A/N: Set season two, sometime after 2x05: "When The Bough Breaks." The rating for this story will rise to 'M' in chapter 7.

A Cure for Loneliness

Chapter 1

It was Memorial Day weekend and with his daughter off in California visiting her mother, Richard Castle, mystery writer and fêted man-about-town, was at a dangerous loose end. Dangerous because bored and left to his own devices, Rick Castle could easily revert to the toys of a boy in a flash. A playboy, that is. And the toys of a boy in the hands of a man with so much money and charm at his disposal...well, that equaled dangerous in anyone's lexicon.

Currently between women and with all of his writer buddies otherwise engaged he had decided to roam the city of his birth as a tourist. It was kind of a pathetic distraction but it was working as far as he'd pushed it. So he resolved not to question himself too deeply or to peer too closely at the whys and wherefores of his inexplicable single status. He was just going to explore his city and enjoy the ride wherever it took him.

A quick browse through New York Magazine's restaurant section had brought him here, to the door of Chez Elise: a chi-chi little breakfast place on the corner of Greenwich Street and Harrison. Open for just a couple of months, this artisanal bakery-come-bistro had already gained a reputation for some of the best breakfast muffins in Tribeca, and Rick Castle was nothing if not a connoisseur of New York's finest baked goods. Though first and foremost, he was a connoisseur of New York's Finest.

The stylish gray door, with its uber-French lace curtain and tinkling bell, opened onto a textbook tile floor. The black and white checkerboard design was doubtless reclaimed from somewhere equally well-intentioned; some other dream foodie project that had sadly failed to capture the zeitgeist long enough to gain a foothold and succeed.

Inside, the entire scene was ripped from the pages of an Architectural Digest spread. More expensively painted surfaces greeted him left and right: wood paneling and decorative moldings in a matte, Pottery Barn palette of olives and grays. The art on the walls was a series of framed black and whites - of course, they were - and the window behind the front desk was glazed in vintage, rough-rolled glass. The only splash of color in the entryway came from a pink potted orchid sitting atop the hostess station. That, and the tall, slender woman leaning against said counter with a cloth shopping bag over one shoulder and a snazzy little camel hat on her head.

The pleasant hum of chatter and the occasional clink of cutlery filtered through from the dining room beyond the heavy velvet curtain. Castle was relieved to feel the bulk of a folded New York Times beneath his arm. He hated dining alone with nothing to read, always catching someone's eye. And how awkward that could get, depending on the 'someone,' of course, and once, the actual eye, which turned out to be glass and not exactly under its owner's control; always fixated on him no matter where the old dear turned her head.

Speaking of someone, the mystery woman at the desk half turned, and something sharp stabbed Castle in the chest. A familiar enough feeling by now in certain settings, he had to pause a moment to catch his breath against its incongruity in the here and now.

Before he could speak, she was already filling the space around them with generous words from beneath the brim of her natty little hat.

"Oh, I'm sorry…please. Go ahead. I have…all the time in the world," she offered, sweeping out her hand to allow him to take her place at the desk while she took a step back to wait.

Finally, she raised her head and looked at him square on. The soft, welcoming expression she evidently wore for total strangers morphed into puzzled recognition and then something akin to blind panic, all in the blur of an instant. Her cheeks flushed. He hoped with pleasure, but then he couldn't be sure.

"Castle?" she exclaimed, and he watched with some satisfaction as her hand flew to the very low v-neck of her sweater, her lilac bra visible beneath the fine knit.

"Beckett!" he exclaimed right back since it seemed like the thing to do.

"What are you—?" She cocked her head to one side, smiling all of a sudden. "Is Alexis with you?" She looked far brighter at the prospect that this might be the case, and that pleased him no end. Kate Beckett really liked his little girl.

But he had to shake his head as she peered around him looking for his redheaded child. "In California. With her mother. Long weekend," he explained, though it sounded like more of an apology.

"Oh, so you're—"

"Miss?"

Before Kate could mask her disappointment that he was indeed here by himself, the hostess reappeared at her elbow with a menu tucked under her arm. "Miss, I'm so sorry for your wait. We have a lovely table all set up for you now."

The woman beamed and Kate flinched. "Right. Yes, thank you. I'll just…"

She turned back to look at Castle, caught in that awkward white space of social responsibility. Did she leave him out here by himself? Was he meeting someone else perhaps and how did she feel about that? Should she—

He made the decision for her. "Well, enjoy your breakfast, detective," he said, brusquely shaking her hand. "I hear the carrot and cinnamon muffins are simply to die for." Mercifully, he mouthed the last three words. Given their trade, it seemed appropriate not to tempt fate.

Kate was shown to her table in a daze. She couldn't shake the feeling of having left something behind. Eventually, following much lip chewing and soul searching, she asked her waitress to offer Castle the empty place at her table, after she spotted him hanging out by the hostess station either trying to chat the young woman up or attempting to bribe her to get a table of his own. She took pity on him, in truth. They were just two people, roaming the city on a public holiday. Two people who were almost friends with nothing better to do. They could share a table and eat brunch together, no problem.

