A/N Apologies for the ridiculous delay with updating. A bout of flu made it impossible to write anything bar some delirious ramblings (some of which may have found their way into this chapter!)

Also fair warning... there be M-rated content here. No warm and fuzzy feelings to go with it i'm afraid. This is angst, angst, angst (with a healthy dose of awkwardness) all the way!

Breakfast at the Clifford Lake House was a decidedly surreal affair. The 'Angela' Assumpta had encountered the previous night seemed to have been replaced this morning by a Stepford-wife type, fixated on replenishing her guests' coffee cups as soon as they even threatened to become empty.

"More toast, Assumpta?" she offered cheerily – too cheerily.

"I'm fine…"

Other than these practised niceties, the table was silent – the clang on cutlery on china being the only exception to this rule.

Peter was morose throughout. His red eyes and pallid complexion betrayed his assertion that he'd slept well. Throughout the meal, Assumpta tried to catch his eye by shooting a concerned expression his way every now and then. The Priest's focus remained steadfast on his plate however.

Something had happened, Assumpta was sure of it. Somehow that witch Angela had convinced Peter to put an end to his feelings for the publican. Last night's stairwell conversation had hinted at it, this morning's breakfast damn near confirmed it.

A sickness rose in Assumpta's throat – the sickness that comes from the anticipation that you're about to be dumped. A sickness that she hadn't felt since she was a teenager when she'd heard from a friend of a friend of a friend that Tommy O'Dell was now going steady with Candace from Year 4.

"Grapefruit or Orange?"

"Excuse me?" Snapped from her imaginings, the publican shot Peter's sister an accusatory look, only contributing to the awkwardness of the room.

"Juice?" Angela exclaimed in a sing-song voice. "Just juice."

Assumpta shook her head silently and directing her attention back to Peter's half eaten slice of toast, asked him. "How's your mother?"

"No news yet" Angela interrupted before realising the question wasn't directed at her. "Sorry."

"Are you going to the hospital today?" This time her question was addressed to them both.

Angela gave her brother time to respond but upon hearing nothing, answered. "Yes, well I will be at least." She studied Peter for a moment, and almost immediately declared, "In fact, I'll probably get going now. Leave you two to… talk."

That was it then, Assumpta told herself. He was going to do it this now.

As if confirming her suspicions, the elder Clifford told Peter, "I'll see you later" as she left the kitchen. To Assumpta, she said nothing.

The door closed behind her.

They were alone at last.

Never one to hide her feelings, Assumpta set about clearing away breakfast with the same enthusiasm as she had eating it. Sombrely, she weaved past Peter and the plates, deciding instead to devote her attention to scrubbing the stains off their coffee cups with meticulous care.

Peter was the first one to speak, although everything in his voice told her he was reluctant to do so.

"I guess we should talk."

Assumpta winced. Here it comes… "What do we have to talk about?"

"Lots," he admitted. "Before last night."

"And today?"

Peter eventually locked eyes with the publican. "Just one thing, I guess."

Snatching her focus back to her coffee cups, Assumpta felt hot tears sting the back of her eyes. So this was how it was going to end? The Priest's one decisive action and it had to be this. Irritated by his silence, she snapped tetchily. "Will you just do it already, Peter."

"None of this is easy…"

"So you keep telling me," The publican rolled her eyes in an attempt to keep back her tears.

"I don't want to end things with you."

"But you're going to anyway…"

Peter stepped over to the counter in an attempt to offer comfort. His nerves getting the better of him, instead he leaned one hand against the lip of the Belfast sink. "I don't see any other way around it," he admitted finally.

If the room had erupted into flames, it would have been less traumatic for Assumpta. "Fine," she reasoned eventually. "Fine… that's your decision. This week was about you making your decision, so I'm glad you've finally been able to..."

The publican allowed her sentence to trail before adding, "Except, it wasn't really your decision, was it?"

His own tears threatening to spill over, Peter asked warily. "How do you…"

"Your sister," she interrupted. "Before she returned, could you ever have imagined ending this with me right now?"

