#Castle: Dial M for Mayor

[captainsavre]

We are tasked by the city of New York to protect its people. Sometimes that task comes with a cost. I know what they call me, Detective. ‘Iron Gates’. I hear the whispers. ‘She’s from IA, she must hate cops.’ Well, the truth is, I love cops. My daddy was a cop. My uncles were cops. But the sergeant who assaulted my patrol partner under the cover of authority? Who holds him accountable? We do.

[renegadesstuff]

“What am I supposed to do, Rick?” 🥺

S4E12, “Dial M for Mayor” aired 12 years ago (January 16, 2012) ❤️‍🩹

[pollylynn]

Title: On the Horn WC: 1100 Episode: Dial M for Mayor (4 x 12)

The idea of him in therapy makes her laugh. It’s actually a little bit alarming. She’s days away from her next appointment with Burke, and yet she’s genuinely alarmed that she might have to bail mid-session, because she suddenly cannot get the laugh-inducing—if not downright laughable—idea of Richard Castle in therapy out of her mind.

She imagines Burke trying to pin him down to anything—to a single, linear train of thought and failing miserably. She envisions the good, eternally patient doctor breaking down, rending his yellow pad in two, storming out in fury, because the expanding universe of Richard Castle’s psyche simply cannot be shrunk.

It’s not the kindest fantasy she’s entertained. It’s not the healthiest, but good God, being more is hard, often humiliating work, and the negative associations she’s built up around that man, that office, those fifty minutes a week are intense. So who couldn’t use a therapy-related laugh?

So she follows that dangerous, zig-zagging train of thought for a while. She chuckles to herself, then at herself as she contemplates him seeking out therapy at $4.99 a minute. It’s a far more likely scenario, she thinks, than him jogging one knee, watching the clock, giving a master class in evasion, deflection, denial in some wildly comfortable chair in a high-up midtown office. It seems downright likely that he hasn’t just “heard” about lost souls tithing at the temple of the Goddess of Good Listening.

The idea pricks at her. It’s the source of a sudden slow leak in the balloon of her laughter. She doesn’t love the idea of some woman, bored out of her mind and just looking to cover her bills, being the one who hears about the toll Martha takes on the loft’s infrastructure, or what stage of grief Alexis is in, two months and two weeks out from her breakup with Ashley. She certainly doesn’t love the idea of his daily download session all wrapped up in the kind of sexy talk that has left the tips of Ryan’s ears permanently red ever since he drew the short straw and wound up going through the Dial-a-Goddess call logs.

That falls firmly under laughable. It’s decidedly not laugh-inducing for her to be . . . what? . . . jealous? of a hypothetical woman on an imaginary phone sex line that he might have vented to once upon a time? It’s ridiculous and true—or at least truth adjacent.

It’s curious. She’s laughed herself out at the idea of Richard Castle in therapy—in one kind of therapy or another—and it’s left her quiet inside. It’s left her with a wholly unexpected moment of clarity, even with the bottle-fly buzz of jealousy, possessiveness, insecurity trying to draw her attention off.

She wonders now—seriously wonders—if he’s ever been in therapy. She thinks about the course of his, yes, very privileged life, and it’s like constellations winking into existence on a planetarium version of the night sky. She sees all the well-known points of inflection laid out. There’s Kyra leaving, there’s Meredith. There’s Alexis and single fatherhood, informal at first, and then quite formal. There’s Martha careening in and out of his life, his home, over the years.

And then there’s . . . lately.

She’s a few days out from her next appointment with Burke. It’s the sweet spot of the week in some ways. Everything has settled, more or less, from her last session. The jagged tears have trailed off into a few pooling at the corners of her eyes when she lies staring up at the ceiling for a little while each night. The razor-wire conviction that she will never—never—go back and subject herself to that again has dulled, its coils around her center have loosened. She is able, when she can breath through everything, to see progress.

Part of that progress, though, has been taking a giant step out of herself to think about time—to think about lately and not so lately and the fact that a number of the most traumatic things that have happened have not happened to her alone.

There’s Roy—their beloved Captain. That’s a loss they’ve all suffered. It’s a damnably complicated story that they cannot, of necessity, untangle together.

There’s the shooting. Her shooting, as her mind tends to snarl, and it’s true enough. She has the twinging, aching scars to claim it for herself. But that happened to all of them, too. That is happening to all of them, because who knows when they’ll come back for? Who knows which of the people she loves they might cut down to send her a message?

