A/N - Just a little one-shot for all you Peter and Assumpta fans out there. My take on what should have happened after Peter's proclamation at the lake. This is M-rated from the outset so very few of you may even see it. For those of you who do, let me know what you think. :)
"Weird, isn't it?"
Assumpta searched Peter's eyes for clarification – for some kind of sign that this would all be okay.
His ensuing sentence offered neither. "How something can sound so exhilarating and depressing at the same time."
She smiled but not from happiness. She smiled because that's what was expected. The appropriate response.
A few seconds earlier her heart had soared with mirth when Peter had finally – finally – revealed the true extent of his feelings for her.
I think about you every minute of every day.
It's like I'm working on autopilot.
Am I getting through to you?
But then the real world, like the relentless wave it was, inevitably came tumbling down.
She was married. He was ordained. It read like the back of one of her mother's trashy romance novels. But it was real. All too real – and doomed from the outset.
It will go wrong though, won't it?
Depressing. Yes.
Peter enveloped her into a hug because that was all he could do. She reciprocated because, well, it was all that she had either – this embrace and all of the complications that came with it. This hug and only this hug.
The warmth of his breath on her cheek gave her pause to long for more. Assumpta squeezed her eyes shut and wished for a respite – a break from real life. For a few minutes she wanted them to embody other people – people who's lives weren't as complicated as these.
Peter and Assumpta.
Couldn't they just go back to being Peter and Assumpta?
As if on cue, rain clouds gathered above.
"We'd better get going," she observed, reluctantly pulling away. "Forty shades of grey up ahead."
Peter faced the sky and felt the cool droplets drench his skin. The visceral chill that he felt was comforting, really. At least this hadn't all been a dream.
The rain began to fall heavier.
Definitely not a dream.
Soaked to the skin, it came as a relief when he heard his companion call out, "There's a cabin over there."
Assumpta began to head towards the dilapidated timber edifice on the edge of the lake, with Peter in close pursuit.
By the time the curate had caught up to her, they were already there, semi-covered by the ineffectual shelter that it offered.
"Better?"
"Much" he returned, with an air of sarcasm to his tone. "Is there any way in?"
Assumpta gave the door a series of pushes, each more forceful than the last.
"Breaking and entering is the least of our troubles, I suppose," she muttered as the door began to give way. "Well, if we're going to hell anyway…"
Peter smirked knowingly and led the way through the darkened entrance. "It's dry, I guess" was all he could think to say following a quick appraisal of their surroundings.
Sparsely furnished, the cabin he now realised, was in all actuality just a fisherman's hut. A gas-stove languished in the corner next to a kettle that had seen better days. Next to this, a tartan blanket was laid out along with a single mug and a box of tea bags.
"They were expecting us, I see."
Assumpta smiled cordially at the observation, trying to ignore the chill of the damp summer cotton against her skin.
"You're shivering." As is by instinct, Peter moved to place his jacket over her shoulders, his hands lingering on her shoulders for a second more than necessary.
"Better?"
Assumpta caught his gaze with hers for the first time since they'd left the lake and nodded, hesitantly.
His eyes made no attempt to leave her. Peter was captivated. He tried desperately to avoid running his eye-line along the now-opaque material of her dress as it followed her every curve. Her every crevice.
His eyes danced from her face to her neckline and then lower, and lower, until that familiar ache in the pit of his stomach prevented the curate from looking anymore.
Peter tore his eyes away. "Cup of tea?" he mumbled with difficulty.
Ever graceful, Assumpta tried to ignore the definitive judder in his voice. "What'll you have?"
"The same. We can share, you know…"
"Ah, don't know about that. You might have germs. How do I know where that mouth has been?"
She hadn't meant to say it but the words just came tumbling out, as they always did when she was nervous.
"Nowhere exciting, I can assure you." Peter joked whilst keeping his focus on the task at hand. Tea. Tea.
"Well, thank you very much."
Remembering their sort-of-kiss days earlier, the curate blushed involuntarily. Would he forever feel this awkward?
Neither spoke again for the duration of the tea-making. Bottled water, tea bags and the rusty old kettle were quickly – and silently – put to use until one very tannic mug of hot black tea was produced.