Peter's glistening blue eyes darted to the window, as if seeking an answer. Trembling, he chewed on his bottom lip and answered truthfully, "No."

"Then what's changed?" Assumpta asked, wishing silently that his lower lip had been hers. "Does your sister have such a hold on you?"

"This has nothing to do with her," he snapped.

"Then who?" she erupted, unable to keep her trademark temper in check any longer. "Last night we were kissing against this very counter and today you couldn't have me far enough away."

The memory of their kiss stirred something inside of Peter. Irritated by his lack of fortitude, he clenched his fists. "My feelings for you haven't changed."

"Then what has?"

The question hung there, unanswered for what seemed like an eternity before his companion grew tired of waiting. "You know what? Don't worry. I already know."

"What?"

The publican was already half way out of the door as Peter asked it. "What?" he attempted again, more definitively.

Assumpta ascended the stairwell at speed, wiping away angry tears with the back of her hand as she did so. When he finally caught up with her on the landing, Peter placed a cagy hand on her forearm, which she rejected viciously.

"This is classic Peter Clifford, isn't it?" she began. "Vacillating from one notion to the other. Wanting something one minute and then canning it when you get too close."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Assumpta's quietened rage had finally spilt over. "Let's back up, shall we. Every time we've even touched fingertips, it's been on your terms. Your initiation. The car in Kilnashee woods; the pub, the couch – the kitchen, even. As soon as I make a move, you run away scared."

"I'm not scared."

"Oh really?" Her temper flaring, Assumpta searched her mind for any tenuous example. "Last night, as soon as I even tried to initiate anything stronger than hand holding, you'd recoil."

"You're wrong," Peter dismissed, making a move into the bedroom.

"Am I?" she asked, following in after him at speed.

"Yes."

"If I'm so wrong, why are you running away now?"

"I'm not run…" Peter cut his sentence short, realising his actions were to the contrary. "I'm not running."

The publican approached the bed where he stood. "Yeah?" she asked, her voice heavy. "Prove it."

As she spoke those final words, Assumpta enunciated every syllable, keeping her hot breath inches from his face.

Suddenly the mood in the room had shifted. Where there was once anger, there was now anticipation and the silent energy that comes with it.

If Peter was nervous, he didn't show it. "How do you…?" he asked casually.

Assumpta didn't miss a beat. "Prove it." Her mouth edged closer to his, the inflection on the word 'prove' creating a swell in her lower lip.

The curate's expression was unreadable initially. His eyes wide with worry and his brow furrowed, Assumpta was sure that he was going to leave.

As if confirming her suspicions, Peter removed his hands from his sides and stowed them safely in his pocket. Wordlessly he turned to go, his lanky frame moving heavily towards the door.

Assumpta snatched her head away so she didn't have to watch him. Humiliated and rejected – twice in 12 hours! – was too much for the publican to take. As she made a silent oath never to open up so readily again, something unexpected happened.

The door clicked behind her.

The key turned in the lock.

She listened for footsteps but none came. As she turned, she saw that Peter was firmly rooted to the spot, looking at her with equal measures of desire and fear.

In the moments that followed, neither spoke. Instead, Assumpta crossed over to him and entwining her fingers through his, led Peter over to the bed.

As she did so, a chorus of words rang through the curate's head. Are you really going to do this? This isn't a good idea. But for his part, Peter shut out each and every one.

This wasn't the time for thinking.

"Undress me," Assumpta's unflinching command brought him back into reality.

Without really processing what she said – and its implications – Peter moved a steady hand towards the strap of her dress. Hooking his thumb underneath it, he slid it down her bare shoulder, eliciting a closed-eye sigh from his companion.

This wasn't a good idea – it really wasn't, but Peter was transfixed. Keeping his eyes on hers the entire time, he removed the other strap and trailed his fingers along the buttons along the front of the red floral dress. As he moved to undo them, the curate was suddenly mystified at where to begin.

"They're just for show," Assumpta explained with a smile. "Here…"

The publican raised her left arm over her head and guided his hand to the zip on the side of the dress. Once he had located the clasp, Peter dragged the zipper slowly down the curve of her waist. Assumpta clenched down on her lower lip as his warm hand found the skin underneath.

