"Let me get this straight. A month ago, you break up with Larry. A week ago, you travel to Paris for Mary's fashion launch and you end up sleeping with some Irishman. Sybil Crawley, you slut."

Sybil rolled her eyes, shaking her head at Thomas. "It wasn't like that at all," she exclaimed but her friend wasn't listening.

"Remind me the next time you go to Paris to come along."

"Why? So, you can be my protector?" Sybil raised an eyebrow.

"Fuck no. I want my own Irishman. Or Frenchman, whatever."

Sybil put down her book on the grass and stretched her legs out, soaking in the sunlight. "I thought you were going for that guy? What's his name? Jimmy."

Thomas pulled the cigarette from his lips, puffing out a cloud of smoke. "Apparently, he's not gay."

"Didn't I tell you that?"

"Well, he's not gay yet." He crushed his stick into the grass. "So, tell me, the Irishman. What was he like? How lucky did you get? How big was his leprechaun?"

"Thomas!" Sybil said, standing up and dusting the dirt from her jeans. "This is why I don't tell you things."

He stood up as well, pulling his sunglasses off as they began walking through the courtyard. "I know. You tell Gwen things and then she tells me. It's really not fair, Syb, I mean – "

"So, tell me about Jimmy again. What's your plan to bring out the gay in him?" Sybil interrupted and thankfully for her, Thomas took the bait, going into the details about his love life rather than hers. Admittedly, she could barely pay attention as her mind drifted to Paris.

Even though, she had been to Paris a couple of times before, this had to be first that that she gotten lost. The streets looked the same around every turn with French signs mocking her for not paying enough attention during school. Thunder roared through the night sky, and it took her less than a second to decide to find shelter in the nearest pub rather than continue her unsuccessful search for the hotel.

The neon sign of Rick's barely illuminated and had it not been for the group of people entering, she would have thought the establishment to be closed. When she entered, a shrill bell rang from the top of the door and quickly, she made her way to the counter.

"Pardon, monsieur," she said, waving her hand at the bartender. "Um, parlez-vous anglais?" she managed to say, yet there was no doubt in her mind that her English accent butchered the sentence.

The bartender snarled and continued staring at her as though she had another head.

"Monseiur, je – fuck, I forgot the word." She took her phone out of her purse but no matter how many times she glared at it, it was still battery dead. "This is not my night."

"You having trouble, love?"

Sybil's head snapped up and she found that the voice belonged to a man sitting two seats away from her.

"Phone's dead," she said, holding it up. "It's been a crazy night."

He pushed his glass aside and shifted closer, allowing her to see whom she was talking to. With his disheveled light brown hair and his blue eyes, she was suddenly aware that she probably looked like a mess from the rain, but it was the weary smile he gave her that seemed to draw her in. The accent was also a bonus.

"You can use mine if you want," he offered, but she shook her head.

"I don't actually know my sister's number, so that wouldn't help."

"You're English?"

Sybil nodded. "And you're Irish."

"You should be a detective," he said with a chuckle. He brought his glass to his lips, finishing off the last of his drink and setting the now empty glass on the table. Looking over at her, he paused as though he were about thinking about what to say until finally, he asked, "Can I at least buy you a drink, then?"

Sybil bit her lip. Granted, she had broken up with Larry a few weeks ago and even though, the stranger was appealing, she felt that she should know better. Still, there was a part of her that was definitely already attracted to him and it was after all, her last night in Paris.

"How about," she paused, a smirk growing on her lips. "I buy us a drink?"

The stranger raised his eyebrows, grinning as he folded his arms across his chest. "If you insist," he said, motioning towards the counter. "I like a woman who's assertive. Do I get a name at least?"

"We'll see," she replied smugly. She turned her head to the bartender and tried once more to get a response from him, "Monsieur, je—dammit, do you speak French?"

The stranger gave a hearty laugh, shaking his head. "God, no. I found that it works best if you just slide the money across the counter."

Following his advice, Sybil took a note from her purse and pushed it towards the bartender. Immediately, he picked it up and tucked it into his shirt pocket before pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses from below the counter and setting it in front of them.

"It works, but you never know what you're going to get," the stranger said. "In the last hour, he's given me a beer and a cocktail when all I wanted was to use the toilet."

Sybil poured the red wine into the glasses, handing one to the man.

"You know, I'm going to have to call you something if we're going to finish this bottle," he said, when they clinked glasses.

Sybil took a sip from her glass, the wine tingling her mouth. "Well, what do I look like?"

He set his glass down and looked at her. To her surprise, his eyes stayed firm on her face rather than travelling downward like most men did.

"I'll call you 'kid'," he said, as though proud of her new nickname.

"I'm not a child," Sybil huffed.

The stranger waved his hands. "Don't you get it? 'Kid' like from Casablanca? 'Here's looking at you, kid.' Come on, you're in Rick's."

"I've never seen it."

"You're kidding, right? It's Bogie at his finest."

Sybil chuckled. "You're a Humphrey Bogart fan? I did not expect that."