Ever the gentleman, Peter handed Assumpta the mug and she sipped from it thirstily, more for something to do with her ever-trembling hands than anything else.
"Rain's set in, I'd say."
She nodded in agreement. "We're not going anywhere soon."
Peter settled uncomfortably in the space opposite – far enough away to keep from touching her but close enough that he could still feel the warmth of her skin.
It was unendurable.
He searched his mind for something else to think about – another thing to say.
"How will we get back? To Ballyk?"
Assumpta shifted awkwardly to mask her annoyance. "Why? Somewhere you'd rather be?"
"I'd settle for a sofa." For effect, Peter fidgeted on the cold, hard floor.
She smirked. "There's a bus, I think. Fairly regular."
When he didn't respond, Assumpta felt the need to add, "We can leave soon, if you want. Now, even – "
Peter placed his hand on her knee to prevent her from getting up – "Stay." His eyes were wide with panic.
Assumpta felt her cheeks flush as his hand inadvertently brushed the inside of her bare leg. If Peter had noticed this mistake, he didn't correct it. His hand remained there as if this were the most natural place for it in the world.
"Just a while longer then…" she heard herself say as she reluctantly moved her leg away. "Until the rain stops."
She resumed her position, cross-legged on the floor, this time encroaching ever so slightly closer to the Priest. What was she doing?
"So, what do you think this place is used for?"
Peter took a sip of hot tea. "You mean when it's not being broken into?"
"Belongs to a fisherman, maybe? A man-cave, perhaps…"
"Could be, could be."
Assumpta repressed a laugh at her next thought. "You know, it could be another one of Quigley's love nests."
"Do I want to know?"
"Probably not," she assured him. "But I'll tell you anyway – "
Peter laughed nervously, trying to ignore the proximity of his arm to hers.
"Quigley had this girlfriend – years before Niamh was born. They would go to this cabin– one of Brian's failed investments, no doubt – to be together…"
"Together?" he returned innocently.
The publican stared back with incredulity. "Do I need to spell it out?"
"Oh," he conceded. "Be together. Go on…"
"Well, they made a pact to return to this place at some point in the future – to rekindle their lost love."
"And did they?"
Assumpta shook her head. "You know, I'm not even sure. Niamh was never too specific."
"For the best, I'm sure."
"Who'd want that image floating around in their brain?"
Peter laughed into his closed fist. "Romantic though."
"What?"
"To make the promise to meet again after all that time. To never give up."
She nodded sagely. "So…" she heard herself ask. "Will you meet me here, in this cabin, 30 years from now?"
"I hope that it doesn't come to that."
Warmed by his response, Assumpta sidled in closer. "If it does?"
"That depends – how old will you be?"
She playfully struck his arm as Peter laughed. It made him less nervous. It had broken the ice. But still, his heart raced.
"So, they were having an affair? This woman and Quigley…"
"I don't know. Doubt it. He doesn't seem the type."
Peter felt his next words escape his lips before he could prevent it – "And we do?"
The room fell silent. Eventually she responded. "Peter, we're not having an affair."
"I know…" he stuttered. "I know. I don't know why I said that. I'm sorry."
"We've done nothing wrong. You know that, right?"
The curate sat up straight. "I do – " he began, unconvincingly. "I know, but..."
" – because things would be far straighter if this were just an affair, I tell you. Believe me, I would love an affair."
Her words jarred with him. "You would?"
Assumpta caught his panicked gaze with her own. "Wouldn't you?" she asked him simply.
For a moment, he became very aware of her skin – how much of it was on show; how close it was to his. He could feel its warmth and dampness emanate. He could almost feel her gooseflesh against his own.
He wanted to answer in the negative. He wanted to deny that the thought of an affair had never entered his mind, but yet again his mouth took a second to catch up to his head.
"Sometimes."
The air grew heavy in anticipation. Suddenly their predicament became so easy. They'd have an affair. Actions before reactions. They'd make this simple and give in to this thing that had seemed so complicated when they'd first entered this room.
It could be so easy...
Peter felt his mouth ignore his brain once again as he leaned in to kiss her. Her eyes closed as she felt him stall mere millimetres from her lips.
He lingered here without moving.
Close the gap, she willed him. Make this happen.