After this, the clothes appeared to peel off by their own accord. The dress was the first to leave, cascading into a pool around the publican's feet. Next the shoes and hold-ups, each removed quickly and carefully and placed neatly beside the ottoman.

When just two items of clothing remained, Peter got to his feet and finally allowed his eyes to linger on the silhouette of her near-naked form.

"There," he mumbled breathlessly. "Proven."

Gesturing to the white cotton underwear protecting her modesty, Assumpta whispered. "Not quite."

Peter flashed a look of warning. Did she really want him to continue? Did he?

Knowing all to well that this final act would be their undoing, the curate moved his fingers to the clasp of her strapless bra, peering over her shoulder as he worked.

If the buttons on her dress flummoxed him, this new challenge was damn near impossible. His frustration rising along with his embarrassment, Peter opted instead to drag the elasticated material up, over her head.

Assumpta's urge to laugh was soon diminished by the impossible heat of Peter's hand against her breast. She watched as he studied her, appreciating her form as if it were the first time he'd seen anything like it.

"Why don't you want me, Peter" she heard herself ask him.

"I do," he assured, keeping his eyes and his hands firmly on her. "I want you so much."

She leaned in close to him and soon felt that this was definitely the case. Catching his gaze, she took a deep breath and murmured quietly, "Prove it."

All it took was a split second of hesitation before Peter's mouth was against Assumpta's again, kissing her with a new kind of veracity that neither of them expected.

Clumsily, they fell against the bed as the publican made a better of job of undressing Peter than he had her. In seconds, his t-shirt, jeans and boxers had joined her pile of clothing on the floor leaving them both naked, save for the bed sheet Assumpta had hastily draped around them both. "For warmth," she explained as Peter eyed the cover suspiciously.

For a moment, the pair remained perfectly still with their limbs and torsos entwined. Peter ran his thumb along her cheek to catch an errant tear that had somehow escaped. Moved by its presence, the Priest gently kissed the place where it had been before moving his mouth to reclaim hers once again.

In doing so, the pair reached their moment of no return – a consequence there'd be no turning away from. As he entered her, a fog of thoughts clouded Peter's brain as this new nirvana coursed through him. Almost immediately he wondered why he'd denied himself this for so long. It was almost innocent in its simplicity.

How could something so right be so wrong?

"Stay with me," Assumpta pleaded as her lover's distractions led him to relax his pace to a painstaking slow.

Frustrated by his internal monologue, Peter bit down on his lower lip in an attempt to regain better control of his faculties. "Sorry" he mumbled, wishing immediately that he hadn't.

Assumpta planted light kisses on his temple as once again, his thrusts began to pick up pace. As inexperienced as he was eager, Peter bit down on his lip to keep his release from surfacing too soon.

He envisioned the most mundane things he could fathom: a pencil, a pencil sharper, a ruler, a protractor… but his resolve was wearing fast.

"Assumpta – I…" he begged but oblivious to his pleas, the woman merely tightened her hold of his hips. "I'm going to –" he warned but it was already too late. Quickly and completely, Peter emptied himself into her, his eyes brimming with tears as he did so.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled breathlessly into her hair. "I'm sorry. I –"

"Shhh…"

"No, I didn't mean to… I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Assumpta searched his eyes honestly but he averted his in shame. "Peter, look at me won't you?"

"I wanted this to be perfect. I wanted to make you…"

"You can. You will –"

Pulling away, Peter shook his head regretfully. "You deserve so much better than me."

Assumpta felt her eyes sting with tears as Peter turned to face the wall. "Then how come it's you who I love?"

If she'd actually spoken the words out loud, the Priest didn't offer any response. Realising that her proclamation was merely a thought, etched on her lips, Assumpta turned to face Peter's back. Gingerly, she wrapped her arm around his waist, a gesture that he accepted half-heartedly.

If before she'd guessed it, now she knew it. It wasn't over. How could it be?

It had never even begun.