#rathborne/Dick Coonan

[castle-dominion]

c2x13 condensed post

Ok cuz I’m sure that��s how it works. Blood dripping from the ceiling? Not noticing it in your paint? not getting a gradual increase in the colour of your paint when the blood was slowly dripping in?

I own a boat! XD XD XD XD Johnny Vong this is hilarious & I love it but ryan is so dumb to fall for it like bro my dude girl come on (also apparently ryan's warm milk with honey really does help him sleep)

Ryan come on don’t fall for it

F yeah! As a Métis fiddler, uh 100/10 to celtic fiddlers. You deserve the world. I know that we have a lot of french/french canadian in us, but dang the scots & irish had the right idea & I’m so glad we took after them too.

As a Métis folk catholic, 10/10 to irish catholics. You deserve the world.

Yayyyyy Gil Mazzaro again!

Poor Lanie, she has to be the one to find out

Ryan seriously at work?

Wow that’s lowkey xenophobic but I’m glad he included texas

I’m honestly kind of sad it was sexy beckett. Ryan totally should have been the one to cut it open & give it a taste, he’s the ex-narcotics detective.

Ok walking on glass? Yes you want to be slow. Walking on coals? You want to run.

KR: & which boxes contain the secret path to financial independence. He says, while stroking the CD case GIRL WHAT YOU CAN’T BE THAT GULLIBLE THIS IS CULT STUFF BRO DON’T EVEN LOOK AT YOUR SHOES ARE YOU INSANE THIS MAN HAS YOU HYPNOTIZED LIKE MY DUDE YOU ARE ON A MURDER INVESTIGATION this is the best B plot ever. At least Esposito threatens to pepper spray him SHUT UP SHUT UP you’re just embarrassing yourself more, my dude, of course it is a scam, you literally already know it is a front for a drug smuggling company

I love Roy Montgomery.

I decided to text my dad because of this episode

I mean like yeah at least this gang is… preventing drug addiction? (& then in future episodes we have smth up with detective slaughter in like what s4? & then we have fenton oconnell in s5, & while finn rourke's gang prevents drug addiction bobby s's gang causes it)

Dick coonan. He’s surprisingly diplomatic

That’s a lot of dough

Esposito’s got a nice jacket tbh! also a nice gun & like they pushed down an old man so ew but still: fashionable

Captain just shoot the guy without revealing your position to like maim him or smth. Btw that’s a lot of blood, it takes time to get out. Like bro??? What is even going on?

At least she used the back of her hand to push her hair out of her face rather than her bloody hands.

Ok so it took me a bit less time to watch this episode, only an hour & 15 minutes. Last ep it took about 90 mins. Of course during both episodes I took a break, once to read smth another time to watch a video my dad sent me

[pollylynn]

Billet Doux, Chapter 4—A Season Two Caskett WIP

Title: Billet Doux, Chapter 4 WC: 1100

She gets to tell the full story on day four. “Gets to.” It’s her post-incident interview at last, bright and early on a Monday morning, and it’s fine. The members of the team are sympathetic, that’s clear, but it doesn’t mean they don’t put her through her paces. They take her through the story from front to back and back to front again, and she tells it, more or less the same way each time—Jacky Coonan to the girl, the girl to the drugs, the drugs to Johnny Vong, and Johnny Vong to Dick Coonan and the non-existent Rathborne. 

She tells that story, because her cop’s mind can’t tell it any other way. But she’s not a cop here. Sympathetic or no, as far as the investigative team is concerned—a seasoned homicide detective from another precinct and a couple of suits from Internal Affairs—she’s a suspect, and the story that pieces one lead together with the next is not the one they want. It’s not the one that will clear the shooting, and that’s what she’s here for.  

She takes a breath and tells the story they need to hear, the one with details her cop’s mind hasn’t already filtered out as irrelevant. She thinks it will be hard. She thinks for a drowning moment of Castle and the details that land thick on the page. She thinks for a drowning moment that she can’t do this, but her memory offers them up—the most curious details—though out of sequence. 