There’s this case. Oh, there’s so much in between. There’s the summer and silence and this land mine of a secret there between them, because there’s progress and there’s progress, and she is nowhere near ready to process his words to the dying.

But right now, most of all, there’s this case and the fact that she has blown apart the career of an innocent man. She’s been the instrument of his undoing, and in the course of it, she has hurt him—Castle. She has inflicted yet another wound and cannot see what she could or should have done differently at any point.

There’s a lot. For all of them. For both of them. For him, and she really wonders if he’s ever been in therapy.

She’s not content with that. Even though it’s late and things are raw between them. She’s not content to wonder alone as she stares up at the ceiling with one or two tears pooling at the corners of her eyes.

She reaches for her phone. She dials before she can think too hard about it. She dials before she can second guess. But when he answers—Beckett. Everything okay?—her mind is a blank. She has no script or point of entry into the conversation. She can’t just ask him, out of the blue, if he’s ever been in therapy, though that’s what’s on her mind. It’s exactly what’s on the tip of her tongue, but she cannot ask that. So she’s silent. She’s so silent for so long that she thinks she might have to bail, mid-session. She might have to claim butt dial or bed dial or whatever dial.

He’s the one that salvages things. With his mind like an unending ping-pong match, he leaps into the stream of her consciousness.

Why, Detective, he says dropping into his sultriest vocal register, did you decide to Dial a Goddess?

A/N: A golden retriever puppy in therapy would destroy all morphousness. So I've checked that off the to-do list, then.

images via homeofthenutty

[data2364]

Penny Johnson Jerald  as  Captain Victoria Gates   2012  in  Castle   “Dial M for Mayor”

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt2117068/

[smallscreensmackdowb]

http://smallscreensmackdown.com/this-episode-in-castle-history-dial-m-for-mayor-jan-16/

[buckleyswift41319]

I put the next disc of my Castle S4 DVDs in because I have nothing to get done today until my mom gets home, so ai might as well rewatxh more. This is a string of episode have not watched in a whiiiile (4x11 to 4x15).

[castleseries47]

Castle: Upcoming on TNT

Castle: Upcoming on TNT

(ABC/ERIC MCCANDLESS) Here’s a look at what’s coming up on the TNT schedule over the next week, all times are Eastern. October 30: 2:02 am – “Heartbreak Hotel” 3:02 am – “Kill Shot” 4:00 am – “Cuffed October 31: 12:02 am – “Till Death Do Us Part” 1:02 am – “Dial M for Mayor” 2:02 am – “An Embarrassment of Bitches” November 6: 2:02 am – “The Blue Butterfly” 3:02 am – “Pandora” 4:02 am – “Linchpin”…

[feliciasink]

The Sunday Post is a weekly meme originally from Caffeinated Book Reviewer. It’s a chance to share News. A post to recap the past week, showcase books and things I have received and share news about what is coming up for the week on my blog.

So these past two weeks have been eventful, but slow… I started my new job working in an ice cream salon =], but being outside with this weather is not good for your health. I caught a cold and it’s not pretty… I sound like a seal, coughing my lungs out and there’s way too much snot in my head hahaha… Get a fever here and there, but keep going when needed and resting when I can. It’s been hard on my reading as well. Reading with a severe head ache does not make a great combination. I did finish my book yesterday and started a new one. Luckily, last Thursday, I felt good enough to do some more work on the blogs again. I gave it a new design and updated my pages. All the feeling sick is the main reason my Sunday Post is today and not on Sunday and is of two weeks combined.

Also working in an ice cream salon is not the best thing if your cold makes you half deaf in one ear xD

Next week will be with a sad day. Last Thursday the father of my mom’s partner died. So this Thursday I will attend the cremation.

This weeks posts:

Most Anticipated Releases February & March 2017.

Most Anticipated Releases April 2017.

#76 Apprentice.

New Design.

Coming next week:

March Wrap-Up + April TBR.

#77 Candidate.

#78 Last Stand.

I finished reading Everything, Everything by Nicola Yoon. It’s been a blast of a read, will review it soon. It was outside of my normal reading genre, but I really liked it!! I read Rebel of the Sands by Alwyn Hamilton and finished it yesterday. I immediately started reading Traitor to the Throne =] When I finish Traitor to the Throne I will start reading my Read & Review book from Rachel E. Carter’s Book Group. It’s The Masterpiecers by Olivia Wildenstein.

