A/N: Thanks for the feedback and encouragement. Truly works wonders.

Disclaimer: Not mine. I do like torturing them a bit more than I expected, though.

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Castle fumbles with the two pizza boxes on his way in the door, manages to stuff the loft keys in his pocket and steady the food before it flips out of his arms. That would be such a nice continuation of his day. He walks to the table and flops the warm cardboard down while he toes off his shoes, kicks them under a chair.

The smell of the pizza is making him nauseated and he's going to have to find a way to excuse himself from this shindig. There's no way he can face his mother and daughter like this; they'll be worried, clingy, and want him to talk, play the crazy patient while they psychoanalyze him. He'd much rather be isolated, let himself wallow in his own pity (he deserves that, right?), and sleep for as long as his body will allow.

"Darling, you're home," his mother clomps into the room, her heels echoing with each step, causing his pounding head to taunt him even more. "Ooh, and with Giovanni's. Maybe that'll cheer Alexis up."

"What's wrong with Alexis?"

"Don't know. She came home and slammed every door she passed through. She didn't tell, so I didn't ask. I assume," she whispers conspiratorially in his direction, "boy troubles."

"She doesn't have a boy to have troubles with, Mother." Normally he's the sounding board for each and every one of his daughter's problems, embarrassing or not, but he's definitely not the one to talk her down off of a relationship ledge today. So, he's glad there's no boyfriend. "Wait, she doesn't, does she?"

His mother shrugs and moves around him to grab a bottle of wine, pours a glass. "She's a beautiful young woman. College woman," she corrects, in a teasing tone. "She undoubtedly has boys waiting in line to court her. Takes after her grandmother," she adds.

"Don't curse her." He swipes his hand down his face. As much as he needs a distraction, that isn't what he wants to think about either. "I'd know if she had a boyfriend."

"How would you know, Dad?" His daughter starts her question from the second floor of the loft, then begins her decent down the staircase. His mother is right; she definitely looks upset. Her hair is swept back in a loose ponytail, allowing him to plainly see the scowl marring her beautiful face. She's barefoot, but is still wearing scrubs. He didn't even know she was working with Lanie today, is so glad he didn't run into her, that she didn't find him in one of his less-composed moments. "Who's to say I couldn't hide a boy right under your nose."

"You'd better not be hiding boys anywhere," he adds, lightly.

"I'm not," she sighs, irked. "But, so what if I did?"

He doesn't like this line of conversation, with Alexis hurt and snippy and defiant, something obviously bothering her. His head is seriously going to explode—the universe is totally testing him today. He can't read her and he can always read his daughter. Something's definitely eating at her, but she obviously would rather dance around it than talk about it.

Like father, like daughter.

He supposes that he can't expect her to be open and honest if he decides to take his own candor off the table. "I've, um, actually been hiding something from the two of you."

Alexis looks expectant, his mother looks intrigued, and if he looks anything like he feels, queasy would probably be the best descriptor.

"For a few weeks now," he clears his throat, rolls his shoulders, stalls, "I've been seeing Kate."

His mother narrows her eyes (excited, but cautious, maybe?), while Alexis rolls hers (and…not very excited). Huh. He's not so sure what either of those reactions means, but the hardest part has yet to come. He hasn't said any of this aloud yet, had a chance to roll it around on his tongue, feel how heavy it weighs in the air around him when voiced.

"We were dating," he explains, probably a little redundantly. "But we're not now."

"What?" Both redheads question him simultaneously and he feels overwhelmed, again remembers why he didn't want to do this.

"She broke up with you?" Alexis asks the question, cautiously.

Wow. It's another blow to his ego that it's common knowledge that, of course, he wouldn't have been the one to do the breaking-up.

"That can't be true, Richard," his mother interjects.

" 'Fraid so." He tries for nonchalance, but his voice catches and his emotions trip over his blunder. His eyes are watery again, and he swallows down the thick despair that wants to crawl out, to be soothed by these two women who love him unreservedly. "I don't know why," he responds to the question he can see his mother generating.

"She didn't tell you why?" Alexis asks quietly.

He shakes his head. "No, pumpkin. Sometimes there is no answer," he explains. "I can't make her love me. Lord knows I've tried." A watery smile makes it to his face as he swipes a hand over his daughter's hair, urges her cheek against his.

