#roger dooley

[hitchell-mope]

And it’s goodnight from Dooley.

[hitchell-mope]

Prick.

[hitchell-mope]

I hate those two so fucking much.

[hitchell-mope]

Dooley. Danny boy. Asswipe. Penny Mosby.

[commandersnips41]

Made this my laptop wallpaper so when I’m watching a lecture on my monitor and think about doing something random on my laptop, I see this and am discouraged by their disappointed faces (especially Daniel and Peggy)

[my-ny]

Its so cute when Coulson mentions Dooley it makes me so happy 😭😭

[tenderjock]

sweetened breath & her tongue so mean

stop right there, carter. / what's going on, jack? OR: a short missing scene before the automat fight and peggy's arrest.

“I got something for you,” Sousa says, once they’re in the conference room. Thompson’s there too, looking like he’s as confused by this as Roger is right now.

Roger’s still shaking off the feeling he was getting, heavy-eyed and hot-collared. It gets sweltering in the spring in New York, especially when you’re a coupla stories up in a brick building. “Yeah?” he manages. “Spit it out, Sousa.”

But Sousa hesitates. Thompson cuts in. “What is it, Sousa?” he asks. “You got a lead?”

“The blonde in the nightclub,” he says, after a moment. “I think I know who it is.”

Sousa places down a picture, the blonde from behind from the waist up, her arms bared and head dipped forward a bit. Her hair’s colored in black with a graphite pencil. Two scars, subtle but noticeable, pockmark one shoulder. They’re circled in red pen.

Roger leans in to look closer. He could swear those were bullet wound scars.

Sousa places, next to the picture, a diagram of a man’s anatomy with identical marks penned in in blue. The diagram looks familiar; Roger recognizes it as the U.S. military’s official formwork. At the top of the page in neat script is the name Margaret Carter.

Thompson inhales, quick. He doesn’t say anything.

“I brought Carter’s picture to McFee,” Sousa says, rather wretchedly. “He positively identified her. So did the security guard at the nightclub. We also have a witness that saw a well-dressed man and a woman outside the boat where we found Stark’s gadgets – a woman that matches Carter’s description, roughly. She has the same build as the blonde.”

“You’re telling me,” Rogers says, slowly, “That one of my agents did this? A lady agent?”

Thompson brings a hand up to his mouth in a swift, nervous motion. “She could do it,” he says, rubbing his jaw. “I saw her in Russia and – she could do it. If Stark talked her into it, I think she would do it.”

Roger stares at him. Thompson’s staring at the medical file, face drained of color.

“She’s been coming in late to work,” Sousa continues. “Leaving early, or ducking out halfway through the day. Acting suspicious. The other day she was limping pretty badly. I think it was only a day or so after we found Leet Brannis’s body. The man our witness saw on the boat could be Stark, or his butler, or someone else. One of their war buddies.”

“She knew his butler,” Roger says, the pieces clicking in his head. He pictures Carter, drawn and pale, watching through the glass, asking about Jarvis and what they knew about him. He looks back at Thompson. “That’s why she fucked your interrogation.”

Thompson rubs his eyes. “Shit,” he says.

“Yeah,” Sousa agrees. “She – I – yeah.”

Roger pretends he isn’t watching two young men have minor one-sided romantic crises and thinks like a federal agent. “Where is she now?” he asks. He had sent her out not too long ago. He’s kicking himself over that, now.

Sousa and Thompson look at each other. “We’ll track her,” Thompson says. “We should bring in an outside team to detain her.”

“A whole team?” Roger asks, skeptical. Thompson shakes his head.

“The guys from D.C. are up here, aren’t they? I don’t think she knows them. She won’t expect it.”

“You don’t think that’s overkill, Jack?” Sousa asks. His brow is furrowed and he’s leaning pretty heavily on his crutch, knuckles white.

“No,” Thompson says, grim. “I really don’t.”

[cantsayidont]

As has often been noted, the most ambitious, highly praised work in any period may well look to later generations merely pretentious, while craftsmanlike productions turned out with unassuming expertise may prove the genuine works of art—especially once that expertise is lost.

- Roger Dooley, From Scarface to Scarlett: American Films in the Thirties

I'm reminded of this whenever I see yet another new high-concept Quality Teevee or nerd media streaming show that is less competently written, in terms of basic A-to-B-to-C storytelling craft, than any given episode of a generic TV procedural of 15 to 20 years ago.