Chapter Text
Regulus is standing in his bathroom with a scowl on his face. Hands gripping the ends of his hair in frustration. “Dammit,” he exclaims, hands falling. His curls won't lay properly, and damn Sirius Orion Black for getting sick and subjecting Regulus to this ordeal. He should be studying for his final exams, which are next week, yet Regulus stands in his bathroom where the light won't stay fully on, trying to force his curls not to look like a hot mess. He needs to stop sleeping with wet hair. He mustn't sleep with damp hair. Reciting this mantra several times in his head, he lifts his hands with cream once more to bring his curls under control. When he finishes trying to control them, they all pop back into a mess. He rolls his eyes in exasperation and gazes at the pale, dark-haired boy with dull cerulean eyes too large for his angled face staring back at him, and gives up hope. His only option now was to clip back his short curls and pray that he looked semi-presentable.
Sirius is his roommate and older brother, and he had chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, he can't attend the interview he’d arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon, Regulus, never heard of, for the school newspaper. So Regulus has been volunteered (forced). Regulus has a final exam to cram for and one essay to finish, and now He's supposed to be working this afternoon, but no–today Regulus has to drive 165 miles downtown Seattle to meet the Enigmatic CEO of Potter Enterprise Holdings, inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our university, Mr. Potter's time is extraordinarily precious– much more than Regulus’s– but he granted Sirius an interview. A real coup, Sirius tells Regulus. Damn, Sirius extracurricular activities.
Sirius is huddled on the couch in the living room. In a knitted blanket their cousin Andromeda made tissues surrounding the coffee table.
“ Reggie, I’m so sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview petit frère. It will take another six to reschedule, and I’ll have graduated by then. As the editor, I can't blow this off please étoile” Sirius begs Regulus, in his rasping, sore throat voice. Regulus cringes at the sound of being able to hear his older brother's entire upper respiratory system fight against him. How does he do it? Even ill, his older brother looks gamine and handsome, with long black curls in place, and silver eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. Regulus ignores the unwelcome pang of sympathy.
“Of course, I’ll go, Siri. You should get back to bed. Would you like some NyQuil or Tylenol?”
“NyQuil, please. Here are the questions and my digital recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I’ll transcribe it all.”
“I know nothing about him, Sirius, ” Regulus murmurs, trying and failing to suppress his rising panic.
“The questions will see you through. Go. It’s a long drive. I don’t want you to be late.”
“Okay, I’m going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later.” Regulus stares at him fondly. ‘Only for you, Sirius, would I do this for you.’ Regulus thinks grabbing the car keys out of the dish by the door
“I will. Good luck. And thanks, Reggie—as usual, you’re my lifesaver.”
Gathering his backpack, Regulus smiles at him wryly, then heads out the door to the car. He cannot believe he let Sirius talk him into this. But Sirius could talk anyone into anything. He’ll make an exceptional journalist. He’s articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, and beautiful—and Sirius is Regulus' last grip on real family.
The roads are clear when Regulus sets off from Vancouver, Washington, towards Interstate 5. It’s early, and Regulus doesn’t have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. Fortunately, for Regulus at least, Sirius lent him his sporty Mercedes CLK. He’s not sure Leo, his old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Oh and Sirius’s Merc is a fun drive, the miles start to slip away as he hits the pedal to the metal.
Regulus’s destination is the headquarters of Mr. Potter’s global enterprise. It’s a humongous twenty-story office building, all curved glass and steel. An architect’s utilitarian wet dream. With POTTER’S HOUSE written discretely in steel over the glass front doors. It's a quarter to two when Regulus arrives in Sirius’s Mercedes, greatly relieved that he’s not late as he walks into the gigantic–and frankly obnoxious– glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.
Behind the solid huge, expensive sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde, young woman smiles at Regulus. She’s wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt he has ever seen. She looks immaculate.
“I’m here to see Mr. Potter. I’m Regulus Black, I'm here for Sirius Black.”