What could possibly go wrong?

The table was situated in the center of the room. Not at all what Castle would have chosen. Not that Kate had had a choice in the matter either since the place was full to capacity. So they were surrounded on all sides.

'Islands in the stream', he sang in his head as he approached. Kate looked like a rare and unusual exhibit in a museum, calmly floating amidst the cacophony of pseuds and scenesters: the Tribeca mommies exclaiming over the cost of daycare and the gall of the diva nanny demanding overtime, a gym membership and a car service home every night. She had her simple cloth bag hung over the back of her chair, the menu set out in front of her. The jaunty camel trilby really suited her. He made a mental note to tell her this later.

He spotted a copy of that week's New York Magazine poking out of one corner of her bag just as he took his seat. From the cover design, he could tell that it was the same issue he'd left at home. He felt his kinship with the good detective grow a little more.

Yes, 'Islands in the stream, that is what we are.' The singing in his head got louder.

Castle thanked Kate for her generosity and began to settle himself, unaccountably nervous all of a sudden. He adjusted his pants three times to rid himself of a wedgie.

Kate took a sip from her water glass to mask a smirk. "You okay over there?"

"Just peachy," Castle answered peppily without meaning to.

Kate grinned wider. Her eyebrow shot up. "Peachy? So I see."

Castle coughed to hide his nerves, but when he took a drink of water Kate noticed that his hand was shaking. "You sure you're okay?"

"Low blood sugar," he lied, waving to the waitress for an extra menu.

"Right," she nodded. But she wasn't buying his act.

Working with Castle could be infuriating. However, lately, they'd found a rhythm and it was comfortable. But this - being alone with him outside of work and with no alcohol on hand – this felt a lot like starting from scratch. In fact, it had all the hallmarks of a blind date. Without the blind part, obviously. Or the alcohol.

Kate found this train of thought disturbing, so she was grateful when Castle stepped in, shutting it down with a series of probing questions.

"So…not seeing Lanie this weekend?" the inquisitive writer asked. Deep sea fishing by means of idle enquiry.

She smiled, tight-lipped and mouthed, "Nope." Her lips made a popping sound on the P. Castle flicked out his tongue to wet his own lips while oggling hers. Kate saw it all.

"Espo?" he asked brightly, eyeballing her as if he knew something and was pushing her to confess first.

"Seeing someone."

"Ah." He tapped the side of his nose and winked. "Say no more. And Ryan?"

She shook her head. "We don't really…no." Her answer ended in a bashful smile, almost a laugh, at the thought of hanging out with Ryan by herself. Castle took heart from this – she was here with him after all, even if it was the result of serendipity. A word, he noted for the first time ever, which actually ended in the word: 'pity.' Oh dear.

"Right." He nodded, and it was back to being awkward, a lack of flow to their conversation when, usually, he couldn't shut up.

"Well, sometimes after work," Kate conceded to be polite and fill the void. "Drinks, you know, just…" she shrugged, off-hand. "But never on weekends," she told him with her chin tipped up, like it was some badge of honor to be a loner.

"I hate being alone," Castle confessed without forethought to how that might look or sound, today of all days: dining in a trendy French bistro by himself, his mother and daughter off gallivanting with lives of their own.

How sad it might look.

Kate buried her nose in her fancy menu, staving off the requirement to reply to this needy, and rather pitiful, remark. Usually, she wanted to gag him. Gag him or sha—

Yeah, definitely not going there.

"Wow, these prices," she muttered for something else to say.

When he didn't reply, she looked up to find him pouring over his own menu with an expression of disappointment and disdain.

"Want to get out of here?" he asked, snapping the leather folder shut.

It was a gamble, a big risk. The only reason they were sitting together at all was the need to share a table. If they left this spot, who knew what might happen. But she was right: this place, with its white linens, $14 basket of muffins and artisanal bread, really wasn't them.

Kate was up and out of her seat before he had finished talking.

TBC...

A/N: This story was written before I wrote and published my last fic, and given this is Memorial Day weekend, I thought I may as well put it up here as sling it in the trash file. The photo that prompted the story is the cover art and will also be posted on Twitter, as usual.

I just want to say that I only know of one way to write these characters. So, if you know my style and you hate it and yet keep coming back to read, I think that qualifies you under the definition of insanity. You will not get a different outcome from my stories, so please stop banging your head. I'm incapable of satisfying everyone's tastes, no one is, not even AWM or ABC achieved that. Please pick your authors to suit your personal taste, there's plenty to go around.

If you want to leave a word or two of thanks, that would be much appreciated. Thank you for reading. There will be no author's note with following chapters you'll be glad to hear. Just a new chapter every day or two at the most. There are eight chapters in total. Cheers, Liv