Assumpta Fitzgerald had known she was in trouble early on. Very early on. It had only been a few short months in when she'd realised just how deeply in love with the new curate she was.

And it had unnerved her. Quite severely.

She must have appeared bipolar to him; her mood swings had been of epic proportions. She'd float between happily chatting to him outside Fitzgerald's of a morning, telling herself that she just enjoyed the company of someone closer to her age and intellect – someone who presented more of a challenge – to tearing into him over the smallest things, realising there was no way she was getting out of this one alive.

She'd blamed him, of course; his youthful face that belied his wisdom and maturity, his ready smile – especially for her, she'd eventually realised – his love for her town and its occupants. The way he would bend over backwards to help anyone. That smile; the one that made her feel weak at the knees, despite the stern talking to she would give herself every time. Those green eyes that made her feel like he could see into her soul; eyes whose intense gaze she had met and dropped so many times. His boyish good-looks. The way he stopped to help her at night when he knew she was exhausted. The way he was always around, always on her side, or at least always the one on the other side of the argument, balancing her out. The only one who could make her smile, even when she was furious or miserable. The one who had practically carried her into her own kitchen before Ambrose had arrested her, risking - and copping - her legendary wrath.

But she'd known it was all her own doing. She knew she was the first; at least, the first to realise. He'd surprised her from day one – he wasn't like the other priests that had come and gone, offering their holy presence and lengthy, irrelevant and definitely unwanted sermons. He'd been different. He'd actually cared - genuinely cared about what happened in Ballykissangel. He'd put his money where his mouth was, and the young English curate had won over the very Irish town in less than three months. She hadn't had to work hard to get those signatures; he'd already earned each and every one of them.

Maybe that's when…maybe it had been when he'd told her he had to leave, that he was ordered back to Manchester. His words had been like a blow to the chest. She'd once asked him if he'd come to Ballyk, even knowing he wasn't wanted – it had been his first night, when one of the mountainy men had died, and he'd begged her to drive him up there. He hadn't replied. Ten weeks' later she had asked him where he wanted to be – in Ballyk, or in Manchester – and he'd thrown her words right back at her. Where I'm wanted, he'd said rather pointedly, his voice slightly elevated.

She'd known then. Definitely.

The petition had been the obvious answer; she knew the Bishop was ok, as far as Catholic Bishops went, and the petition would at least raise a few eyebrows. Hopefully raise enough that Peter would stay, despite Father Mac's best efforts. She had to admit, that had been a definite bonus.

She hadn't realised how much her petition would mean to him; she'd been a little surprised when he'd teared up. But not displeased...definitely not displeased. The petition was her way of showing him how much he was wanted, and not just by the town.

Maybe he'd known then, too. When he'd asked her whether or not she wanted him to stay…it was such a small thing to pick up on, her use of the word 'they' instead of 'we'. She hadn't expected that. It was the first time he'd really challenged her on 'them', even just at a friendship level. The first time he'd really asked her what she actually thought of him.

She'd been sideswiped, really; she hadn't been able to do anything other than stare at him, her heart written all over her face. He'd looked…stunned. He hadn't said anything, and she'd eventually found the presence of mind to tear her eyes away from his. She'd all but fled at that point.

Yes, definitely before then.

He had been fairly oblivious, she assumed, or at least in denial for a long time. The first time they shared one of those looks across the bar her heart had nearly stopped. He'd dropped his eyes first, clearly furious with himself for revealing so much in split second – for being so vulnerable when he knew his position.

She'd felt guilty for a long time. Guilty that she loved him so intensely. Even guiltier when she realised he might just feel something too. He was a Catholic priest, as he'd reminded her on several occasions, and whilst she didn't respect the church, she respected him. She respected his choice to be a priest. Hell, she loved him for it – for all the good he did in that role.

She'd even gone so far as to tell him it was ok; that he didn't need to change anything, and that she'd be happy with him just the way he was. It was the easy road, but one filled with danger, and one that offered only very short-term rewards. And, eventually, a lot of pain and heartache. Not one he'd be willing to take, she knew, but it was the only way she could think of to show him how she really felt. He'd gotten the message that time, too.

To be fair, he had kept coming back. He hadn't run away. Day after day, night after night. Not pulling back, not letting go. Not until she'd demanded a decision from him; something, anything.

And he'd pushed her away.

She would never forget his words as long as she lived; they'd burnt a hole in her mind and soul. The pain in his voice, she'd much later realised – too late – had been incredible. She'd never heard him speak like that.