But he couldn't.
"You're married," was all he could say by way of a response.
Assumpta felt as if she'd been stabbed. "What… what does that mean?"
Peter fell back against the wood-panelled wall. "It means…" he started. "It means that this won't solve anything. It wouldn't fix what is wrong."
The publican felt her temper rise. "No Peter, it means that you're still bitter. It means that you haven't forgiven me."
"Forgiven? Assumpta – that's not what this is about."
"I may be married but you were a Priest long before that happened. You made this impossible first."
He watched as she got up to leave, wishing momentarily that he could just let her.
"As hard as it might be for you to believe, I didn't ask for any of this to happen. I didn't ask to fall in love with you."
Assumpta's heart quickened at this fresh revelation. He was in love with her? But her good sense failed. "No? Well I didn't ask for it either."
Wounded by her retort to his confession, Peter felt his stomach rise into his chest.
"I wish that an affair would get you out of my system. I'd give anything to stop feeling like this but it's never going to be that easy. We'll never be that easy…"
"Then why are we even bothering?"
Silence befell the room. It was a conversation that was long overdue but neither of them hoped to have. Why bother? It was a pertinent question. The odds were stacked against them. It would be an uphill battle if it were even anything at all. The publican's last question resounded across the room.
Why are we even bothering?
"I'm not expecting anything, you know." Assumpta kept her voice soft in an attempt to placate the situation. "Don't feel that you owe me…"
Peter rolled his eyes. Why was she always so infuriating?
"What I mean is," she continued. "We can stop now. Nothing's actually happened. Your conscience is clear. We can escape, relatively unscathed – "
Before she could form her next thought, Peter's mouth was already on hers, pressing against her firmly – too firmly, at first – as if he had something to prove, a wrong to make right.
She pulled away. "What are you doing?"
"I don't want a clear conscience."
His eyes were fogged with desire. Without hesitation, Assumpta returned the kiss in kind, ardently and passionately, matching him like-for-like as he pressed his tongue against hers.
This was real. This was happening.
The next thing they knew was the overwhelming need for proximity. She pulled him closer, dragging Peter by his lapels until he was on top of her.
His mouth found that now familiar spot on her neck – the place that he'd discovered as if by accident days earlier. She tasted the same, of vanilla and white musk. She tasted of her. Peter grew hard at the thought of how she tasted elsewhere…
"Oh…"
The feeling of his hardening length caught the publican off-guard. As many times as she'd fantasised about this, her thoughts never allowed her to entertain it this far.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled awkwardly into her neck in an attempt to pull away. Her hands cupped his face. "Don't be," she whispered, trying desperately to keep her voice level.
Peter assessed the situation. Assumpta was lying flat against the floor with the curate half on top of her. They were teetering on the edge, that much was certain. Their position was precarious but not wholly inescapable. They were still fully clothed, at least.
They should stop this now. They should stop.
Assumpta seemed to realise this simultaneously as she moved to pull away.
"We should…"
His heart swelled with disappointment. "No." he heard himself say.
She looked confused so he reclaimed her mouth once again. "I want you," he stuttered between kissed. "I want you so much."
"We can't. We need to stop this," she said without fully wanting to believe it.
But the words seemed to incite a new excitement within the Priest. His hands found handfuls of her dress, which he dragged against her skin roughly. He groaned indecipherable words into her neck.
She responded in kind, half-delirious with the feeling of pleasure as his achingly hard length pushed against the moistened fabric of her underwear.
His mouth found her breasts as he clumsily kissed her chest through the material. Frustrated and wholly unfamiliar with how to undress a woman, he searched fruitlessly for her zipper at her back.
"Here," she guided him, to the side fastening of her dress.
Wordlessly he undid her, trailing a warm line with the back of his index finger against her rib cage as he did so.
It was impossibly sexy.
Peter's gaze shifted from her face to the milky white of her collarbone – not daring to look any further. His breaths became laboured.
Her hand found his face and gently guided his eye line to her now exposed breasts. Peter shut them tight in instinct.
"Look at me, Peter."
Incited by her command, the curate allowed himself to see the naked form beneath him.
His eyes shone with reverence. She was more beautiful than he'd imagined.
The curate felt his arousal heighten.
