This story started out on tumblr as a just-for-fun drabble following the "enemies to lovers" trope. The PP story is much more complex than this little trifle (obviously), which merely mirrors some of the common beats we now associate with Elizabeth and Darcy's story. All in good fun. Enjoy! :)

"I think he might be the most beautiful person I ever beheld."

Sybil rolled her eyes at her exuberant friend. "Imogen, you've said that about every boy you've ever liked."

"Well, this time I mean it! Jim Branson is gorgeous, and also may be my soulmate."

"Soulmate? You've had three conversations with him."

"Five! And they were all excellent conversations, all far too short, and all leaving me wanting so much more. Didn't you think him charming?"

Sybil took a sip of her wine and looked around the packed opening reception at Imogen's art gallery. Just about everyone they knew was there, including the Irish art handler Imogen had hired a few weeks back to help her unpack and install several of the larger pieces on display tonight. Imogen was smitten immediately and kept making excuses to call him back to the gallery for help just for the chance to talk to him. He'd accepted the invitation to the opening tonight just as eagerly as Imogen had proffered it, only asking if he could bring his younger brother, Tom, along. Imogen had introduced them both to Sybil when they'd arrived, but soon after, the brothers wandered off as Imogen continued to play hostess.

Now that the place was full and the event could be considered a success, she wanted to find him again. For Imogen, there was no crush she didn't jump into with both feet, but even her best friend could admit that this one felt a little different.

"He was very nice," Sybil said. "I can't deny it. Neither I can I deny that he is quite nice looking."

"His brother was rather handsome too," Imogen said.

"Not really."

Imogen looked at Sybil wide-eyed. "What!?"

Sybil shrugged. "I don't know. Just not my type, I suppose, so if you had match-making on the brain, you can dispense with the idea straight-away."

Imogen laughed. "Darling, I'm too focused on my love life to have any time for yours. Besides, haven't I known you since we were twelve? There aren't many I know who are more anti-social than you."

"I'm not anti-social, I'm …"

"What?"

"Reserved."

"A regular Mr. Darcy."

This finally got Sybil to laugh. Looking at her friend with a smile, she said, "I just want you to be careful."

"Which I appreciate," Imogen said, taking Sybil's arm. "Come on, now, let's go look for them and make plans for drinks after."

As the girls moved off, Tom came around from behind the pillar they had just been standing in front of. He hadn't meant to listen in on their conversation, but when he heard his brother's name, he couldn't help himself. Tom, like Sybil, was worried that Jim was falling too hard, too fast for a woman he barely knew—and one much wealthier than he.

In the end though, he was glad to have heard everything. Sybil was beautiful, but a rank snob, clearly. Tom was happy not to have to waste any time on her.

At least Jim's feelings were obviously returned. If he had to, Tom would endure Sybil for the sake of his brother's happiness.

Tom looked over to the buzzing mobile just to the right of the keyboard he was currently pounding. Usually, when his phone rang while he was writing on deadline, as he was now, Tom didn't answer unless it was a source for the story. But when he saw that it was Jim calling, his brow furrowed. Jim had made plans to spend the day with Imogen—Tom knew this much. He also knew that Jim knew that Tom was going to be working all day. Considerate to a fault, Jim would never think of interrupting Tom unless there was something really wrong.

(Their brother Liam—who'd already texted Tom four times asking if he could borrow money to go out tonight—was another story.)

Tom paused mid-sentenced, and with a sigh, picked up his mobile.

"This is Tom."

"Hi, Tom. It's Jim. I'm so sorry to bother you." His voice was hoarse and unsteady.

"What's wrong?" Tom replied. " You sound like someone's killed you cat."

Tom listened as Jim took a long, deep breath. "No," Jim replied, finally. "Selkie's fine. It's only my dignity that's about to take a killing."

Tom chuckled. "So the posh girl's finally come to her senses about you."

"Honestly, brother, at this point I might welcome that."