Goodreads Reading Challenge Update: 26/100

The Backlist Reading Challenge Update: 11/50

Monday Mar 20, Castle S4E1: Rise

Monday Mar 20, Castle S4E2: Heroes and Villains

Monday Mar 20, Castle S4E3: Head Case

Monday Mar 20, Castle S4E4: Kick the Ballistics

Tuesday Mar 21, Castle S4E5: Eye of the Beholder

Tuesday Mar 21, Castle S4E6: Demons

Tuesday Mar 21, Castle S4E7: Cops & Robbers

Tuesday Mar 21, Castle S4E8: Heartbeak Hotel

Tuesday Mar 21, Castle S4E9: Kill Shot

Tuesday Mar 21, Castle S4E10: Cuffed

Tuesday Mar 21, Castle S4E11: Till Death Do Us Part

Tuesday Mar 21, Castle S4E12: Dial M for Mayor

Wednesday Mar 22, Brooklyn Nine-Nine S2E14: Defense Rests

Wednesday Mar 22, Castle S4E13: An Embarressment of Bitches

Wednesday Mar 22, Castle S4E14: The Blue Butterfly

Thursday Mar 23, Castle S4E15: Pandora (1)

Thursday Mar 23, Castle S4E16: Linchpin (2)

Thursday Mar 23, Castle S4E17: Once Upon a Crime

Thursday  Mar 23, Castle S4E18: A Dance With Death

Friday Mar 24, Castle S4E19: 47 Seconds

Friday Mar 24, Castle S4E20: The Limey

Sunday Mar 26, Castle S4E21: Headhunters

Sunday Mar 26, Castle S4E22: Undead Again

Monday Mar 27, Brooklyn Nine-Nine S2E15:  Windbreaker City

Monday Mar 27, Castle S4E23: Always

Monday Mar 27, Castle S5E1: After the Storm

Monday Mar 27, Castle S5E2: Cloudy With a Chance of Murder

Monday Mar 27, Castle S5E3: Secret’s Safe With Me

Tuesday Mar 28, Castle S5E4: Murder, He Wrote

Tuesday Mar 28, Castle S5E5: Probable Cause

Tuesday Mar 28, Castle S5E6: The Final Frontier

Tuesday Mar 28, Castle S5E7: Swan Song

Tuesday Mar 28, Castle S5E8: After Hours

Wednesday Mar 29, Castle S5E9: Sectet Santa

Wednesday Mar 29, Castle S5E10: Significant Others

Wednesday Mar 29, Underworld

Wednesday Mar 29, Underworld: Evolution

Thursday Mar 30, Castle S5E11: Under the Influence

Thursday Mar 30, Castle S5E12: Death Gone Crazy

Friday Mar 31, Castle S5E13: Recoil

Friday Mar 31, Castle S5E14: Reality Star Struck

Saturday Apr 1, Castle S5E15: Target (1)

Sunday Apr 2, Castle S5E16: Hunt (2)

Sunday Apr 2, Castle S5E17: Scared to Death

Sunday Apr 2, Castle S5E18: The Wild Rover

  With the bf:

Saturday Mar 25, Last Man Standing S1E19: Ding Dong Ditch

Saturday Mar 25, Last Man Standing S1E20: Animal Wrongs

Saturday Mar 25, Last Man Standing S1E21: Wherefore Art Thou, Mike Baxter

Saturday Mar 25, Last Man Standing S1E22: This Bud’s For You

Saturday Mar 25, Last Man Standing S1E23: The Spotlight

Monday Mar 27, Last Man Standing S1E24: Found Money

Monday Mar 27, Last Man Standing S2E1: Voting

Saturday Apr 1, Last Man Standing S2SE2: Dodgeball Club

Saturday Apr 1, Last Man Standing S2E3: High Expectations

Saturday Apr 1, Last Man Standing S2E4: Ed’s Twice Ex-Wife

Sunday Apr 1, Last Man Standing S2E5: Mother Fracker

In case you’ve missed these:

New Design.

#76 Apprentice.

Most Anticipated Releases April 2017.

Most Anticipated Releases February & March 2017.

Sunday Post #33. March 19

Sunday Post #34 & #35. March 26 & April 2 The Sunday Post is a weekly meme originally from Caffeinated Book Reviewer. It’s a chance to share News.

[pollylynn]

Title: Folly WC:  1000

“You think I don’t know what’s at stake here?” — Kate Beckett, Dial M for Mayor (4 x 12)

He wonders if she’s awake. She probably isn’t, he tells himself. It’s been an eternal few days and she must be exhausted. She’d be a fool If she were still up this late, and that would make two of them. 

