Just a one-shot, folks, and Happy Bastille day! (I live in Paris, so that's less random than it sounds...)

This picks up in the middle of the sweating statues episode at the beginning of season 3...

"Right now I'm not sure what I believe in – people, me." Peter looked at her, "You."

She couldn't look away. She couldn't speak.

"Excuse me." He turned and went into his house.

It took her a minute to snap out of it. The pub was humming and she should return, but she couldn't leave him like that. She knocked on the door, too softly, but feared that to do so again would take the last of her courage. Instead, she went inside.

"Peter?"

He was leaned over, hands on the table, as if carrying a huge weight.

"Peter." She said again and this time he heard her, spun and straightened up to face her.

"Yeah?"

She was taken aback by the look on his face. "Are you alright?"

There was no need to answer – clearly he was not alright.

"Look, is it this-" she nodded toward the crowds beyond the door, as it softly fell shut, the latch clicking as if to punctuate her words, "Or something else?"

He sighed. "You want the whole truth, all spelled out and black and white – well it's not that simple. There's no black and white about it."

She pulled out a chair for him. "I'll make a pot of tea then."

"Assumpta."

"What?"

He reached out to stop her but on touching her arm he pulled back. "Trust me, you don't want to know what's going on in my head."

"Want a bet?"

He turned away.

"Isn't doubt kind of part of the deal?" She tried to guess what the problem was.

"Doubt, I know. Doubt about the – the more difficult to believe aspects of what I do. That's one thing, but to doubt myself, to doubt who I am?"

"Peter, you're a good man. A good priest. I know I'm no expert, but -" she watched him, itching to reach out. "You don't have to stand alone. You have friends."

"Do I?"

She looked wounded at that.

"No, I know. But it's not the same. If anyone else in this town knew what you know, let alone what you don't-"

"You think we'll all up and abandon you because you're a mere mortal?"

"I think that I'm completely out of my depth." He wanted her to understand but he didn't dare put it into words.

She held his gaze. "Just say it."

He could. He could just say it. He was so close. And then he deflated, eyes falling closed as if he were in pain.

She lifted her hand to his cheek. "Peter. There's nothing you can say to me that'll change-"

"Oh yes there is."

She was too close – and too close to tears, but she needed him to hear this. "No. There isn't." She insisted.

He registered some element of what she was saying. "Perhaps this wouldn't all bother me so deeply if I wasn't on the edge of," he sighed, "if I wasn't thinking, all too regularly, that I might just give it all up, everything, for a chance," he shook his head, "just a chance to be with you."

"What?"

"I told you you didn't want to hear it."

"No, it's not that." She searched his face for the truth. "You'd do that? You're considering-?"

"I don't even know if you..." he tore his eyes away.

Free from his scrutiny, she reeled, covered her mouth with her hand, then realised he was still in the dark. "I do." Her voice was hoarse.

He turned to her, desperate to understand. "You do?"

She cocked her head to one side, and with a gulp admitted, "Of course. Do you doubt it?"

"Absolutely."

"Well what am I supposed to do, exactly, to prove it?"

"Nothing. I didn't mean-" a slow smile teased his features.

She wondered at it. "It doesn't change anything though."

"Yes it does." He seemed bold, brave.

"Really?"

"If you're as miserable as I am."

Miserable? She wouldn't have chosen the word for herself. She wasn't facing the demons he was. "I'm alone." She countered, "I don't want to be alone. But I can't ask you to leave the church."

He didn't know how to take that.

She levelled with him. "And I wouldn't be with you any other way."

He hid his surprise pretty well.

She quirked a smile. "Well, maybe."

He nearly laughed. Nearly. "I need to think."

She nodded. "I need to get back to the bar before there's no bar to get back to."

Distance seemed a good idea. If he spent his lunch money every day in Fitzgerald's his decision was already made, but there was no avoiding the place entirely, and when he found himself at Quigley's job site, holding the fort, so to speak, alone with Assumpta in the middle of the night, there was no more chance of distance.

"I'll stay with you if you're afraid of the dark."

"Thanks." It wasn't the dark of which he was afraid.

She watched him but he turned away, so she went to the fire, warmed her hands. A little lightening up, that's what they needed. "If only we wanted to be stranded alone in the dark, eh?" She took a shot and missed.

"If only we didn't."

"So much for lightening the mood."

He laughed.

"I'm thinking of getting away for a while." She changed tack.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Where to?"

"London."

After a few long seconds he found his voice. "The wine bar?"

She nodded.

"For how long?"

She shrugged. "As long as it takes. I don't know, Peter."

"Distance." He scraped his bottom lip with his teeth. "Yeah."

"I have to try."

"Yeah, I know."

"And you need to be certain." She dared look him in the eye. "Either way. You need to be absolutely sure."

He pulled his coat tighter around him.

"You must have fancied someone before."

"I don't fancy you, Assumpta."