"My Ma was. She used to watch his films all the time with my older sisters. Can't say, I wasn't forced to join them." He offered her a smile.

"Well, then" Sybil said, "It seems I've found a name for you, Bogie."

"Alright," he leaned in towards her, "then I'm just going to have to call you Bacall."

When Sybil took another sip from her wine glass, trying to hide her growing smile, she realised that maybe her last night wasn't going to be a total disaster.

"You excited?"

Tom looked at his friend over the crowd of students gathered in the hallway. "Not really," he replied.

"Because they're English?" Matthew said, raising an eyebrow.

"Because I haven't taught before." It was true, though. Despite how much Tom had wanted to be a professor, he couldn't deny the jitters in his stomach. He had been incredibly lucky when Matthew had called him up, asking if he had left Paris to go back home to Ireland. With Professor Calhoun tending to his broken hip, the Political Science class was in need for a teacher and naturally, Matthew had thought of his old friend.

At first, the head of the department had been weary of giving the class to Tom as he only recently had been given his doctorate, but after two days constantly sending references, exchanging emails and conversing over the phone, the old man gave in. It was a blessing for Tom to receive the teaching job especially since his previous searches had come up empty-handed and it was the chance he needed to finally start his new life, one hopefully without drama.

"It won't be that bad. They're just students. They won't bite," Matthew said with a grin as they managed to push through the crowd. "I remember my first day teaching here. I was so anxious I nearly vomited in my car."

Tom made a face. "You drove me here! Remind me never to sit in your car again."

"I said 'nearly' and besides, when I actually had the class, I realised that they were harmless and I had been foolish. Listen; what you need is for them to talk. It's a third-year political science class, so it'll be easy. Everyone's bound to have their own opinions. You'll probably need more help actually shutting them up."

Tom ran his fingers through his hair, suddenly aware of his moist palms. It wasn't like him to be nervous. Usually he was brash and enthusiastic, especially when it came to politics but whether it was his lack of sleep or his general awe of Cambridge, there was something troubling on his mind. He had gone over the lesson plans twice already since that morning and even though, it was only the first day of term, he knew he would have to make an outstanding first impression if he ever wanted to go from assistant professor to full tenure.

When Matthew dropped him off at his classroom, all Tom could think of was 'God help me' before he entered.

"I cannot believe you told Thomas," Sybil said when she took as seat next to Gwen. The red-haired woman simply shrugged her shoulders, continuing texting on her phone.

"He got it out of me."

"And how exactly did he do that?"

Gwen grinned and showed her screen to Sybil. "He gave me Jon's number."

"That bastard."

"Hey, just because he's got a dysfunctional family, it—"

Sybil shook her head. "I was talking about Thomas."

"Oh," Gwen grew silent. "Yeah, he is one, but the man does have connections. You would've told him though … right?" Gwen said cautiously, hoping that she hadn't upset Sybil.

Deliberately, Sybil took her time to reply, glaring at her friend until finally, she nodded with her lips curling, "Of course, I would've."

"So, I did save you the trouble when you think about it?"

"You're not getting out of this one that easily, Dawson," Sybil said, wagging her finger. "I want details about Jon and then I may forgive you."

Gwen feigned shock, her mouth wide as she put her hand to her heart. "Give me details first about your French rendezvous."

"I told you. Nothing happened," Sybil said.

"Shut it, Crawley. I want details first – oh, shit, Sybil, don't look." Gwen's eyes were glued on the doorway and despite her friend's warning, Sybil immediately turned her head, already anticipating who was there. She had thought Thomas had been joking when he said that Larry would be auditing her class, but sure enough, the future politician made his entrance with a dirty glare in her direction.

"What a dick," Gwen whispered, while he took a seat on the opposite side of the room. "It's a good thing you broke up with him."

"Oh God, this isn't going to be fun," Sybil said, trying to hide her face.

Gwen leaned over so that Sybil's view of Larry was blocked. "Don't worry, you have me in this class and if he tries something, I'll set his greasy hair on fire and we'll have a bonfire."

"What would I do without you?" Sybil replied fondly, bringing Gwen into a tight hug. For all the years that they had known each other, Gwen had always been a constant support through all their dramas, acting more of a sister than Mary and Edith had ever been.

"Can I get a hug as well? I think I'll need one for my first day here," a voice said from the front of the class. The girls broke apart, facing the figure standing by the whiteboard and Sybil's jaw dropped, her mouth forming a perfect 'o' when her gaze met the shocked eyes of her new assistant professor, who was none other than her Parisian stranger.

It couldn't be, Tom thought to himself, staring at her with wide eyes but sure enough, out of all the classrooms in all the universities in all the world, she was sitting in his.

Any thoughts of first impressions disappeared from his head when only one word left his mouth.

"Fuck."

AN: I know, I know. Another fic when I've got many to write but this one will be fun, I promise. Many many thanks to my beta scarletcourt for being a doll and I'm very interested to know what you guys think so far. Also, I have no clue about English universities, I'm getting all my information from the internet so sorry if there's any inaccuracies. Night y'all!