Peter looked at his watch. It was late, but the pub would still be open.
They'd talked about his return; whether or not he'd just turn up at the pub, or whether he'd slowly start turning up at people's houses, working the individual tack. Assumpta had rather viciously made her opinion known, mentioning some of the things he'd done for the town, but Peter had talked her down. His departure had hurt people, and he needed to face them individually. And alone.
Assumpta had sighed, knowing he was right – he was usually right about these things – but she was still adamant. Anyone who wasn't ready to forgive him wasn't welcome in her bar.
He reached over and picked up the phone.
The phone rang shrilly. Niamh looked over at Assumpta who was at the other end of the bar. Assumpta dropped her eyes and headed towards the phone. Niamh continued serving the small group of tourists who'd wandered into the pub a number of hours ago, and were going to have to be carried out by their tour guide at this rate. She glanced at the tour guide – he wasn't going to be in any shape to be carrying anyone anywhere either if he didn't stop drinking soon.
She turned and looked down the bar to where Assumpta stood, hidden behind the divider. She hadn't asked, but it hadn't taken a genius to realise something was up when she'd arrived earlier that evening. Assumpta should have been walking on sunshine, but instead she found a grumpy, curt landlady. She hadn't had a chance to ask, but she could guess.
And she guessed again that she was telling the tall young Englishman on the other end of the line that tonight was not a good night to wander into the only bar in Ballykissangel.
Niamh sighed as she absent-mindedly munched on the chips in front of her.
Brendan sat in the corner of the bar, sulking.
He wouldn't have called it sulking if anyone had challenged him, but he knew that's what it was.
Peter had been right: Siobhan Mehigan had not been happy with him.
He'd fought back – who was he not to help a man of God? He isn't a priest! How could he turn Peter down? Easily, after what he'd done! Didn't she want to see Assumpta happy?
She'd just thrown the handtowel she'd been holding at him at that one.
He took a sip of his pint, his face resembling a thundercloud. Even Padraig had had the good sense to avoid him.
Brendan sulked.
Peter sighed. He'd hoped that of all of them Siobhan would be the one to forgive, but he'd hoped a little too much. He knew he'd had things easy of late – with the exception of Assumpta, but that had turned out so well – that he shouldn't complain.
But Siobhan?
'Is she there now?'
'No. She left after I told her.'
Peter sighed. It was too late to go calling now; it would have to wait until morning.
Assumpta bit her lip. Raging further about ungrateful vets wasn't going to help, so she skipped that bit. 'She probably just wants to hear you say you're sorry.'
'Yeah. I hope so.'
Assumpta bit her lip as she heard a familiar laugh from the bar. 'Padraig's feeling pretty happy right now,' she joked, and Peter snorted lightly. 'I'll be closing the pub at eleven,' she added.
'Word has it you need some help behind the bar.'
Assumpta grinned in spite of herself. 'I'll see you then.'
Peter couldn't help smiling as he walked down the darkened main street of Ballykissangel, despite the icy wind that bit at his face. The only light in the street was coming from the lone streetlight, and Fitzgerald's. He glanced at his watch; 11:15pm. Knowing Assumpta, the bar will have been empty for fourteen minutes and fifty seconds. He tried the handle of the familiar blue door; it was open. He pushed, but the door wouldn't budge. He pushed a little harder, and the door gave way with a screech that closely resembled the screaming of a thousand tortured souls. Peter grimaced and closed his eyes for a second before deciding against more tortured screaming, preferring to squeeze through the narrow gap the door had generously provided.
He looked up to see Assumpta standing at the edge of the bar, grimacing herself.
'Ah, yeah. Gotta get that fixed,' she said, looking up at Peter apologetically.
Peter just grinned as he took two big steps forward and grabbed her into a hug. She'd read his mind, her arms wrapping themselves around his neck as he lifted her off the ground, the plastic of his cast digging slightly into her back. She buried her face in his neck, closing her eyes at his familiar smell. She'd spent the past weeks trying not to think about him. Of course, she'd been horribly unsuccessful – everything in the bar reminded her of him – but she'd tried.
She realised at that moment that there was nothing she loved more than his strong, warm arms engulfing her in one of his all-encompassing hugs. The hugs she'd gotten so used to in the short time he'd spent on his last visit - hugs she longed to spend hours enjoying.
'I've missed you,' she whispered, as he put her back down on the ground, not letting go.
'I've missed you too,' he whispered back, burying his face in her hair.
She pulled back and looked up at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. 'You look tired.'
'It's late.'
She frowned slightly at his avoidance of the question. It wasn't that late; he'd spent many an evening out later than this. She knew – he'd spent them at her bar. She realised he still wasn't sleeping well. She frowned, making a mental note to discuss it later.
His eyes roamed her face, his hand pushing her hair away from her cheek. 'It's good to be back.'
She couldn't help smiling a little, ducking his gaze. She wasn't used to being so visibly adored, especially not by someone she didn't mind being adored by.
'I suppose I should speak up before this becomes anything more than G-rated,' a voice said from the end of the bar.
Peter's head flung around.
'Welcome back, Father. Or should I say, Peter.'
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