He is not only awake, he is wandering the streets in a coat that’s not warm enough. He has clandestine-meeting-in-a-parking-garage hangover, and he’s  is trying to walk it off. He has overdue-but-deep-misgivings-about-keeping-secrets-from-her anxiety he could stand to walk off, too. Unfortunately, Manhattan doesn’t have enough miles of concrete to serve that purpose.

Manhattan does have this city block, though. It has her city block, and like a fool, he’s standing on the corner right across from her building. 

The wind howls around him. It weighs in on the things he’s contemplating—a text, a phone call, a ring of the buzzer. It uses a scale from one to ten—one being big mistake, ten being bad idea—but he’s not in the mood to take advice from nature. He’s not in the mood to take advice. He’s in the mood to wonder if she’s awake. 

She might be. There’s a light burning in the window he thinks is hers. He thinks of Jim Beckett and the story of the night light that wasn’t. It’s a data point that might support the she’s-awake-too hypothesis—the she’s-a-fool-too-and-maybe-they-should-be-fools-together hypothesis. Or it might be someone else’s window and he might find himself escorted into the back of the police cruiser the stranger with the light on summons to deal with the fool standing on the corner staring up at their window. 

The possibility has him striking rapidly out for home, then it has him stopping dead. It has him reversing course and standing his ground, eyes defiantly lifted to the light that may or may not be hers burning in the window. If he gets hauled in for loitering or vagrancy or being generally creepy when it’s way too late, then he has an excuse to call her—to wake her up or not. 

He wonders in which of the fantasy realms she would actually bail him out in this scenario, then he wonders at his own wondering, because she obviously would bail him out. She’d break him out, as she’s said—unprompted—before. Both things, with the wind howling around him, feel equally true—she’d break him out; she’d leave him to rot. It’s exactly that ambiguity that has him up for good, walking the streets, arguably stalking her. 

He doesn’t like not being on her side. He doesn’t like when the screwball tension between them becomes actual tension. But that’s exactly what had happened over the last few days, and he’d let it stand tonight. He’d lurked beyond the bullpen fencing while Gates, of all people, had spoken to her gently and wisely her about how to live with the fact that she was walking away from a huge case with nothing but a patsy. He’d left without so much as their usual exchange of pleasantries. 

He’s ashamed of his own pettiness, and of the corners he now sees he’d have had her cut to arrive at his way of seeing the situation. He’s ashamed of behaving badly, but that’s not the main reason he’s been camped out  on this corner for so long. 

He dislikes the temporary disruption that they’re mostly through with. He doesn’t like—profoundly does not like—lying to her. He’s had his rationalizations for it in the all-too-recent past. He still buys into some of therm. They creep up the back of his neck right there on that street corner and whisper right in his ear that it’s a necessary lie, a temporary lie, a lie that shadowy forces swirling around her mother’s murder like cruel, judgmental January wind have given him no choice but to keep on telling. 

But the truth is it doesn’t matter whether he buys into his own reasons anymore. The lie has been told. He re-tells it every day he keeps this from her. It feels true that it’s saving her life. It feels true that it’s selfish, that it will absolutely blow up in his face, sooner rather than later. That thought, rounding the corner into certainty is interrupted by the buzz of his phone where it sits within the confines of her jacket. 

It’s a text bubble, bright green. He looks up and sees a shape—a person—barely discernible and back lit. 

Castle. Is it possible you are standing on the corner outside my building? 

He is frozen—fixed in place—for a long moment. He is panicked and paralyzed by everything swirling around him, them, the two of them. At the same time, though, there is something reassuring and right with the world about the fact that he’s up and she’s up. 

Me? Building?  He finally replies, He tilts his head back to peer at her window. He gives a tiny wave there’s almost no chance of her seeing. What kind of fool is up at this hour?

He thinks he sees a palm press against the glass. It’s probably imaginary, but he thinks of her wanting to flick his ear, punch his arm hard enough to bruise and settling for a palm pressed firmly against glass that must be freezing. 

Yeah, what kind of fool? One message flares in the darkness, then another. Night, Castle. 

Until tomorrow, Detective, he replies, dutifully and immediately. 

It’s balance restored for now. It’s the two of them lining up alongside one another. It’s no proof against what seems to be bearing down on him—on them—with frightening speed. But it’s balance restored and a fool’s errand justified. 