"She doesn't deserve you, daddy," she mumbles into his neck. "You'll find someone better."

He leans back, meets her eyes. "No such thing, sweetheart. It hurts so much, is so painful because she's special. And I'll always love her." His mother is too quiet, is watching his interaction with Alexis carefully, sympathetically. "Boy, this is depressing, huh? Pizza's getting cold. How about we eat?"

He barely touches his food, pulls his toppings off of his pizza, picks at them, pops a triangle of ham into his mouth when he notices Alexis watching him in concern. When he meets her gaze, she immediately looks back to her plate. She's not eating much either, he observes. He still wonders what's upsetting her; they've been so engrossed in his problem that hers has flown under the radar. He's brought it up a couple of times, but she freezes and clams up. She probably doesn't want to worry him anymore. Hopefully Alexis will confide in his mother, and she can filter it back to him, allowing him to intervene if necessary.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she blurts out, wipes her eyes with her napkin.

"Hey, baby," he soothes. "Having your heart broken is a part of life. We've had this conversation, remember? I'm just going to need you to help me through it, okay?"

"I never wanted you to be hurt." She sniffles and Martha rubs at her back. It's one thing if he's in pain, but he hates that his family is hurting for him.

"Shhh."

Martha eases her chair next to Alexis's and uses gentle words that Castle can't quite make out. Alexis nods, and excuses herself from the table.

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Castle is sitting on the sofa, an untouched glass of wine twirling between his fingers. He can hear the water in the bathtub running upstairs, which he anticipates was Martha's idea for Alexis. She's always been a proponent of a bubble bath—combined with a good book or excellent music—as being the ultimate relaxer.

He feels the cushion dip when his mother parks herself beside him. He can feel her watching him as he stares straight ahead, lost amidst a swirling pool of thoughts. He shuts his eyes against the onslaught of emotion, hating the sympathy he can feel directed his way.

"I'm lonely already. Can that be normal? It's been a day, Mother." Damn it if he can't feel the tears prickling against his closed lids.

"It's normal, Richard." Her voice is tender, more soothing than he ever remembers hearing it. When she palms his cheek and her lips press against his forehead, a tiny sob hiccups in his chest. He's not a little boy with a skinned knee. He's a big boy with a broken heart. "You know your old mom's pretty smart, right?" Her hand is cupping his chin, and when he opens his eyes to meet hers, she smiles broadly at him. "And I know that woman loves you, son."

"She doesn't." A spark of hope ignites in his heart, but he snuffs it out quickly. His mother does not mince words, isn't in the business of saying things to make people feel better—she's bold and blunt, says what she means and means what she says. But, she wasn't there today—didn't hear Kate effortlessly dismiss everything they've shared.

"Trust me. Dig a little deeper." She nods her head yes to negate him shaking his no. "Don't give up, no matter how much it hurts. Something's off here."

"Or maybe my first instinct was right. That she kept remembering a secret because she needed to find a way to let me down gently." His mother moves to speak, probably feed him another line of 'Richard, you know that's not true' but he doesn't know that, doesn't know anything anymore. Everything he thought of as solid, instinctual, meant-to-be has vanished. "She thought she'd give me a try, what the hell, right? And it didn't work out. It happens. I need to suck it up and get over it."

"It doesn't work like that."

"I'll make it work like that." His mother looks exceedingly concerned, and that's why he didn't want to do this, especially tonight when he's raw and vulnerable and can't even conjure up a believable smile to hide the pain. He squeezes her hand and attempts an upturn of his lips anyway. It doesn't work, but he can tell she appreciates the gesture. "I'm heading to bed. Goodnight, Mother."

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He can't sleep.

Billion thread-count sheets, memory foam, and expertly fluffed pillows have nothing on Kate's bed. He never realized how appealing he would find jersey cotton, a lumpy mattress, and warped pillows. But after only a few sporadic nights, now he can't sleep without these atypical luxuries.

Or…

He can't sleep without Kate. Or at least the promise of Kate as his lids rise with the sun. He knows what's coming when he closes his eyes tonight, and though he's not sure how his sleeping nightmares could be any worse than the wakeful one he's lived all day, he can't bear to find out.