And then she'd run off and betrayed him in the single biggest way she knew how; she'd married another man. Another moment singed into her memory forever, filed under one of the worst days of her life. She'd been racking them up quickly back then. The hurt on his face had taken her breath away; it was in that very moment she had realised just how colossal a mistake she had made. That there was no way on earth that Leo was ever going to drive him from her mind as she'd so foolishly – and desperately – hoped.

She didn't believe in love at first sight, but love had come swiftly and unrelentingly, and had taken her over so quickly she was left helpless, and hopeless.

And to be honest, she hadn't fought it all that hard. Not at first, anyway.

Her first reaction to him had been like most, although she doubted anyone was quite so…acerbic? Caustic? Brutal? She'd laid into him before he'd even arrived in the town. He'd done nothing to deserve her bitter jibes, except wear that collar – and he hadn't even been wearing it then. She'd thought about him a bit, early on; she wondered just how quickly this very young-looking English priest would turn and run. But, to his credit, he'd survived her – and the town – and had stayed.

It wasn't until later, when she'd developed such a deep respect for him that she tried fighting it. For his sake, more than hers – she couldn't destroy him, and loving her was going to destroy him. She'd tried pushing him away, forcing herself to watch the pain on his face as she spat another insult at him – even drawing the eyes of others with her sheer disrespect – as she shut him out of her mind and her life. But it had failed so spectacularly, and only because of him. She reasoned he must have figured her out, figured out why she was pushing him so wholly away, and had chased her. She'd run, but they always ended up together. He was always there, staring into her soul with his perceptive green eyes. Wearing away at her, until things had come to a head…

Niamh hadn't known how right she was when she said that Assumpta only wanted what she couldn't have. Because the only thing she had wanted with such a fierce, burning passion, was the only thing she couldn't have; could never have.

Or so she'd thought.

She'd never really known how deeply he'd fallen; she'd always suspected early on that he was victim of her love. That he only considered her because she so obviously loved him.

The lure of the forbidden.

How wrong she'd been. And what a way to realise it; sitting on the counter of her best friend's house, his lips slowly working their way up her neck to her jawline…when she'd panicked. That day at the lake, when he'd poured his heart out to her. She'd been left with no doubt as to his feelings; feelings he'd obviously spent a long time fighting.

Feelings they'd both finally caved in to.

She sighed as she sat in the leather seat, a small smiling playing across her face, as she thought of him.

'Assumpta?' Niamh's voice asked, pulling her out of her reverie.

'What? Yeah, sorry.' She looked up.

They'd arrived.

She got out of the car, and stood awkwardly in front of her best friend, trying to hide the nerves that were threatening to overwhelm her. Niamh gave her a giant smile.

'You look incredible,' she said, her voice oozing with pride. 'I can't wait to see his face,' she added. Assumpta blushed. As much as she was dying to do this, she was also desperate to get it over with as quickly as possible. She wasn't this person; she hadn't wanted a huge deal made. If she'd had her way, things would have been over weeks ago. But she hadn't. Secretly, she was kinda glad; this meant more memories. No matter how painful it promised to be initially.

Brendan suddenly appeared at her side, a big smile on his face. 'You look incredible,' he said, and Assumpta blushed for what felt like the millionth time that day. She suspected it wouldn't be the last time, either.

'Thanks.'

Her heart stopped as she heard the soft notes of violins coming from around the corner. Sensing her nerves, Brendan reached over and squeezed her hand. She smiled briefly.

'Ready?'

'I suppose,' she said, unable to keep the terror out of her voice.

'Just smile,' he said, taking a step forward, pulling her with him. As they rounded the corner, she looked up briefly, instantly meeting his eyes. She watched his face breaking into a smile, and his eyes glisten with tears. The green of the grass under her feet almost matched the green of his eyes, she thought suddenly. And then she couldn't look at him anymore; she put her head down and concentrated on her short, but terrifying, journey.

She didn't know how, but she eventually made it up the aisle and to his side. She looked up when she reached him; his eyes were still glistening with unshed tears, and he still wore a small smile.

'You look so beautiful,' he whispered, taking her hands. She blushed again, unable to sustain the intensity of his gaze. She felt tears threaten to prick the back of her eyes, and she took a deep breath, trying to get control of herself.

This was her wedding day, and she was marrying Peter Clifford.

This one was being filed under one of the best days of her life.

I apologise for not posting in the last few days - a surprise holiday with the husband. :)

This may or may not be the last chapter - I have a couple of ideas - so I won't label it complete just yet. I hope you like!