Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

A/N Though this story is set in 2010, the song for this chapter, "Love Can Go to Hell," is from 2015. I'm just going to claim artistic license here.

It's his dream house, but he hasn't been doing much dreaming in it lately. The weather had turned gorgeous overnight, so he should have had a fantastic brunch on the terrace, taken a walk on the beach. He should be outside now, enjoying the perfect sunset, reading or writing or going for a swim. Instead, he, Richard Castle, best-selling author extraordinaire, is a slug. He's all alone, walled up in his Hamptons castle. It really is a castle, he thinks, looking morosely around the kitchen. The only thing missing is a moat, and the pool isn't a bad substitute. He feels cut off from everyone. Because that's the other thing that's missing: people.

He's eating dinner—dinner being a large package of Oreos and a beer—standing by the sink. No point in setting a table for one. His daughter is at Princeton, in a summer program for high school students. His mother's in a musical in Connecticut. Gina, who has been here with him on and off since Memorial Day, is very much off at the moment. She's been spending Mondays through Fridays working in the city, but weekends out here. Except this one, where she had some stupid business thing about which she was somewhat vague, and had stayed in town. He's been on his own for more than a week and he's not happy about it.

He's working hard at this thing with Gina, he really is, but he's not convinced that she's doing the same. She doesn't seem as invested as he, or as invested as he's attempting to be, but maybe it's just her natural coolness. He used to put stock in the absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder adage, but he's less sure of it now. Gina's been away for nine days, so his thoughts of her should be warmer, not more distant. The absence that's making his heart clench is Beckett's. He missing not just Beckett, but life at the Twelfth. The camaraderie and the teasing and the bad food and the horrible chair that pokes him in the butt and the unreliable elevator and the difficult cases that make his brain hum.

He wants that back, and he'll have it, after Labor Day. Except he won't. Things won't be the same. He has to acknowledge that what he'd been longing for all this time isn't going to happen. Beckett chose Demming, not him. That puts an end to the bantering, which had been escalating nicely before that asshole from robbery had come along. It puts an end to his cherished notion that bantering would inevitably lead to—. He can't bear to finish the thought. But the fact is, without the bantering, a lot of the fun will go out of their work, and all of the hope. At least, in his mind. The hope and the promise. That fantastic promise that he felt of things to come with him and Beckett. Now there's nothing to come. As he sweeps a few cookie crumbs off the counter, he suddenly remembers something that his mother had said to him a couple of months ago. "In life, you just have to accept the fact that not everything is going to go your way." She'd been talking about her career, but he needs to apply those words to himself. He's a lucky man, and he should rejoice in that, but he's not feeling at all joyful at the moment.

After all those Oreos, he's craving something savory. Fritos strike him as a good idea, and another beer, so he takes four steps left to the fridge, and one step right to the snack cabinet, and he's set. He's several chips into the bag when his phone rings with the opening bars of "Mama Said." Huh, quite the coincidence. He usually loves coincidences, but maybe not this time. Still.

"Hello, Mother, I was just thinking about you."

"You were? Pleasant thoughts I hope, dear."

"Just that on occasion you do give excellent advice."

"I won't ask what it was, I'll just treasure your acknowledgement."

"To what do I owe the honor of your call, at ten o'clock on a summer night? It's your evening off. Shouldn't you be bar hopping in East Haddam? Do they even have bars there?"

"Of course they do. But I decided to cast a wider net tonight. I love the bucolic life, but I do miss the energy of the city. And since it cooled off so nicely, I came down after the matinee and I'm spending a couple of nights at the loft. Take the train back Tuesday morning. Anyway, being back here of course made me think of you, and we've not spoken in a bit so I wanted to catch up."

"Not much to catch up on."

"Really? I'd have thought that Gina was busy re-feathering your nest. She does love to shop."

"Nope, no feathering going on."

"Well, did you two have a nice weekend? Do something fun?"

Nice? Fun? No. "She wasn't here."

"She wasn't? Why on earth not? It's the ideal time to be in the Hamptons." She emits a slight but dramatic gasp. "Don't tell me you've broken up?"

"No, she just had business stuff to do this weekend so she didn't come out." He helps himself to another handful of Fritos. He's waiting for his mother to say something, but she's silent. He has a swig of beer and four more chips. "Mother?"

"Look, darling, I don't like to interfere, but—"

"Are you serious? You have a trophy in interfering. A citation from the mayor. I distinctly recall him establishing Martha Rodgers Interfering Day."

"Fine, let's just say I'm exercising my maternal prerogative. It's just—I'll just go ahead. I was meeting an old pal for a drink at seven in the bar at that swanky new hotel on Gansevoort. I've been dying to check it out and I hadn't talked with her in ages. Anyway, I was waiting for her, and who should I see but Gina."

"So?" He contemplates another Frito.

"So, she was not alone."

"I repeat, So?"

"I won't sugarcoat this, Richard. She was with another man, and there was nothing businesslike about it. They were getting out of the hotel elevator, obviously staying there, and they were holding hands. She was glued to him."

He feels as if the chips, the cookies, and the beer are about to vacate his stomach and land in the sink. He closes his eyes and tries to tamp down the feeling. "You never liked Gina."

"That's true, and I should be sorry, but I'm not. I really hate telling you this, but better it should come from me."

This time the silence on the line is his. After a while he chokes out, "Did she see you?"

"She wouldn't have noticed me if I'd been standing there in a pink sequined bikini, honey. Her eyes were completely on him."

Now he's gripping the edge of the counter so hard that his fingers hurt. "Did you recognize him? The guy?"

"No. He was age-appropriate at least. Conservatively dressed."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" he asks, making no attempt to cover up the bitterness in his voice. "That she's not a cougar, just your average cheat?"