He stands long enough to watch the light burning in her window flick off. He thinks of her staring down the darkness. He turns and goes. 

A/N: Rambling. So ramble. Not a thing. 

images via homeofthenutty

[pollylynn]

Title: Effacement WC: 800

Metaphors are his territory, not hers. That’s what she thinks when the slight weight of the eraser transfer’s from Gates’ hand to her own—that he should be here to raise an eyebrow, to comment on the act of expunging the story of Laura Cambridge’s murder in all its futility, all its brutality.

But he’s not here, and she can’t really blame him. They’d parted as friends, as knocked about, raw-around-the-edges partners, but he’s not here, and with the twenty-four hour news cycle still spinning the scandal with Robert Weldon’s innocence as an afterthought, she can’t really blame him. She’ll just have to unpack her metaphors on her own.

A vicious energy propels her arm as she swipes at the board’s upper right side. Mystery Man in sarcastic quote marks. She expunges all that—so much nothingness—with a few strokes. She feels a perverse urge to find a picture of Jordan Norris to clip up there, if only for the satisfaction of filling out the too-empty Suspect end of the board, if only to have someone guilty of something up there, however briefly.

The energy deserts her as the last of the mystery man–related ink disappears. She turns instinctively to the picture of Edgar Navarro next, then stops. It’s an early a mug shot—maybe his only mugshot—and she’s not even sure what he was in for. He looks simultaneously older and younger in it than he did with prison tats climbing his neck as he shifted nervously in his seat under the harsh interrogation lights.

Irony is his territory, too. The thought calls up a bitter chuckle as she swipes out the words Of Interest—she swipes out the connections between Edgar and Laura—and tugs the mugshot free of the board. She leans over to set it in the evidence box on top of Laura’s ID photo and it hits her—forcibly hits her—that the woman was a writer to her very core.

She looks from Laura’s slightly stilted government-issued-ID smile to Edgar’s shell-shocked face and knows, suddenly and completely, how it is that Laura would have learned that Edgar had done time, that he’d learned a trade and made good on the outside, that he was a walking story of redemption, and he could help.

She knows because she’s seen him put the pieces together in just that way a hundred times. She’s watched him find the story in every character they cross paths with on case after case.

She feels his absence sharply, then. More sharply. She sets the eraser down. She sets down Edgar Navarro’s mug shot and leans against the edge of her desk.

The piecemeal board feels more honest now. It has Weldon and Laura with the life choked out of her. It has scant evidence—Laura’s purse with its strange absences, a coat that has nothing to do with anything  except the damage she can’t undo.

She thinks, with her head hanging and dry erase ink staining her fingertips, that she ought to be up there, too. She thinks maybe it’d be best if she retraced every letter down at the Suspect end and tacked herself up there. She’s at least as much of a pawn as Jordan Norris. He’d just thought it was about the money, she’d just thought it was about the murder, and here they are—unwitting contributors to the very conspiracy Laura had died trying to avert.

She shakes herself out of the moment. She takes up the eraser again and rubs out the word Victim with small, deliberate movements. She sets it aside, but only so she can pull down the other photos, Laura’s purse, her autopsy shots. The stock image of the cashmere coat tears a little when she yanks it free of its clip, and she smears everything she’d written about the fibers with a sloppy swipe.

Her hand falters over Weldon’s head shot, but down he comes. Down he goes, blank side up and into the box. She obliterates the word Mayor—obliterates his name—as carefully as she’d erased the red-lettered Victim above Laura’s.

She’s left with very little. There’s Laura’s name and who she was in the last days, the last months of her life. She’s left with a woman who had immersed herself completely in work she believed deeply in. A woman who’d been compassionate and brave enough to surface in ways big and small when it was right and necessary—to not let her sister’s birthday pass without calling, to dismantle a plot against an innocent man, a good man, if she could.

She’s left with a metaphor, with irony, with things that are very much his territory. But he’s not here. She can’t really blame him.

A/N: Sorry, KB. You get the burden of my shitty day. Hmmm.

images via homeofthenutty

[pollylynn]

“Even good men make mistakes.”

Kate Beckett, Dial M for Mayor (4 x 12)

Title: Eddy

Rating: T

WC: 800

He’s always been a combination of a restless soul and a homebody. There was a time when he’d have denied the latter part, or at least attributed it to Alexis—to the fact that someone in her life had to be stable, and Lord knows that lot fell definitely to him.