Maybe he can write. He reaches across the mattress for his laptop, but thinks better of it. He's been famous for letting his art imitate his life, and this is an instance he doesn't want even his fictional counterpart to suffer through.

He pulls his iPhone out; a good, multi-level game might distract him for a little while. When he slides the phone unlocked, he sees a missed text from Esposito. It's a picture of Ryan, pouty-faced with his head lying on a huge pile of papers. Underneath the picture, Esposito has typed "Kevin misses you." Castle does manage to get a genuine chuckle out of that.

But, the boys obviously sense the fissure between him and Kate. The usual message would have read "Beckett misses you" with a picture of Kate mock-scowling or holding her hand in front of her face to block the camera. He, actually, has a few of those saved on his phone. Esposito must realize that teasing about Kate is probably too soon, too weird, even if he doesn't understand exactly why.

Castle puffs out a deep breath and rises from the bed, unbuttons his jeans. The change in his pocket jingles with his movements and he fishes it out and piles the coins and his wallet on the nightstand. He reaches in with his other hand and pulls out his keys, tosses them there too.

The odd key on his ring catches his eye. It's been there for a couple of weeks, but he still finds himself fingering it in his pocket, staring at it, changing its position on his keyring.

It's the key to Kate's apartment.

And he needs it gone.

Where it had previously excited him to no end to trying to decipher the message behind being gifted further entry into her life, now it leaves him hollow, weighted, and with this incredible sense that he has something that doesn't belong to him.

He had to get rid of it.

Tonight. Now.

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He lightly touches his palm to her door, runs his fingers down the flat panels and over the ridges until they find the doorknob. He can remember a few days ago when he pressed into the long line of her back as she hastily tried in vain to get the key into this very lock. His arm was hooked around her waist, and his thumb rucked up her shirt to allow two fingers to dip just below the waistband of her pants. Her hands trembled and she admonished him while he laughed at her, scissored teasingly at the edge of her panties. She craned her neck back to reach his mouth and they made out a little indecently against her door until the elevator dinged to announce an arrival on her floor. He pulled his mouth and hand away, and she managed to get them into the apartment—and barely to the couch—before showing him exactly what his teasing did to her.

He pulls himself out of his own mind and the magnificent memories which will only make his stark reality more difficult to live in. The key is digging into his palm, reminding him why he's here. He unfolds his fingers, sees where the metal has made an impression into his flesh, like its owner has imprinted herself on his life. Fitting.

Castle stands on his toes, slides his thumb along the ledge above her doorframe, feeling for the dip in the wood, the little ridge where she kept this spare key hidden.

She gave it to him a week into their newfound relationship. She had reached up—towel riding high on her thighs—and fetched the key. It was pinched between her fingers as she shyly presented it to him, told him next time he came over unannounced (she pretended to be irritated, but oh, she so wasn't) he could let himself into her apartment in lieu of interrupting her bath. 'Keep it,' she had said.

Instead of the hollow space he's expecting, his fingers brush something else and when he tries to pluck at it, it falls from its designated place, clinks to the ground at his feet. Another key. Shiny and new.

Castle goes down on a knee, picks up the key and holds it to its twin. They're not both going to fit back into the carved-out groove. He doesn't want to leave one under the doormat—that's such an obvious place to hide a key; anyone who wandered by could discover it there. He glances around the doorframe, floorboards near the door, feels around for any loose sections that could house it temporarily. Nothing.

There's a thin piece of weather stripping along the bottom of the door, and he thinks maybe he can pry it up a bit and slide the key under her door. He scrapes at the corner, and the rubber peels up a little, but the key still won't fit. He sighs, sits back on his haunches. A real man would just drop by the precinct and hand it to her, stone-faced and unemotional. Definitely not tell her it was burning a hole in his heart to look at it.

That's what he's going to do.

He's beginning his ascension back to his feet, hand against the door for support, when it opens, knocks him off balance and back to his knees. In place of the wood, he's faced with a very familiar set of legs. His eyes climb up her limbs, to the too-short-to-be-opening-her-door-in-it robe, and then to her completely alarmed face.

"Castle?"

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A/N: Thoughts?