"No, of course not. I just wanted you to know, Richard, before you got in any deeper. I truly am sorry. Sorry that you have to take this from her."

"That's just it, Mother. I don't have to take it. And I won't. I appreciate your letting me know. Now please excuse me while I hang up and figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do with my life."

"I'm a call away, darling, if I can do anything. All right?"

"All right. Night."

He has no idea how long he's been standing there. Why had his mother waited three hours to tell him? Why not call right away and gloat? Because, he admits, this is not something she'd ever gloat about. And she'd taken the trouble to ask if he and Gina had broken up before she'd told him the story. Because no matter what their history, she loves him with the same ferocity that he loves Alexis, and never wants to see him hurt.

Now what? He thinks hard about getting into his car, roaring into the city, turning up at Gina's—unless she's still staying in the hotel with Mr. Age Appropriate—and confronting her. But what if she's not at home? Or worse, what if she is and he's there with her? She's not scheduled to come back to the country until Friday night, five days from now, and he's damned if he's waiting until then. No, he's going to sit down, have a good, stiff drink, and call her. Calmly. A far better plan.

In the end he waits until well after midnight to phone. He'll be happy if he either a) wakes her from a sound sleep or b) interrupts her while she's having sex with his replacement. In either case, she's not going to come up with an excuse. There is no excuse for what she's doing, not in his life.

"Rick?"

It sounds like a). "You remember me?"

"What?"

"There's some peculiar kind of comfort in knowing that you remember me. Though of course you could just be reading my name on the screen of your phone."

"Are you drunk?"

"I've been drinking, but I'm a long way from drunk."

"Is something wrong?"

"Why don't you ask him? Maybe he could explain it to you."

"Who? What are you talking about?"

"Well, if you're still at the Ganse-whore Hotel, I assume you're in bed with whoever your weekend companion is. Or maybe you're home alone now." He hears a hiss that makes him visualize a viper on the other end of the line.

"That bitch."

"Unless you're speaking of yourself in the third person, I assume you mean my mother. And you have one hell of a nerve. I guess I should be grateful that you're not denying it. My mother saw you in the hotel and at least she had the grace to ask me if we were no longer together before she let me know. You don't have to tell me his name, because I don't really give a shit, but you could at least tell me how long this has been going on. He a writer?"

The hiss has mutated to a long sigh.

"No, Rick, he's not a writer." There's a faint rustle, as if she's turned over in bed, or thrown off the covers. "He's a lawyer. I met him on a case through work a few weeks ago. I—"

"Stop. Stop it. Just stop. No more. I don't want to hear any more. If you'd wanted out, you should have told me. I have my faults—Christ knows you've enumerated them for me enough times—but infidelity isn't one of them. You've always known that's a deal breaker for me. So this is it. I'd wish you two well, but then I'd be a fucking liar, which would put you and me in the same boat. And I'm gone." His hand shaking, he turns off his phone, in case she's idiotic enough to call back.

She'd thrown him over for some corporate lawyer? Some stuffed shirt?

He's breathing hard, sitting in this armchair, but that's all. The weird thing is that he's not even angry. Well, he is, but he's not in a rage. His pride has taken a horrible hit. But what he is, most, is disgusted with himself. Disgusted that he'd settled for Gina, that he'd taken up with her again. It was a stupid, hormone-fueled reflexive action to Beckett's being with Demming.

The ice in his drink has melted, and there's a watery puddle in the bottom of the glass. He picks it up and rolls the diluted Scotch around in his mouth before swallowing it. "This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper," he quotes aloud. "A bang for Gina and her lawyer, I guess. But a whimper for Gina and me." He puts the glass down again. "No. Not even a whimper. It wasn't even worth a Goddamn whimper."

He's wide awake, despite the hour. Very calmly, he walks upstairs to his bedroom, gets Gina's two enormous suitcases from the closet, and packs everything. He clears the bathroom of all her cosmetics and toiletries, which he stores neatly in the case she has for them. Then he carries everything down and puts it by the front door. He'll have it all delivered to her apartment in the morning. Whatever it costs is worth it, to rid this place of her. To get her out of his heart. He stands next to the matched luggage for several minutes, and puts his hand over his chest. His heart is beating fine. Maybe Gina never was in it at all. Trouble is, the person who is is Beckett.

He shakes his head and turns to look out the French doors. Sunrise is still so early, and the sky is lightening. The hell with going to bed. He'll make the strongest coffee ever and go write. At least he can still write Nikki.

A few minutes later, mug in hand, he sits at his desk and turns on his laptop. It's too quiet. He wants music. He wants Beckett music. He has a file, KBPL, Kate Beckett Play List, and clicks on it. He finds the perfect thing about thirty-five items down, Ashley Gearing's "Love Can Go to Hell," that Brandy Clark covered. Beckett sang it, very loudly and very gorgeously, when it was on the radio in the car a few months ago. Probably didn't know he was listening. Except he always listens. And this time, he's going to be the one who sings along.

He opens his current Nikki chapter and sings while he types:

Love can go to hell
In a heart-broken minute.
That's where I am without you in it.

He's in the middle of a new chapter when he stops. He needs Beckett in his life, even without her love. They've been friends. They can be friends. It's better than the alternative. He's going to bear down, bear down and send her an email.

"Hi, Beckett. Just wanted to check in with you, see how you're doing. It's been a long summer. I miss you and the mice at the Twelfth. Also those rats, Espo and Ryan. And Montgomery. I was thinking of coming back the first week in August, rather than after Labor Day, if you can put up with me annoying you from that ripped-pleather designer chair on the other side of your desk. Hope you're fine. Castle"

TBC

A/N Thank you all, and as always a tip of the hat to the lovely guest reviewers.