A/N: Hello readers! Well, as some of you may now, Beautiful Collisions is done, so I'm free to post this now. This will be incredibly different than that story, both in genre, overall theme, and length, but I do hope those who enjoyed BC will also grow to love this. This chapter really begins to set everything in motion, as this story takes place very slowly - ie, we cover every bit of a weekend in several chapters. So enjoy! And do tell me what you think if you feel so inclined. This story is all about opinions, and I'd love to hear yours :]

"Someone hit the light
'Cause there's more here to be seen
When you caught my eye
I saw everywhere I'd been
And wanna go to
You came on your own
That's how you'll leave
With hope in your hands
And air to breathe
I won't disappoint you
As you fall apart
Some things should be simple
Even an end has a start"
An End Has A Start - The Editors

Tom wished his life was as exciting and adventurous as everyone suspected it to be. Maybe he did need a girl or a drug, just something to distract his mouth from saying things that contradicted the fact that his hands were so familiar with the trigger of a gun. Some of these men, at least those in Belfast, proudly walked around with their rifles slung over their shoulders, but in Dublin, the overall presence of the 'RA was less prevalent, and he and all of his friends were told to keep quiet. They performed smaller, more petty tasks; their aim being to get the army money, and not to make a statement.

When they left on Monday, things would change. Tom didn't know how, but he imagined it, and he imagined the look of horror on children's faces as he paced the streets, armed and masked and silent — always silent. Some of them would be no older than Katie Grace, and all at once, every ounce of him would be forced to abandon his childhood as things like death and fire and destruction became commonplace. He believed in the cause, but was still struggling with the side effects. Like a sedative or a night spent drinking, he wondered when it would all catch up to him, and if he'd look back on these days and wonder if he'd made his father proud or even furthered Ireland's position.

Despite what his friends thought, Tom's actual destination was a bookshop he used to visit with his family on Saturday mornings. It was much more run down than he ever remembered, but Tom liked it for this reason, and loved that amongst the old dusty titles and unrecognizable bindings, some of the best literary tales could be found. On occasion, Mr. O'Connor, who owned the shop, would order new titles in hopes of attracting business, but in general most of the books were used, with some of their leather covers refurbished by the old shopkeeper merely for his own enjoyment. The shop was now visited mostly by students of the local universities, either Tom's own UCD, or the private Trinity College, with the campus just up the road.

Entering the shop, Tom was immune to the bell that rang above his head, and he headed straight for one of the bookshelves in the back. All of them, unlike those in other bookstores, were of mismatched wood, with the differing paint colors chipping away, showing that they were just as antiquated as the stories they carried. Somehow, Mr. O'Connor managed to keep his wife's organizational system alive after she passed, and Tom, one of the shop's older customers, found comfort in the way the things he needed to find were always right where he thought they'd be. Few things in life, if any, worked the way this antique bookshop did.

At the back of the shop, Tom called out for Mr. O'Connor, but found his ears greeted with nothing but silence. It was not unlikely for the elderly gentleman to disappear into the back of the shop to read, make tea, or balance the books, trusting that anyone who was curious enough to wander into his shop was of a good nature and pleasant disposition to pay for anything they may be interested in.

As Tom browsed through the titles of books he already knew the endings of, he was momentarily distracted by a rustling, and then a loud click as the girl at the end of the aisle a few rows over, stepped down off a stool where she was inspecting a book up on a higher shelf. The starched white collar of the shirt she wore contrasted sharply with the burnt sienna jumper she had draped over it, both of which hugged her hips right above where a brown skirt flowed away from her body. For reasons Tom was unaware of, he smiled at her, and for the first time in his life, she looked away. It was not just offense, but curiosity, and his deeply seated need to always be accepted, that had him pacing toward her as she carried a stack of books up toward the front register.

"Can I help you?" she called out softly, not even bothering to turn back to him.

Tom was stilled by her voice — humming, raspy, and eerily beautiful. There was something else about it as well.

"You're English…"

"I am," she returned flatly.

"Well maybe I should be asking you if I can help you?"

She shook her head, dismissing the confusion she felt wash over her due to his response. "I'm not sure what that means."

Tom chuckled. "And I wouldn't expect you to. Is Mr. O'Connor around?"

"He's visiting his daughter today. He'll be back in on Monday. Is there anything I can do for you until he returns?"

"You work here?"

"No," the girl rolled her eyes. "I'm just a friendly English girl offering my services."

"Those services being…" Tom's voice suggestively trailed off.

This girl, it seemed, was not at all amused. "Books, mostly. Conversation if you're lucky."

"Ahh," Tom nodded, both of his hands tucked in the back pockets of his black jeans as he slowly approached her. "What's your favorite?"

"Book?" she replied. "You want to know my favorite book but you haven't even asked for my name..."

"Names are easy," Tom returned. "Someone's favorite book tells a lot more than their name ever will."

"Alright then," she sighed. "Pride and Prejudice. I have others but that is my absolute favorite." Another steady breath brushed past her lips, which like her hair, frizzy and plaited, Tom found he couldn't stop staring at. "And you?"

"A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man."

"By Joyce?" she asked for clarification.

"Yes. But I do read things by non-Irish authors, I'll have you know."

"Okay," she nodded before turning back to a book on the shelf behind her which she grabbed and began to write in. Why, when they did not kn0w one another, they both felt as if they should defend their choices, was not lost on either of them.

"What is your name?"

Again, she did not look to him and the expression she wore went unchanged. "Sybil."

He waited, giving her time to return his question with more than just an answer, but no words followed. "I'm Tom," he tried instead, also offering her his hand.

Sybil looked at it and shook it before returning her attention to her book. "Why does it matter that I'm English, Tom?"

"It doesn't, I suppose."

"Alright, then let's go back to my original question. How can I help you?"

