, slightly breathless, "I take it you've met Angie Davis, my ex-wife."
"Angie Davis Moran, apparently," Emily answers, poker-faced. "You're late to the conversation."
The vice-grip around his waist vanishes, as Angie whirls around, mock-pouting. "Emily," she scolds, "there you go stealing my thunder." Emily smiles and Angie turns back to Dave, holding up a perfectly-manicured hand, on which a very large diamond sparkles. "But it's true. I'm engaged - isn't that wonderful news?"
"Congratulations," Rossi says warmly. "Sit back down and tell me all about him."
Angie sashays around the coffee table and sits, talking a mile a minute about her young buck of a politician; Dave considers the opposing armchair and opts in the end for joining Prentiss on the loveseat. He asks a few questions along the way, when he can slip a word in edgewise, but mostly he just listens. Angie in full swing is kind of a force of nature - he's always enjoyed that about her - and he hasn't seen her in months.
"So," she concludes, leaning forward and taking a sip of what looks suspiciously like chamomile tea, "I came by to tell you, so that now you can stop this silly nonsense about alimony checks. He's like clockwork," she says to Prentiss, who just nods and smiles, damn her. "It's really quite gentlemanly of him. But now Andrew has everything well in hand," Angie smiles, "so you don't have to worry about me being taken care of. Not, mind you, that Daddy wouldn't have done that anyway."
Dave is not blushing. He does clear his throat, however. "That's as may be," he answers, "but listen, Ange - Angie," he amends at her frown. She's always hated that nickname, which makes no sense to Dave, since Angie's a nickname all on its own, but Angela Davis's internal logic is like nothing on this earth. "Angie. I think I'll just keep sending them, if it's all the same. Just promise me you'll keep them separate. In something with just your name on it."
"You worry too much," she says, and Dave admits that's true. She may be his ex-wife and an extremely capable press agent, but she's also a little china doll, blue eyes and blonde hair and an extremely expensive twin set and slacks, perched on the edge of that armchair. Not to mention she doesn't have the common sense God gave a duck. Of course he worries.
"Maybe," he allows. What the hell, he thinks. It's not like he can't afford it, and he's heard rumors about this kid she's marrying. "But let me do this. Call it an engagement present." She beams at him - and of course she'll let him, because things have fallen into Angie's lap her whole life and she doesn't seem aware of another alternative. He hopes she never has to be.
Emily stirs next to him and stands, gathering her cup and Angie's. His, he realizes, is growing cold on the sideboard where he'd left it. "I'm all out of coffee," she says. "Can I get you a refill, Angie, while I'm up? I'm sorry I've only got chamomile."
"You've stopped drinking coffee?" Dave has to ask. She used to mainline the stuff almost as badly as Prentiss.
"Oh, heavens, no," Angie says, standing, which means Dave stands with her. "I've stopped drinking milk, and you don't have soymilk. Have you ever seen an industrial milking machine?" she demands. Dave hasn't, nor does he have any idea where she's seen one, but Angie keeps going without pause for discussion. "And thank you, but no - I've been yakking at you for nearly an hour, and I've got so much yet to do today." She picks up her purse from the table. "Emily, I'm so glad to have met you. Do say you and Dave will come to the wedding - I so want you to be there."
Emily says absolutely nothing. Dave just blinks, and says, "Send me an invite, Angie - I'll get there if work will let me."
"You and your work," Angie sighs, but she lets him escort her to the door after Prentiss makes her farewells and heads for the kitchen. He busses her dutifully on the cheek and congratulates her once again, threatening, in all seriousness, to kneecap the guy if he doesn't do right by her - which is when Angie leans up on her tiptoes to return the kiss and says, "By the way, Emily's lovely. You could do much worse." Then the Miata's peeling out of the drive and he's shutting the door, feeling like he's been run over by a steamroller, which is not that far from the truth.
Rossi reclaims his coffee mug and takes a swig, making a face at the lukewarm liquid as he follows Emily's footsteps. She's leaning on the island, sipping a fresh cup. When he walks over, she looks up, and her lips are twitching.
"We were married seven months," he says without prompting.
"Mmmhmmm." Prentiss looks like she's biting the inside of her cheek.
"She bought a horse," he offers. "One day she came home and told me she'd bought a horse. I asked her where the hell we were going to keep a horse. She gave me plans for a stable in the backyard. I said no."
Emily has given up any pretense and is laughing out loud. "No?" she chortles.
"Hell, no," he confirms. "I think that's when we both realized it wasn't likely to work for very long," he finishes. "So we drew up the paperwork and she moved out. Every so often she comes by without calling first and knocks me over with a feather."
"Apparently," Emily says, and at least she's aiming for a straight face. "And she's already told me about your whirlwind romance."
"We spent every day together for six months on my fifth book tour. Despite appearances," Rossi protests in self-defense, "the woman is an incredibly competent publicist. The news media loves her. And competence is," he points out, "a very sexy trait in a woman. "
Emily grins at him and sets her mug down. "Feeling a little ambushed, are we?" She saunters over, shorts riding low on her hips, and Dave takes a moment to appreciate the view. "Poor Rossi," she mocks. "Knocked askew by a blue-eyed pixie." She runs a hand through the hair at his temples and sobers. "I like her. And although I find your protective streak occasionally infuriating," she says, "in the present instance, I find it a very sexy trait in a man." She lets go, and heads for the stairs. "I'll be in the shower, if you're looking for proof."
Which is, Dave realizes, setting his mug on the counter and heading the same direction, all the reassurance he needs.
Act Three: Erin
Act Four: Maria Elena
Act Five: Emily