"All right, then, what is it?"

"I'm at her house," Jim said, taking another deep breath. "And I've just puked in her toilet."

"What?!"

"Mrs. Stanley brought me a fruitcake this morning. She wouldn't leave until I tried it."

Tom rubbed his forehead, knowing what was coming. "And there were strawberries in it, were there?"

"Apparently."

"Did it occur to you to tell her that you're allergic?"

"She was so nice about it. It seemed very rude not to try it."

"Jim, you are too nice for your own good. In this case, quite literally."

"Can you pick me up?"

"Now?"

"I couldn't possibly make it to the Tube station in this state."

"Just call a taxi, then."

"I was hoping not to empty my bank account tonight."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's one bloody taxi."

"Can you really not come pick me up?"

Tom sighed. "I can't right this minute, but in two hours, maybe."

"Ugh."

"Thanks would cover it."

"No, it's just … I think I'm going to throw up again."

"Where is Imogen anyway?"

At just that moment, Jim heard a knock at the door. He quickly whispered into his phone, "I'll call you back," and hung up.

"Jim, is everything all right?"

Jim opened his mouth to respond but immediately felt another wave of nausea hit him and emptied what was little was left in his stomach into the toilet.

Hearing the unmistakable sound, Imogen gasped. "Jim, what's wrong? Are you sick?"

Jim quickly flushed the toilet and went over to the sink to rinse out his mouth. Leaning on the sink, he took several deep breaths to try to compose himself. Then, he looked under the sink and found an air freshner. He sprayed the room liberally, but the strong smell of the spray made him feel suddenly faint and before he could get his bearings, he slipped and fell unceremoniously onto the floor.

Hearing the crash, Imogen yelled, "OH MY GOD! I'M COMING IN!" before opening the door and rushing to his aid. After helping Jim sit up so he was leaning against the wall, with Imogen kneeling in front of him, she asked, "Darling, what's wrong?"

Jim took a deep breath and laughed to himself. "Oh, nothing, just having the most humiliating moment of my life in front of a girl I was rather hoping to impress. How are things with you?"

Imogen smiled. "Please don't concern yourself with that. I really want to help. Are you feeling all right? I can ask Sybil to come look in—she's a doctor."

"No, that's all right. I'm just having an allergic reaction."

"Well, you're clearly in no state to go anywhere, so you're staying here until further notice."

"Imogen, I couldn't possibly impose on you."

"What imposition? I insist. I'll make up one of the guest rooms myself and you can't leave until you're feeling better."

Not really in a position to argue, Jim nodded and allowed Imogen to help him up. She led him upstairs and into an empty bedroom, where she proceeded to pull off his shoes, tie and jacket before pushing him onto the bed and practically smothering him with the comforter.

Once he was comfortable, she sat at the edge of the bed next to him. "If I may be so bold as to admit I've fantasized about getting you in bed, this isn't exactly what I pictured."

Jim blushed. "I'm so grateful and more embarrassed than you could possibly imagine and also unlikely to ever be able to repay you."

"I'll think of something good," she said with a wink, causing Jim's already considerable blush to deepen.

"Well, I tried to call Tom when I was in the loo. I should call him back and see if he can come fetch me after all," he said.

"Very well. I'll leave you to it," Imogen said standing. "I'll go get you some water and crackers, but just know that while he's certainly welcome to come, I'm serious when I say I won't let you leave until you're perfectly well."

Jim smiled. As terrible as he felt, he couldn't seem to stop smiling just then. "Duly noted."

Slightly less than three hours later, Tom finally arrived. It was Sybil who answered the door.

Noting the surprise in his eyes when he saw her, she said, "Imogen set Jim up in one of the guest rooms. She's there with him now."

Tom stepped into the large foyer tentatively.

"May I take your jacket?"

Tom turned toward Sybil again. "Oh … is he not ready to go?"

"I can go check, but Imogen took up a bowl of broth for him not too long ago."