The truth is, though, he likes the quiet. He likes the well-ordered space, and though he'd die on the rack before admitting it, he even likes the not-so-well-ordered elements that his mother brings to the confines of the loft. He likes to wander—to travel, writ large, but to roam the city itself, too—and he finds it all the sweeter for the fact that he has home to come to.

But the peace of his little kingdom is disrupted tonight. His mother’s literal strum und drang has subsided for the moment, and his daughter isn’t actively manufacturing crises. Still, he’s ill at ease in the kitchen, in the living room, in the office. Most especially in the office.

He pulls up the storyboard—the murderboard for her mother, for Montgomery now, too, as well as the other victims. He works on another scotch and thinks with no small amount of self-flagellation that he ought to add Bob Weldon’s political ambitions to the list of victims. He swirls the liquor in the glass and thinks his thoughts and nerves ought to be grateful for the chaotic company.

He hates this. He doesn’t trust the mysterious Mr. Smith as far as he can throw him, and given how close he hasn’t gotten to the shadowy figure, that’s a distance he can’t even estimate. He hates keeping this secret—this huge, volatile secret—from her, and he hates even more that he doesn’t know if the decision—the ongoing decision he has to keep making—is sensible or selfish. He hates that the two possibilities have crossed in the ether. He’s resigned to the fact that it was almost certainly selfish at exactly the moment he was most convinced it was sensible. And now that he’s stared that particularly truth down, it’s suddenly, demonstrably sensible if the architect of all this is willing to take out the Mayor to get to her.

He blacks out the screen with a fierce jab of his finger and hurls the remote aside to land wherever it may. He sets the rocks glass down hard enough on the desk that he suspects one or both won’t make it through the night. He casts about for the coat he knows he threw down somewhere after he made his second jaunt to the parking garage. Peace is eluding him here, so he guesses he’ll have to go looking for it. His phone rings before he can. Her image appears, startling for all the wrong reasons tonight.

He answers it. He’s trying too hard right out of the gate. “Ah, Beckett. You’ve decided to dial a goddess?”

“Castle.” She says his name and falters. She ignores the joke or maybe doesn’t hear it at all. “You’re still up.”

“Yeah.” He sinks into a chair, restless even before he comes to rest. “Still up.” He pauses. He leaves a space for her to jump into, but it gapes empty between them. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she replies quickly. Too quickly, if the none-too-steady breath he can hear is anything to go by. “I hope so.” She leaves space for him, but he doesn’t jump either. “You saw him? The Mayor?”

“We had a drink here.” He stands again as he says it. He wanders out of his office and hovers over the kitchen sink where the empty glass sits. “He’s . . . upbeat, all things considered,” he offers, not really sure what she wants out of his answer. Not really sure what she’s asking. “He’ll be okay.”

“Good,” she says, though she doesn’t sound like she means it. Not wholeheartedly, anyway, so he must have missed the mark. “I’m sorry how things turned out,” she blurts, then steamrolls over her own words as though she’s afraid they sound like kind of what they sound like—a non-apology apology. “We didn’t even get the guy. Maybe if I’d waited . . .”

“If you’d waited, maybe we wouldn’t have even gotten Jordan Norris.” He does jump in this time. It’s as much a guilty lifeline for him as it is for her. He paces from the kitchen back toward the office, then changes course halfway there. He stands, stranded, in the middle of the living room. “We make . . .” he falters. “Kate, we make the best choices we can with the information we have. It’s all we can do.”

“All we can do,” she echoes, though he’s not sure she believes him. He’s not sure he believes him, either.

Images via homeofthenutty

[pollylynn]

RC: “So we can narrow our suspects down to rich men with impeccable taste.”

KB: “Are you saying you’re a suspect?“

RC: “Alexis is my alibi.”

KB: [Oooh. A denial. Guess I’ll have to break the suspect.]

RC: [I deny everything. My name is not even Richard Castle.]

images via homeofthenutty

[pollylynn]

RC: “I think I can be a valuable asset.”

KB: “And what about if I have to force his hand? Can you be an asset then?”

RC: [**Remains silent with difficulty**]

KB: [Castle. If you make an ass joke, so help me . . .]

RC: [I thought it might break the tension.]

KB: [I’m going to break the tension . . .]

RC: [ . . . over my ass? Because that’s a win–win.]

images via homeofthenutty

[data2364]

#PennyJohnsonJerald  as Captain Victoria Gates 2012  in #Castle  "Dial M for Mayor"

https://twitter.com/Data2364/status/1053305650388893696