“Excuse me one moment, Mister Black.” She arches her eyebrow as Regulus stands self-consciously before her. He's beginning to wish he’d borrowed one of Sirius’s Fitted blazers, rather than wearing his thrifted olive green sweater. He made an effort and wore his only pair of dress slacks (he's pretty sure they're Sirius’s from his boarding school uniform). His sensible black docs, and a long pendant. For Him, this is business casual. He tucks one hand in his slacks as he pretends this woman doesn't fully intimidate him.
“ Mister black is expected. Please sign in here, Mister Regulus. You'll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor.” She smiles kindly at Regulus, amused no doubt, as he signs in.
She hands him a crisp warm pass that must've just been printed and has “ Visitor” very firmly stamped on the front. He can’t help his smirk. Surely it’s obvious that he’s just visiting. Regulus doesn't fit in here at all. Nothing changes. He inwardly sighs. Thanking the women, He walks over to the bank of elevators and [ast the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than he is in their well-cut black suits.
The elevator whisks Regulus at a terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and He’s in another large lobby–again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. Regulus is confronted by another desk of sandstone and another blonde woman, this time dressed impeccably in black and white, who rises to greet him.
“Mister Black, could you wait here, please?” She points to a seated area of white leather chairs.
Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Seattle skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. It’s a stunning vista, and Regulus is momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.
Regulus sits down on the leather chairs where instructed to. He fishes the questions from his bag and goes through them inwardly cursing his brother for not providing him with a brief biography. Regulus knows nothing about the man he's about to interview.
He could be ninety or he could be thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and his anxiety resurfaces, making him fidget. He’s never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where he can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. To be honest, He prefers his own company, reading a classic British novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colossal glass-and-stone edifice.
He rolls his eyes at himself. Get a grip. Black. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, He’d guess Potter is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel.
Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blondes? It’s like Stepford here. Taking a deep breath, he stood up.
“Mister Black ?” the latest blonde asks.
“Yes,” He croaked and cleared his throat. “Yes.” There, that sounded more confident.
“Mr. Potter will see you in a moment. May I take your bag?”
“Oh, please.” Regulus sets the questions and then digs in his bag to grab the recorder Sirius forced him to remember. Before zipping up his backpack and handing it to her.
“Have you been offered any refreshments?”
‘“Um—no.” Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble?
Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk.
“Would you like tea, coffee, or water?” she asks, turning her attention back to him.
“A glass of water. Thank you,” he murmured.
“Emma, please fetch Mister Black a glass of water.” Her voice is stern. Emma scoots up and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer.
“My apologies, Mister Black, Emma is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Potter will be another five minutes.”
Emma returns with a glass of iced water.
“Here you go, Mister Black.”
“Thank you.”
Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits down, and they both continue their work.
Perhaps Mr. Potter insists on all his employees being blonde. Regulus wonders idly if that’s legal when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive man with short auburn exits. He has definitely worn the wrong clothes.
He turns and says through the door, “Golf this week, Potter?”
Regulus doesn't hear the reply. He turns, sees him, and smiles, his green eyes crinkling at the corners. Emma jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She’s more nervous than me!
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he says as he departs through the sliding door.
“Mr. Potter will see you now, Mister Black. Do go through,” Blonde Number Two says. Regulus stands rather shakily, trying to suppress his nerves. Gathering up the recorder and Sirus’s questions, he abandons my glass of water and makes his way to the partially open door.
“You don’t need to knock—just go in.” She smiles kindly.
He pushes open the door and stumbles through, tripping over his feet and falling shoulder-first into the office. He is on his hands and knees in the doorway of Mr. Potter’s office. Gentle hands are around him, helping him to his feet. Regulus is shaking in embarrassment, damn his clumsiness. He has to fight his nerves to glace up. Holy cow– Potter is so young.
“Sirius Black.” He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I’m upright. “I’m James Potter. Are you alright? Would you like to sit?”
So young—and attractive, very attractive. He’s tall, dressed in a fine gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with unruly dark chocolate brown hair and intense, doe brown eyes that regard Regulus shrewdly. It takes a moment for him to find his voice.