"Thank you very much."

He shook his head. "You're a picture, don't get me wrong, but if that were the problem we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"No?"

He shook his head. "You must know how I feel about you."

"How would I know that?"

"Are you serious? I think about you every minute of every day. It's like I'm working on auto pilot." He sighed, turned away. "Distance, eh?"

"Could be the trick."

"Could it?"

After a period of silence she spoke again. "Fires like this always singe you on one side while you're freezing on the other."

He nodded, turning slowly. "Rotisserie style curate."

"I prefer them grilled."

"Don't I know it." He shot back and they shared a smile.

She stepped back from the heat and crossed her arms against the chill.

He nodded toward his car. "I think there's probably enough tea here that they can spare us a cup to warm up."

"Yeah." She followed and gladly took the steaming mug. "At least our hands won't drop off."

"Come on." He climbed in the car where they were at least protected from the breeze.

She gave in. She would spend months far far away from him. She'd take this little indulgence now. He commented on an owl. She drank her tea and watched the windows steam up. The thought was ludicrous. She couldn't imagine the pair of them in such a scenario.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing."

He watched her, far too interested.

"Back when I was sixteen there was this priest in the parish who used to sneak up on parked cars and shine a torch through the window."

"Looking for?"

"What do you think?"

"Oh, yeah." He looked away. She watched him, waited for the question, and eventually it came. "What?"

"Just thinking."

"What?" Was he really so innocent? Or perhaps the idea was as ludicrous to him as it had been to her.

"What would you do if Father Mac shone a light through our window?" She knew she was pushing. She almost felt guilty for it.

"I'd tell him to mind his own business." He turned away again.

"You surprise me."

"Do I?"

"Constantly." She needed to get out of here. The tea was gone. The chill had encroached.

"Are you cold?"

"Yeah- oh, no." She made to move her hand from his grasp; she couldn't bear this. His tug on her fingers was undeniable. She watched him, mesmerised.

"You feel cold."

"No." She didn't know what she was saying 'no' to. She was freezing. But this was so foolish.

He rested his head on their hands. "You're right. Distance. I know you're right, but I-"

Headlights and the sound of tires of gravel pulled their attention to the return of the others.

Peter looked at her, gritted his teeth, and got out of the car.

She reeled. Again. There was nothing she could do to relieve his suffering. She had an awful feeling that months apart would only exacerbate the problem, but what else was there? She had to do something. She got out of the car and announced that she'd go home.

Peter followed her to her van. "Assumpta-"

"Good night." She garnered the last of her resolve.

"I know I've no right to ask."

"Ask what?"

"Don't go."

"What?"

"Just – not yet."

And continue this torture? "Why?"

"I'll freeze."

She closed her eyes. "Good night, Peter." He was too close, trapping her against the van. She turned and opened the door, slipping inside.

He showed up the next day, begging a private conference in her kitchen. She nodded but let him go on ahead. But then she put it off. He would wait, she knew, and she needed a moment to gather herself. She poured Brendan, Siobhan and Michael their drinks. "You want another Padraig?"

"Shortly." He lifted his glass to the others. That was her cue. She could go now. She took her time to close the kitchen door, cleared up Niamh's tea, folded up a tea towel, anything to keep her hands busy and her eyes off Peter.

"Father Mac's just given me a talking to."

"That was nice for you."

"Well, worth a try eh?"

"Was it?" She was terrified, gripping the bench behind her, gritting her teeth for fear of giving away too much.

"Yeah." He stepped toward her. "I shouldn't have put it off this long."

He was cured of her then? Just like that. "So that's it?"

He shook his head. "It takes some time and, er, delicacy."

"What does?"

"He spelled it all out, in his way. Not how I would have put it, but he's right."

She was unlikely to agree with anything Father Mac had to say and raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to get to his point.

"I can leave ballykay, which I've no intention of doing. Or, apparently, I can forget you, though I wish he'd told me the secret to that. Except – I don't really. I don't want to forget you. There's only one choice here."

She didn't understand – couldn't understand.

He stepped closer. "Say something."

"Peter, I – are you sure?"

"Yes."

It took her a moment to react, a smile slipping out first, but fear winning over. "You'd give up everything."

"Not everything." He stepped up to her. "I can't bear to give you up. I can't trick myself into believing it's even possible."

"Well then," she made a weak attempt at joking about it but then met his gaze, and nodded. "Well then." She bravely looked him in the eye, trying to believe it. "I'd better stay."

"You'd better." He raised his hand to her face, barely believing what he was doing, his fingertips barely touching her cheek. She closed her eyes and, knowing she wanted him, and now without her eyes on him, he dared to trace her bottom lip with his thumb.

She opened her eyes, pressed her face into his palm. "I'd better get back out there."

He nodded and reluctantly broke contact. "And I'd better, ah, write a homily."

"Oh, very romantic."

"It'll be the last."

"That's more like it."