All right, here's the chapter I've been nervous about. You'll notice the rating's still a T. I'd been wrestling with just how MUCH to resolve the unresolved, and how much of it to show. The tone of this story seemed to answer both questions for me; I hope it comes across as "in keeping with the complicated formula," rather than "fence-sitting discretion-cut." Might still be controversial, all the same. (Inevitable, maybe, when writing religion and sex.)

You'll also notice this still isn't marked "complete" - still a few loose ends to tie off. (Thanks again for all your kind words and suggestions. Eninaj: Fr. Mac is absolutely an owl! LMS5XP, enduring exams; though old enough to inflict, I'm not qualified for such.)

A belated "happy birthday" to Margaux! Hope the flu has gone on its merry way. Now: back to the kiss.

Peter tried to memorise every piece of this moment: the burning dust smell and reassuring hum of the heating; the lingering traces of wind and incense in their hair, of lager and ginger in their mouths; the glow of a few sconces along the pub wall. His skin was a cold layer between warm exerted muscle and barely-dry clothes. His feet were tired; he'd spent so little of the day sitting still and relaxing.

She was pulling at him every way she could - beckoning his tongue with her own, tugging at his shirt, hanging more of her weight on him as if to coax him to the floor. The yearning within him had already announced itself, and she had to be aware of it. He ran a contoured hand along the lines of her body, marvelling at how familiar they already seemed. Had it been their last encounter, or the years of stolen looks?

The threat of official reprimand did nothing to dampen his desire; nor did the fear of wagging tongues. The wrath of God over these things had always seemed to him somewhat overstated, more an outgrowth of human obsession with desires of the flesh than the moral keystone of true faith. He was leaving his vocation for her - could anything be as final and intimate as that?

And for all his own years of careful restraint, he felt strangely bold. Performance anxiety had failed to arrive on schedule. He could think of no compelling reason to stop...

Until he remembered the look on Siobhan's face the day before.

He broke away from the deepening kiss. "'Sumpta, do you have..."

She had moved her lips to his neck, her hand further down. "Mmm?"

"Hold on!"

She pulled away. "Oh, no. I'm sorry, I never meant to push you."

"No, I mean...I'm not prepared, I haven't brought any..."

Her eyes widened as she grasped this. "No, I suppose you wouldn't have..." A laugh overtook her.

He scowled, the mood utterly spoilt.

"Sorry, sorry," she muttered, recovering her composure.

"Is it so surprising?"

"No, no, I...maybe that you'd condone it, but-"

"You might recall I wasn't exactly in lockstep with the Vatican on everything," he grumbled.

"You can't expect me to know that. I didn't go to your infamous lecture."

"Suffice it to say we're lucky Father Mac didn't, either." His expression softened. "Maybe it would have been better if he had. Settled things sooner-"

"Ah, hush."

For a bit, they both did. She began the task of collecting glasses, and he took to straightening chairs.

Finally the dog's unaccompanied snoring proved too much to bear. "I do want to," he said suddenly.

She looked up. "Peter-"

"I need you to keep in mind it's been a very long time for me." He caught her gaze, daring her to back out now.

She put up a relaxed smile and massaged the bar with a towel. "Same for me." Noticing his doubtful reaction, she added, "But I can think of no one I'd rather be clumsy and out-of-practise with. When the time's right."

The thought of her "clumsiness" brought his heart rate right back up again. He swallowed. "Right."

He tried to put up the chair in his hands. It seemed incredibly unwieldy.

"Oh, and for the record-" she began, cutting herself off. "Never mind."

"What?"

"It's stupid."

"No. What?"

She set down the towel and leant back from the bar. "Well, when I first took over the pub, randy tourists kept asking me where they might find certain...protective incidentals. I couldn't very well direct them across the street, so I started keeping a stockpile of my own." She pulled a small basket from under the bar.

He felt himself grinning - always stronger on that one side, couldn't be helped.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. It's business. There are better souvenirs to leave this town with than a baby. No call for going native."

"You know what I think?"

She glared. "What?"

"I think you're a good person and a conscientious businesswoman." He paused, bracing his forearms on the feet of the upturned chair. "Wait, you mean you occasionally have bookings here?"

The fire in her eyes blazed brighter. "Oh, Clifford, you're in for it now."

Good thing there hadn't been any lodgers at Fitzgerald's that night, Assumpta realised. They'd have heard a noisy stampede as a woman chased a man up the stairs to her room, and then decidedly undignified laughter as he let her catch him in an ineffectual tackle, nudging the door shut with a wayward foot.

He had frozen in place.

Oh, no.

"What's wrong?" she whispered, heart sinking.

He looked around him. "It just seems familiar."

She tilted her head and blinked. "You stayed a night once before."

"But not in your room." Without turning behind him to judge the distance, he drew her dancelike toward the bed. When the backs of his knees reached the edge of the mattress, he tumbled onto it, pulling her with him.

"I don't think you'd believe how many times I've dreamt about this," she whispered, making her way down the placket of his shirt.

He smiled. "Oh, you might be surprised."

Had he slept? He supposed he must have. He'd certainly never felt so relaxed or contented. The woman he cradled was sleeping still, hair mussed and skin dewy, even more beautiful than he'd dreamt.

In this country, in this village, in this pub, in this room, in this bed, in her, he had a truer sense of belonging than he'd known in all his life. If there'd been any doubt before, now it was clear: he wanted to spend the rest of his days in these arms, these sheets, this building, this world.

Yesterday's events floated to the surface of his memory now, like a new haircut or a sprained ankle. He only hoped he hadn't blown it with the rest of the town.

Then he remembered at least one resident who'd be sure to protest if his breakfast was late. What time was it? It wasn't yet light out...

Peter considered slipping out without trying to wake Assumpta, but he quickly imagined her fury no matter when she found out. So instead, he traced senseless patterns on the skin of her back. The lights of her eyes came on slowly. At first, she stared at him in wonder.

Beg me to stay, he prayed.

She looked around in panic. Finally her eyes managed to focus on the clock. "Oh, God, you'd better get out of here."

"G'morning to you," he answered. She dismissed this with a hurried kiss on his mouth, all but pushing him out of bed. He reassembled his clothes, half expecting the suit not to fit anymore, or to disintegrate on contact with his flesh. In fact it felt the same.

"Get on with you," she hissed, scrambling naked to put one more kiss on him.

"So last night, was-"

"Grand. Go, now!"

"I love you."

"I love you, too. Now bog off!"

Peter went home, amazed at what had happened.