Right away, their caresses took on a whole new level. Assumpta tugged frantically at the remaining material between them until the mystery of their nudity no longer came into question.
Peter fought the urge to just enter her, roughly and immediately, like the unsatisfactory fumblings of his adolescence; the only other experiences he could draw on for advice.
But, no. Nearly a decade of hearing the infinite marital woes of his parish had taught him that every sexual technique he'd learnt up until now did nothing for the opposite sex. He needed for this to be gradual. He needed to calm down.
When he desisted the ardency of his caresses, Assumpta's voice rose into panic. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he stuttered eventually.
His hesitation unnerved her. As if by instinct, Assumpta pulled her jacket around herself. "This doesn't… we've done nothing yet."
At his ensuing smile, she corrected, "Much, then." Assumpta propped herself up to her elbows, bringing her face closer to the Priest.
"I just need a minute," he explained after a moment. "This… it's all new."
The cadence of his expression only heightened her unbearable urge to be near him. To finish what they'd started. If he only knew what he did to her…
The seconds dragged. Peter kept his head buried in the crick of her neck as his breaths steadied. Slowly but unmistakably, the publican began to feel soft, feather-light kisses along her neck – his spot – as her companion began to come-to. Eventually, his mouth reclaimed the same ardency and desperation as before but still, he arched his hips painstakingly away from her.
Assumpta's frustration grew. All she wanted to feel was Peter – there. In desperation, she reached for his groin, eliciting a tortured sigh from her companion.
For Peter, the sensation of her cool, soft hand around his achingly-hard cock was almost enough to tip him over. She massaged his shaft with the warmth of her palm, encircling it with her thumb and forefinger.
"Do you like that?" she asked him as the motions of her hand became rougher. "Do you want to know what I like?"
He nodded vehemently as he lost focus on his breathing. Keep it together, he willed himself in a half-formed thought. Don't lose it now.
Encouraged by his moans, the publican guided him to her hot, wet centre. A thick guttural growl escaped his throat as he felt the intense heat against the tip of his penis.
I need this. I need this now...
Assumpta sighed loudly as Peter penetrated her, slowly and immensely, as deep as he could go.
He filled her completely with his substantial girth – more so, even. Perfect was a word she seldom liked to use but there could be none other to describe the sensation of Peter inside of her. It was perfect. He was perfect.
Seconds passed. When he trusted himself enough, Peter pulled away before re-entering her again and then again with a renewed gusto, his confidence growing with each thrust
Assumpta stifled her groans into his shoulder. It was almost too much to bear. "I'm going to... " she announced suddenly – too suddenly – as Peter felt her tense skin-tight around his length, beckoning him to find his release, to fill her up, to tip him over the edge.
It took everything he had to resist.
Not yet… he vowed. Not yet. This can't be over just yet.
As she came, Assumpta dug her fingernails into his back and cried out his name to a chorus of stifled sighs from the base of his throat. The temptation to find his release there and then was tantamount.
"I want to…" Peter heard himself beg. "I want to – "
"Come" she pleaded. "I want you to come."
He quelled any further command by reclaiming her mouth once again, but as her tongue found his, Peter could stand it no longer.
Assumpta felt a white flash of pleasure as he emptied inside of her. As if by instinct, she tipped her pelvis back and pushed him deeper as he came. She wanted him to fill her completely. Indefinitely.
Convulsing from the after quakes of pleasure, Peter remained in this position for as long as his elbows could stand it. Eventually he slumped, entirely spent, on top of her, his weight pushing him even deeper inside of her.
Neither spoke. Neither moved. The post-coital routine could wait.
Peter was surprised by the persistence of his erection. It occurred to him to pull out, but the sensation of her flesh around him, now hot and sticky with his love, was intoxicating.
The feeling was entirely mutual. Assumpta thought of the years of pent up frustration now released inside of her and the desire to chase that feeling was inescapable.
Slowly but persistently, she shifted a fraction beneath Peter, grinding her pelvis against his still-hard cock as her subsequent orgasm mounted.
"Am I hurting you?" she asked him, when Peter buried his forehead on her shoulder.
"The opposite" he mumbled through a bemused frown. "Is that normal?"
"Lucky," she told him instead.