“Um. Actually..” Regulus mutters. If this guy is over thirty, then Regulus is his gay uncle Alfred. In a daze, He places his hand on James and they shake. As their fingers touch, Regulus feels an odd exhilarating shiver run through him.
Regulus withdrew his hand hastily, embarrassed. Must've been static. He blinks rapidly, his eyelids matching his heart rate.
“ Sirius is indisposed, so he sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Potter.”
“And you are?” His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it’s difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested but, above all, polite.
“ Regulus. Regulus Black. Sir. Siri, um.. Sirius.. Um Sirius Black goes to WSU Vancouver with me”
“I see,” he says simply. Regulus sees the ghost of a smile in his expression.
“Would you like to sit?” He waves him toward an L-shaped white leather couch.
His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there’s a modern dark wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white—ceiling, floors, and walls, except for the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite—a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.
“A local artist. Trouton,” says Potter when he catches his gaze.
“They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary,” Regulus murmurs, distracted both by Potter and the paintings. He cocks his head to one side and regards Regulus intently.
“I couldn’t agree more, Mister Black,” he replies, his voice soft, and for some inexplicable reason, Regulus finds himself blushing.
Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. Regulus wonders if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite of him. Regulus shook his head, disturbed at the direction of his thoughts, and retrieved Sirius's questions from his lap. Next, he set up the digital recorder and it was all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of him. Mr. Potter says nothing, waiting patiently—he hopes—as he becomes increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When Regulus plucks up the courage to look at him, Mr. Potter is watching Regulus, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. Regulus thinks he’s trying to suppress a smile.
“S-sorry,” Regulus stutters. “I’m not used to this.”
“Take all the time you need, Mister Black,” he says.
“Do you mind if I record your answers?”
“After you’ve taken so much trouble to set up the recorder, you ask me now?”
Regulus flush. He’s teasing me? He hopes so. Regulus blink at him, unsure what to say, and Regulus thinks he takes pity on me because he relents. “No, I don’t mind.”
“Did Siri, I mean, Sirius, explain what the interview was for?”
“Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year’s graduation ceremony.”
Oh! This is news to him, and Regulus is temporarily preoccupied by the thought that someone not much older than him—okay, maybe six years or so, and okay, mega-successful, but still—is going to present him with his degree. He frowned, dragging his wayward attention back to the task at hand.
“Great.” Regulus swallows nervously. “I have some questions, Mr. Potter.”
“I thought you might,” he says, deadpan. He’s laughing at Regulus. Regulus’s cheeks heat at the realization, and he sits up and squares my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Pressing the start button on the recorder, He tries to look professional.
“You’re very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?” He glanced up at him. His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.
“Business is all about people, Mister Black, and I’m very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn’t, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well.” He pauses and fixes Regulus with his dark stare. “My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is it’s always down to good people.”
“Maybe you’re just lucky.” This isn’t on Sirius’s list—but he’s so arrogant. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise.
“I don’t subscribe to luck or chance, Mister Black. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said, ‘The growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.’ ”
“You sound like a control freak.” The words are out of Regulus' mouth before He can stop them.
“Oh, I exercise control in all things, Mister Black,” he says without a trace of humor in his smile. Regulus looks at him, and Potter holds his gaze steadily, impassively. Regulus' heartbeat quickens, and his face flushes again.
Why does he have such an unnerving effect on him? Maybe his overwhelming good looks? The Way his eyes blaze at him? The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip? Regulus wishes he’d stop doing that. It makes him stare at the way his lower lips glisten and how they look so soft-
“Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret reveries that you were born to control things,” he continues, his voice soft.
“Do you feel that you have immense power?” Control freak.
“I employ over forty thousand people, Mister Black. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility—power if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so.”
Regulus' mouth drops open. He is staggered by his lack of humility.
“Don’t you have a board to answer to?” Regulus asks, disgusted.
“I own my company. I don’t have to answer to a board.” He raises an eyebrow at Regulus. Of course, Regulus would know this if he had done some research. But holy crap, he’s arrogant. He changed tack.
“And do you have any interests outside your work?”
“I have varied interests, Mister Black.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Very varied.” And for some reason, Regulus is confused and heated by his steady gaze. His eyes are alight with some wicked thought.
