This is kind of rambly, but I tried to represent Castle's state of mind after In the Belly of The Beast and this is what came out. I love DarksideCastle (the one who tortured the guy in Target) and think he should come out more often. IMHO, Castle has a lot more of his Daddy in him than he lets on. Tell me what you think!
Oh, and I own nothing
There was a time, not so very long ago in the grand scheme of things, when Richard Castle would have jumped at the chance to uncover an honest to goodness Conspiracy. From aliens to Spy craft, the concept fascinated him. It is the ultimate mystery; shady, underhanded, intentional, and Rick has never been able to resist a mystery.
At least, not until now.
Kate shivers next to him, asleep, thank god. He can hear the slight wheeze of her water-damaged lungs in every breath, and he has to work hard to tamp down the anger that flares within.
How could this happen?
For once, it isn't about the story. He couldn't care less about the motivations of those involved, and yet his mind searches for answers regardless. Rick sighs. He will find no rest tonight.
He casts his memory back to the events of the past 30-odd hours. How did such a clusterfuck of a mission ever get approved? Was it sheer idiocy? Did He set this up, as a sort of sick mind game that that arrogant son of a bitch plays with those who dare challenge him? Once upon a time, Castle would have scoured the evidence, sought to understand the evil and his motivations, but that was before William Bracken tried to murder his Kate. Now, Rick doesn't care about the why anymore.
He just wants the man dead.
Despite what Jerry Tyson believes, Rick has never honestly contemplated murder. Yes, death is his trade; the who's and hows and the whodunnits, but that was never real. His books, as accurate as they are, are still simply an elaborate game of make-believe. He's never had a problem with self defense either, as evidenced by what went on in Paris and his most recent encounter with the illustrious Mr. Tyson, but actual pre-meditated murder has never entered his consciousness.
Until tonight, that is.
Kate whimpers, whines, and wheezes beside him; gasping in remembered terror. Rick gathers her into his arms, whispering hushed words of endearment and attempts to convey a calmness he does not feel, a rightness of the world that he no longer believes in. Her exhaustion works against her, and she believes his lies, or at the very least pretends to, for both their sakes. His hands ache with the need to ball them into fists, the shockingly strong desire to just punch something, anything, to just make this go away.
At last, she settles, he's not even sure she ever truly woke.
He hopes she didn't.
After a few moments, he rises. With one last glance at his slumbering love, he passes into his office.
He shouldn't do this, he promised her that he wouldn't, but that was before. This past year has been nothing short of miraculous, and baring a few hiccups (his near death by poison springs to mind), their engagement has been a whirlwind of excitement and fun. Lies, all of it. They have been fooling themselves.
He opens the hidden compartment in his desk, the one he had installed years before when it was simply a cool idea and not a necessity, and pulls forth a flash drive that he had foolishly hoped never to use again. He plugs it in, and his board lights up with the face of their enemy. He'd always meant to delete it, but each time something like this happens, he pulls it out and stares at that smug grin.
It was supposed to be over.
He wonders if Kate knows what he did last year. How Rick figured out the assassination plot before her, and how he had made a choice to do nothing. The way she looks at him sometimes makes him think that she might.
It should worry him, but it doesn't. His only regret is that it didn't work, because of her. Because of her heart, her spirit, her need for justice that burns so much hotter than his own. It takes his breath away, truly, how strong she is, how good she is.
Too good for the likes of him.
Methodically, he adds the new information, drawing connections and webs between players both old and new; a tapestry woven of evil and ambition, stained with the blood and death of innocents.
He grins at his own twisted metaphor. It is a bit dramatic, even for him.
His lightning mind races from point to point, trying its hardest to find the one weak link, the thread that will cause the entire thing to unravel. It must be there, somewhere...
He has to pause a few times during the night, to comfort Kate and soothe her back into her shattered slumber. They make love brokenly, sobbing inside. A sad attempt to fuck away the pain.
He pushes the guilt away, for her sake or perhaps for his own.
When the dawn comes he hides the evidence away once more, like a teenager with a stash of pornography. He should tell her, but he can't. He's selfish. He doesn't want her to see that side of him again, doesn't want her to know.
He will do whatever it takes to keep her safe, and damn the consequences.
Hell, she might even forgive him, eventually.
Perhaps.
He can't stop now anyway.