Author's note: We remain out of canon here, but within the timeline of Pack Up Your Troubles (s3ep9). As ever, I like to think that this could've happened within canon.


Peter, late September 1998

Peter sat alone in his mother's kitchen, a cold cup of tea in front of him. There was the familiar smell of home, which took him right back to his boyhood here in this house, but now there was also an emptiness and stillness which felt almost oppressive.

Peter had flown back to Manchester from Dublin almost as soon as he'd got the call from his Auntie Julie to let him know that his mother, her sister Mary, was gravely ill in hospital and that he should come home urgently. His mum had been battling cancer for a number of years and they all knew that the time would come eventually. Peter had sensed from her letters, which came weekly, that she knew that she was nearing the end as she talked increasingly of the glories of heaven, however it had still been an incredible shock to discover just how unwell she was when he reached home; she'd never mentioned any physical symptoms at all and yet he'd arrived at the hospital to be told that things were at a palliative stage only. He'd actually called Michael Ryan from the hospital because he couldn't believe that there was nothing more that could be done and he'd advised talking to the consultant oncologist. The consultant had confirmed that Mary had known for many months that the cancer had spread and had refused any further treatment, which was unlikely to work anyway. That was so like Mum, so sure in her faith of where she was heading, and so certain of a new resurrection body.

He'd had three days with her before she slipped into unconsciousness which she never really came out of before the end. They'd talked and prayed, as much as her strength would allow, but mostly he'd just been with her, sometimes with other family members, sometimes on his own. Peter loved his mum with all his heart; it was her quiet, sincere faith which had been the catalyst for his own and it was she who had, eventually, brought his dad round to the idea of a priest as a son. Hers had not been a pie in the sky sort of faith nor just a nominalism, but a reasonable, thought-out and hands-on faith which put others first and drew people to Christ because of it.

When they'd talked, it'd been partly practicalities, Peter was an only child so he knew he would have responsibilities when she did pass, but they also talked of Christ and of faith. He'd expressed some of his struggle to her already in letters, though without specifics, so it'd been her who had brought it up, self sacrificial to the end. She'd asked him, in the that way that only a mother could, whether he knew what had caused his doubts about his vocation, and he'd been honest and told her that he'd fallen in love with a woman and he couldn't square that with being a priest. She was initially concerned that he was confessing an affair to her, but once he'd reassured her that nothing had happened, and nothing would happen if he remained a priest, she'd been gentle and practical. She'd reminded him that being a priest was a high calling and not everyone would be able to manage it, that there was no sin in loving someone, and that he wasn't shackled to the priesthood; if he wanted to serve God as a married layman, wasn't that what most of his congregation did? She had expressed some concern that Assumpta didn't share his faith, and the difficulties of a marriage where the two partners disagreed about fundamental truths, but Peter didn't feel judged, just loved and supported through his crisis. She'd said she didn't want him to leave the priesthood unless he was absolutely sure he had to, but that she loved him whatever. That was almost the last thing she'd said to him before she slipped unconscious after which he'd prayed for her and over her and administered the last rites when the time came.

His mum had been faithful to the end, he had no doubt she would be welcomed at the gates of glory as a good a faithful servant. But now, sitting in her house, surrounded by her things, he missed her tremendously, and tears fell quietly as he mourned her, her example and her wise counsel. He wished they'd had more time, that he could've talked more to her, sought her full blessing to leave the priesthood if it came to that.

His thoughts flicked to Assumpta, as they had so many times these last few days as he talked to his mum. He had no idea how she was and whether she was still married to Leo or not. She'd left Ballykissangel a couple of days before he had to talk to Leo who'd left a couple of days before that. Niamh seemed to think that she'd gone to bring him back, but, after his and Leo's conversation in the pub kitchen that night, he wasn't sure whether things were as straightforward as Niamh wanted to think. Leo had accused Peter of coming between him and his wife; it was a serious allegation and one which he refuted, he hadn't on purpose, he'd kept away, he'd said nothing, but the accusation still played on his conscience. Had he come between them? He knew this was the reason he hadn't told his mum that Assumpta was married; he knew that this would cross a line for her, and he agreed. Marriage was sacred, a holy sacrament, those whom God had joined no one should put asunder. He took a deep breath, he hadn't come between them, not intentionally anyway. His actions had been honourable and right, he'd left them alone; what happened between Assumpta and Leo was up to them.

He did think, though, that he might give Doc Ryan another call, to update him and let him know he'd be home in a few weeks, once he'd sorted the practicalities. Michael would know if Assumpta was home yet and that might put his mind more at ease. He would always love her, even if just from afar, and he needed to know she was alright.


Assumpta, late September 1998

Assumpta twiddled the piece of paper from Doc Ryan in her hand nervously. She'd read it a thousand times, Peter's phone number in Manchester with the familiar +44 code of the UK. She wanted to call him and see how he was doing but she'd been standing by the phone for ages and now there was just half an hour before she had to open the pub and she still hadn't done it.

She'd returned to Ballykissangel earlier in the week, without Leo, and, other than Niamh, everyone had broadly kept their mouths shut about it. Which was good, because she didn't exactly feel she could explain that they'd separated because she was in love with the local priest. She'd arrived home to find said local priest not at home, having gone back to England to be with his mother who was dying. She'd missed him, of course, and especially in the micro second when Niamh had said he was gone and she actually thought he was really gone, but it had been good having some space away from him to settle back into village life as a single woman. She'd had to make her peace with the fact that she would just have to find a way to love Peter as a friend. It was complicated, but it felt like the only way forward at this stage. He was a priest. But even a priest would need a friend right now and she wanted to be his friend, even if she couldn't be anything else.

She twiddled the paper again and then, without thinking anymore, dialled the number. It took a few seconds to connect and then started ringing. She panicked and was about to put the phone down again when he answered:

"Hello?"