“But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?”
“Chill out?” He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. Regulus stops breathing. He really is beautiful. No one should be this good-looking.
“Well, to ‘chill out,’ as you put it—I sail, I fly, I indulge in various physical pursuits.” He shifts in his chair. “I’m a very wealthy man, Mister Black, and I have expensive and absorbing hobbies.”
Regulus glances quickly at Sirius’s questions, wanting to get off this subject.
“You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?” Regulus asks. Why does he make me so uncomfortable?
“I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?”
“That sounds like your heart talking rather than logic and facts.”
His mouth quirks up, and he stares appraisingly at Regulus.
“Possibly. Though there are people who’d say I don’t have a heart.”
“Why would they say that?”
“Because they know me well.” His lip curls in a wry smile.
“Would your friends say you’re easy to get to know?” And Regulus regrets the question as soon as he says it. It’s not on Sirius’s list.
“I’m a very private person, Mister Black. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don’t often give interviews ...”
“Why did you agree to do this one?”
“Because I’m a benefactor of the university, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn’t get Sirius Black off my back. He badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity.”
Regulus knows how tenacious Sirius can be. Personally. That’s why he's sitting here squirming uncomfortably under Mr. Potters's penetrating gaze when He should be studying for his exams.
“You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in that area?”
“We can’t eat money, Mister Black, and there are too many people on this planet who don’t have enough to eat.”
“That sounds very philanthropic. Is it something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world’s poor?”
He shrugs noncommittally.
“It’s shrewd business,” he murmurs, though Regulus thinks he’s being disingenuous. It doesn’t make sense—feeding the world’s poor? He can’t see the financial benefit of this, only the virtue of the ideal. Regulus glanced at the next question, confused by his attitude.
“Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?”
“I don’t have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle— Carnegie’s: ‘A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.’ I’m very singular and driven. I like control—of myself and those around me.”
“So you want to possess things?” James Potter, you are a control freak.
“I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do.”
“You sound like the ultimate consumer.”
“I am.” He smiles, but the smile doesn’t touch his eyes. Again, this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so Regulus can’t help thinking that they're talking about something else, but he's mystified as to what it is. Regulus swallows hard. The temperature in the room is rising, or maybe it’s just him. He just wants this interview to be over. Surely Sirius has enough material now. Regulus glances at the next question.
“You were adopted. How much do you think that’s shaped the way you are?” Oh, this is personal. Regulus stares at him, hoping he’s not offended. His brow furrows.
“I have no way of knowing.”
Regulus's interest is piqued. “How old were you when you were adopted?”
“That’s a matter of public record, Mister Black.” His tone is stern. Crap. Yes, of course—if Regulus had known he was doing this interview, He would have done some research. Flustered, He moves on quickly.
“You’ve had to sacrifice family life for your work.”
“That’s not a question.” He’s terse.
“Sorry.” Regulus squirmed; he’s made him feel like an errant child. Regulus tries again. “Have you had to sacrifice family life for your work?”
“I have a family. I have a brother and two loving parents. I’m not interested in extending my family beyond that.”
“Are you gay, Mr. Potter?”
He inhales sharply, and Regulus cringes, mortified. Crap. Why didn’t he employ some kind of filter before Regulus reads this straight out? How can Regulus tell him that he is just reading the questions? Damn, Sirius and his curiosity!
“No, Regulus, I’m not.” He raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in his eyes. He does not look pleased.
“I apologize. It’s, um ... written here.” It’s the first time he’s said Regulus’ name. His heartbeat has accelerated, and his cheeks are heating up again. Nervously, Regulus tucks his teeth into his bottom lip.
He cocks his head to one side.
“These aren’t your own questions?”
The blood drains from Regulus' head.
“Er ... no. Siri—Sirius Black—he compiled the questions.”
“Are you colleagues on the student paper?” Oh no. He has nothing to do with the student paper. It’s his extracurricular activity, not Regulus’. Regulus’s face is aflame.
“No. He’s my brother.”
He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his gray eyes appraising me.