Tom scratched his head—in what Sybil could easily see was annoyance—before removing his jacket. Sybil stepped forward to take it, not looking at Tom in the eyes as she did so, which read as her annoyance at him. After hanging it up, she walked further into the house, making no obvious indication that he should follow. Tom did so, nevertheless, and the two ended up in a small sitting room just off the foyer.

"May I go see him?" Tom asked. "I should at least let him know I'm here."

"Yes, of course," she said quickly. Tom noticed that Sybil was holding her hands in a way that suggested she was nervous, though he couldn't imagine why that was. Sybil led him again toward the main hall and the staircase.

"So you live here with Imogen?" she heard Tom say behind her.

"No, I'm just staying with her while I finish my residency."

"You're a doctor?"

"I am."

The fact surprised Tom, who couldn't stop himself from saying, "Wow."

Sybil stopped mid-step and turned to face Tom again. He stopped a step below her on the stairs, and looking down on him the blueness of his eyes took her aback.

"Yes?" he said.

Sybil turned back around and when she knew he couldn't see her rolled her eyes at herself. It was true she was the opposite of a social butterfly, but she was also not one to easily lose her composure. This was only the second time she'd been around Tom Branson, but something about him made her feel … off kilter. Her quick dismissal of his looks the other night belied the fact that he'd made an immediate impression on her. Sybil found her train of thought again. "That surprises you?"

"I wouldn't have guessed, no," Tom admitted quietly. The annoyance he felt upon arrival at Imogen's starting to dissipate.

At the top of the stairs, Sybil turned to him again, expressionless. If his assumptions as to her profession (or lack there of—for he had assumed that her life was one of charity galas and martini lunches) had insulted her in any way, she didn't show it. Even from a single meeting Tom could see that Imogen, much like Jim, wore her heart on her sleeve. Her friend appeared to be quite the opposite.

"Imogen mentioned you work at the Guardian," Sybil said after a moment.

"Indeed."

Tom and Sybil looked at each other silently for a moment. Neither was ever the type to be at a loss for words, and that wasn't exactly what was happening in this moment—a bizarre combination of awkwardness and curiosity that neither felt like addressing directly or walking away from. Eventually, it was Sybil who stepped away first, walking down the hall to the room from which Tom could hear laughter as he approached.

Sybil knocked gently before opening the door. Jim remained on the bed, and Imogen at his side, but whatever ugliness he'd felt earlier was obviously gone.

"It looks like you're feeling better," Tom said.

"I am," Jim said with a smile. "Thank you for coming. I'm so embarrassed."

"Do you really have to go?" Imogen asked.

"I think I should probably cut my losses, yes," Jim replied.

"All right," she said rolling her eyes good-naturedly.

"Just give me a second, Tom," Jim said. "I'll be right down."

Tom nodded and he and Sybil headed back down without a word. Imogen and Jim followed only minutes later, still laughing and talking and generally acting as if they were the only two people in the world. As they moved toward the door, Sybil got Tom's coat and handed it to him.

"It was nice to see you again," she said, in a voice so quiet it suggested intimacy, which startled and puzzled Tom all at once.

"You too," he replied.

Sybil stuck out her hand, and Tom looked at it for a second before shaking it with his.

Outside, as the two brothers walked toward Tom's car, Jim said, "I owe you so big, little brother."

But Tom did not respond.

"Tom?"

His brother's voice seemed to pull him out of a reverie. "What?"

"I said I owe you."

Tom smirked. "Yes, you do."

Note: I am aware that the way the allergy thing plays out is not particularly realistic. I know someone allergic to peas who throws up if he eats anything with peas, which is sort of what this is based on, but I know that most reactions are different and would require use of an epi pen. Because this was just intended to be a short drabble at first, I didn't think very hard about what made Jim throw up. Apologies if what I wrote is so wrong it's bonkers. Just having fun over here. Any realism is incidental ;)