Her first memory is blood, but not the kind she’s expecting. Her gaze falls, fleetingly, to her own thighs. She’s not wearing the jeans, of course. She’s wearing the nicest wool trousers she owns, and anyway, the blood she’s thinking of is the dark maroon spreading across Coonan’s upper lip from when Castle’s head had slammed with bone-crunching force into his nose. Her memory lingers on the different shade of red it seemed to be—dark right away in contrast to the bright crimson that pumped endlessly between her fingers. 

Next, memory rewinds to the money—her insane break room promise to pay him back and his Negative, Ghost Rider. She presses her lips together and keeps that detail to herself. She moves on to Dick Coonan’s verbal slip—her killer—then leaps ahead to her own plea to the Captain—I need him alive. Before it can sound like a plea—like something calculated to argue for the purity of her her intentions, memory skips backward again to the ballpoint pen in Dick Coonan’s hand in the moment before he went for the uniform’s gun. 

She remembers, maybe for the first time, that he had slipped on it—Coonan had. The new detail deals a blow to her composure, and she sees one of the IA guys sit up straighter, bounce the cap of his own ballpoint on a yellow legal pad as she recalls that just for a second before he grabbed Castle and jammed the Glock into his ribs, the cheap plastic barrel of the pen had rolled right under Coonan’s shoe, and he’d slipped. She hears herself faithfully relating such a silly detail. She hears herself wondering aloud if she’d missed something in that second, wondering if that had been her opportunity to act. 

They don’t have an answer for her. It’s their job not to have an answer for her. Their job is simply to assemble the facts from interview, from physical evidence—to determine whether, according to departmental guidelines, she was justified in taking a man’s life. It’s not their job to tell her whether or not she missed the moment that might have changed everything. 

Things wrap up not long after. There are no promises, of course, but the sympathetic vibe runs strong through the round of handshakes she exchanges with each of them. She emerges from the room’s fluorescent lights, from the building itself, into another brittle and brilliant January morning. 

She’s not the first to text him on day four. He’d been up brighter and earlier than her meeting  to lob more obscure poetic forms her way, to say nothing of his list of suggested chores to help her while away the days. He hadn’t wished her luck or mentioned the interview at all. He hadn’t asked any of the million questions he must have about the whole process. 

And he hasn’t pinged her with a Things go okay? or anything else. She feels hollow about it for a moment. She feels irrationally abandoned, not just by him, but by everyone—Montgomery, Lanie, the boys.   

But the cold shakes her, then. The wind howls its way under her coat collar and New York roars around her. The city reminds her that here, she’s as alone as she does or does not want to be. She strips off one glove, yelping as January takes another bite. A mook striding by with a pair of city coveralls pulled on over his winter gear spares her a sympathetic look. 

How’s your head? She manages to jounce out on the move. She’s descending into the subway as she sends it. She’s practically cheek to cheek with half a dozen bundled up strangers who have barely made it inside with her before the doors close.  There’s literally no room to move enough to check the phone when she feels it vibrate. 

Indestructible. Thanks for asking. 

She reads the reply as she climbs the stairs once the train belches her out at her station. She imagines a different world where Coonan had lived and they’d broken him like they broke Johnny Vong. She imagines Castle making much of his battle scars. She emerges into the cold again and squints down at the message awaiting her reply.

Do you remember the pen? She leans against the outside of a bus shelter with her left glove stripped off this time. Coonan slipped on it. 

The letters of the name are a shock as painful as sudden, bright sun—as sudden, bitter wind. She waits for his reply, right there in the cold. It’s a stupid thing to punish herself over. But she waits. 

Did he? Must have been too busy being the idiot who got grabbed to notice. 

Not an idiot, she fires back. 

He replies with an orphan ellipsis. She laughs loud enough to turn the heads of seasoned bus riders who usually can’t be bothered to look up for anything less than an alien invasion. 

An idiot, definitely, just not in this instance. 

Better. Thanks for noticing. Signed—An idiot.   A/N: Brain Poneh really wanted to know what happened to that pen. There’s your glimpse into Brain Poneh’s darkest, most boring corners for today.