“Did you volunteer to do this interview?” he asks, his voice deadly quiet.
Hang on, who’s supposed to be interviewing whom? His eyes burn into his, and Regulus is compelled to answer with the truth.
“I was drafted. He's not well.” Regulus’ voice is weak and apologetic.
“That explains a great deal.”
There’s a knock at the door, and Blonde Number Two enters.
“Mr. Potter, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes.”
“We're not finished here, Sybil. Please cancel my next meeting.”
Sybil hesitates, gaping at him. She appears lost. He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She flushes bright pink. Oh, good. It’s not just Regulus.
“Very well, Mr. Potter,” she mutters, then exits. He frowns and turns his attention back to Regulus.
“Where were we, Mister Black?”
Oh, we're back to “Mister Black” now.
“Please, don’t let me keep you from anything.”
“I want to know about you. I think that’s only fair.” His eyes are alight with curiosity. Double crap. Where’s he going with this? He places his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. His mouth is very ... distracting. Regulus swallows.
“There’s not much to know.”
“What are your plans after you graduate?”
Regulus shrugs, thrown by his interest. Move to Seattle with Sirius, and find a job. Regulus hasn't really thought beyond his finals.
“I haven’t made any plans, Mr. Potter. I just need to get through my final exams.” Which he should be studying for right now, rather than sitting in Potter’s palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under his penetrating gaze.
“We run an excellent internship program here,” he says quietly. Regulus raised his eyebrows in surprise. Is he offering Regulus a job?
“Oh. I’ll bear that in mind,” he murmured, confused. “Though I’m not sure I’d fit in here.” Oh no. Regulus is speaking his thoughts out loud again.
“Why do you say that?” He tilts his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Regulus is uncoordinated, and scruffy, and he’s not blonde.
“Not to me.” His gaze is intense, all humor is gone, and strange muscles deep in Regulus’ belly clenched suddenly. Regulus tears his eyes away from his scrutiny and stares blindly down at his knotted fingers. What’s going on? Regulus has to go—now. He leaned forward to retrieve the recorder.
“Would you like me to show you around?” he asks.
“I'm sure you’re far too busy, Mr. Potter, and I do have a long drive.”
“You're driving back to Vancouver?” He sounds surprised, anxious even. He glances out of the window. It’s begun to rain. “Well, you’d better drive carefully.” His tone is stern and authoritative. Why should he care? “Did you get everything you need?” he adds.
“Yes, sir,” Regulus replied, shutting off the recorder and grabbing Sirius’s questions off the table. His eyes narrow, speculatively.
“Thank you for the interview, Mr. Potter.”
“The pleasure’s been all mine,” he says, polite as ever.
As Regulus rises, Potter stands and holds out his hand.
“Until we meet again, Mister Black.” And it sounds like a challenge or a threat, Regulus is not sure which. He frowned. When will they ever meet again? Regulus shakes his hand once more, astounded that that odd current between them is still there. It must be his anxiety.
“Mr. Potter.” Regulus nods at him. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide.
“Just ensuring you make it through the door, Mister Black.” He gives me a small smile. Obviously, he’s referring to Regulus’s earlier less-than-elegant entry into his office. He blushes.
“That’s very considerate, Mr. Potter,” Regulus snapped, and his smile widened. Regulus is glad Mr. Potter finds him entertaining, Regulus flowers inwardly, walking into the foyer. Regulus is surprised when Potter follows me out. Sybil and Emma both look up, equally surprised.
“Did you have a coat?” Potter asks.
“A backpack.”
Emma leaps up and retrieves Regulus’s backpack, which Potter takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, Regulus shrugs it on. Potter places his hands for a moment on his shoulders. Regulus gasps at the contact. If he notices Regulus' reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and they stand waiting—awkwardly on Regulus’s part, coolly self-possessed on his. The doors open, and Regulus hurries in, desperate to escape. He really needs to get out of here. When Regulus turns to look at him, he’s gazing at him and leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking. It’s unnerving.
“Regulus,” he says as a farewell.
“James,” Regulus replied. And mercifully, the doors close.