"When did you start working here?" Tom asked instead. His words caught Sybil off guard and she immediately dropped her pen and looked up.

"Long enough to know who you are and to know that you have Mr. O'Connor set aside books for you every Friday."

"You're observant."

"And you're self-important. Is that an Irish thing?"

"Why have I never seen you before?" Tom asked, using his method of deflection again in hopes of garnering similar results. "Do you live here?"

"Maybe."

"You go to Trinity then?"

"Maybe."

"Why don't you like me?"

"I don't know you," Sybil laughed off. "I just don't understand why you won't tell me to grab your parcel so we can both be on with our day."

"Am I that unbearable?"

"Again, I don't know you," Sybil repeated, her eyes narrowing in on Tom, all the while keeping her lips pursed.

"If I ask for my package will you talk to me?"

"We're talking right now," she gave, gesturing to the counter in front of her for proof.

"Do you want to go out with me tonight?"

Quickly, Sybil pressed the back of her hand up to her nose and mouth to stifle a laugh as she turned away. "What?"

Tom was already wearing a smile, but it grew. She was beautiful. Utterly stunning, and yet the question, though going against what he was supposed to be looking for, made all the sense in the world.

"Do you want to go out with me tonight?"

"I'll tell you again, Tom," she said, using his name as a warning, one that somehow made his mouth curve further upward in amusement, "I don't know you."

"Then get to know me."

"I don't know if I want to get to know you."

"Why is that?"

"Well, first off, you have a gun in your bag."

Tom smirked. "Small technicality."

"Will you tell me why you have a gun in your bag? I've seen boys like you, a whole group of them the other day actually, but you're different..."

Cockily, Tom leaned back now, as he pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. "Why's that?"

"Well, for starters, you can read."

Heartily, he dropped his head back to laugh. "I can."

"Unless this is also a game you're playing."

"The gun's not a game."

"Does Mr. O'Connor know you have that?" Sybil asked quickly. "He's very fond of you, you know. Always has very lovely things to say."

"He was a friend of my father's."

"Well I think he'd be disappointed to know you have a gun in your bag," Sybil stated matter of factly before returning to her book. Sybil was referring to Mr. O'Connor, but Tom heard her words as the thoughts of his late father, and a bit of discomfort and sadness overtook his features.

As if it were nothing, Sybil continued to scribble down notes, numbers, mostly, tallying who had visited the shop and what they had asked for or purchased. She had not yet gotten to Tom and seemed to only be logging earlier customers, that of which there were many and Tom was made happy by this. He wondered, though, what her pen would write about him, or if she'd tell Mr. O'Connor about this at all. She doubted he'd mind, and Tom knew he wouldn't, if Tom quietly came to collect his books and departed. In all honesty, he often wished he was capable of being that unassuming.

"Doesn't it scare you?"

"No," Sybil scoffed, still writing. "If you wanted to rob me or have your way with me, you would have done it by now." She sighed and looked up again, this time not dropping the pen but using it like he would the barrel of his gun — to point and shoot. "Do they teach you what to do with that thing or do they just give it to you and hope you'll figure it all out?"

"You're pretty, Sybil, and your taste in literature isn't completely shit, but I have to be honest and let you know that you really have no idea what you're talking about."

"What? Does that frighten you? People in this town don't talk about it. I get it. It's scary. But it doesn't bother me. And if we are being honest, I'm just curious…" In realizing she wasn't going to get a reaction out of Tom this way, Sybil's voice trailed off. "You didn't know I worked in this bookshop because Mr. O'Connor used to keep me hidden away. It sounds silly, and it made me feel childish for awhile, but you see, no one in this town would hire an English girl. He said he wasn't bothered by me and his wife had just passed and I knew he needed help so I did what I could in the back. I got his checkbook in order, and we devised a system for loans and student rentals. And then slowly, he trusted me. But he still didn't want me to talk. So while he and I had gotten past whatever internalized prejudice he had, he knew not everyone else would be as friendly. Because the thing is, whether any of you realize it or not, you're on a side. Each and every one of you is aligned. Even the boys that aren't like you, the ones that don't carry guns in their rucksacks, they watch my mouth as I talk because they can't fathom that a girl like me would have a brain. And then I tell them that I, someone who was raised in England, may actually agree with them. I think Thatcher's a witch and I honestly believe what has happened to this country is sad. But it doesn't matter, does it? At the end of the day, I'm still English and you're still Irish and you still don't like me…"

"I don't know you, Sybil," Tom repeated. The daggers she had sent his way were now furling back toward her, and Sybil wondered if they tasted as bitter and as sharp as they did falling off her own tongue.

"But you want to know me. That or you think I should want to know you. I haven't quite figured out which one it is."

"Well it sounds like you're curious. Come with me tonight and I'll show you whatever you want to see."

"Alright," she practically whispered.

Tom was ready to turn for the door, but his entire body froze at her acceptance of his request. "What?"

"I said alright. I said I'd come out with you."

"Why would you do that?"

Sybil chuckled. "Because you asked. What? Are you already having second thoughts?"

"No, I just...I didn't think you'd say yes."

"Why? I already told you, Tom. I'm not scared of you. Because I'm not scared of you, I hold the power."

"What power is that?"

"The power to change your mind."

Tom watched as Sybil grabbed for her things, first the heavy bag that hung on a nearby coat rack, then the heavier cardigan that hung with it.

"C'mon," she ushered, causing Tom to follow as the two headed for the door.

It seemed that Tom was so caught up in her, so distracted by the words she had just said and the weight they carried, that he didn't even bother to ask for his books. He also didn't know that he didn't need to, that Sybil had tucked them away in her own rucksack long before he entered that morning, as if planning for this day all along.

Thanks for reading!

x. Elle