Peter reciprocated her smile as he swivelled his hips, a motion which threatened to tip her over the edge.
"That good?" he stuttered.
"You have no idea."
Encouraged by her moans filled with yearning, Peter attempted it again and again, grinding against her quivering nub until she began to summit.
"I want this. I want this so much..." Assumpta groaned incoherently against his mouth as she came, hard and relentlessly for the second or third time.
Her sighs were his undoing. Peter felt that now familiar pull as he exploded, emptying everything he had inside of her yet again.
Through heavy panting, he relinquished his hold, fearing that any more proximity would enter them into this delicious cycle again.
Reluctantly, she let him, feeling immediately cold when he left. She replaced him with the cover of her jacket.
When he trusted himself enough not to mumble, Peter hazarded to speak. "That was…"
"Unexpected," she immediately interjected.
"Unbelievable" Peter said instead before continuing, timidly, "Is this really happening?"
Assumpta smiled as she turned to face him. "It'd better be."
"Then why am I so terrified?"
She looked at Peter sombrely. "It's going to be okay, you know."
Unconvinced, the curate rolled onto his back. "How can you know?"
"Because…" she announced tetchily, "Even if it isn't, it will be. Somehow. Eventually."
"Very philosophical," he sniffed.
"You have to have faith."
It was perhaps the single-most inopportune thing she could say. "I didn't mean," she corrected. "What I meant to say – "
"It's okay." Peter turned to face her. "I do. Despite appearances."
They allowed the silence to settle. The torrential downpour had eased up rendering every further moment that they remained in the cabin superfluous.
"We should probably get going,"
Peter nodded in agreement and began to assemble his scattered garments. He fingered the starched, heavy-duty cotton of his vestments warily. Should he feel ashamed that they were cast aside so readily?
The publican viewed his self-reproach through cautious eyes. It was sort of inevitable, really. Guilt. He was bound to feel it eventually.
"This didn't happen" she ventured quietly to herself while fastening her dress.
Peter looked on at her, entirely bemused. "What?"
"This. Today. It didn't happen." Assumpta kept her focus on the wall beside Peter or on her shoes – anywhere but him.
"I don't understand."
She felt her frustration mount. "You've nothing to worry about, okay. I'm not going to say anything."
"I didn't think you would," he replied, perhaps unsympathetically. "Where's this coming from?"
Assumpta caught his ardent glances with her own tear-filled eyes. "I don't want you to feel ashamed."
"How could I ever feel ashamed?"
"Guilty, then. This shouldn't change anything."
Peter raised his eyebrows. "It changes everything."
"Not if we don't want it to. Not if we don't let it."
"I'm not afraid of change, Assumpta." Peter approached her carefully. "I want things to change. Lord knows, I can't carry on with the way things are."
"Then what?"
Peter considered her question. "I just…" he began. "I need some time. I need to think about things."
"I don't want what we just did to influence your decision."
The curate smiled with disbelief. "That won't be easy."
"I just want this to exist out of time, somehow" she asked him wistfully. "Outside of our narrative."
"Our narrative." Peter considered this with a smile. "We have a narrative."
Her heart soared at the prospect. "We do. And it's not even over yet."
The curate enveloped her in a hug with his former three single words resounding deafeningly in his head. He struggled for anything else to say.
"We should go." Assumpta interjected with her own three words.
Peter smiled dreamily. Keeping what had transpired in this cabin from their reality was not going to be easy. "Okay."
As they found the bus stop in an easy silence, they were both equally relieved and disappointed when the vehicle appeared shortly after at the crest of the hill.
They were careful not to touch as they alighted and sat beside one another on the cramped seats. Touching was strictly contraband after what it had led to today. Proximity would be their undoing.
"Now what?"
Assumpta's question prompted an uneasy response from the curate. "We do what has to be done."
"Which is?"
Peter didn't answer right away. There was a long road ahead – that much was certain. But after everything that has occurred today, everything that he'd felt, there were no backward steps.
He didn't even want there to be.
Assumpta's wistful comment broke his train of thought. "A married woman and a Catholic Priest."
The curate chided her with an unconvincing "Shhh…" to which she smiled a private smile.
She knew then what she probably always knew.
It was going to be okay.