#but fanfiction is fun! so im trying to not be a perfectionist everywehere

[padfootastic]

Forever mine

(james/sirius; loose soulmate au; ruthless, protective sirius!!)

The first time Sirius meets his soulmate is when he’s dying in his arms. 

The thought ‘I’ll end whoever touched you’ hit him with such dizzying force, he had to brace himself against the ground for a minute. 

Sirius hadn’t ever been particularly aggressive, had tried hard to stay away from the murderhurtviolence running through his blood, but in that moment—in that moment, he imagined he was feeling what every single Black had for centuries before him and would continue to do so after.

It was supposed to be a simple errand--a beer run for Regulus who refused to get off his couch until he became one with the upholstery. It wasn't supposed to be like this, him kneeling on the ground, soaked in blood and rain, praying to a god he hadn't believed in three minutes ago

The man--and who would've thought of that huh?-- was tall. Not as tall as him, but certainly far, far larger. Ropes of muscle travelled the length of his well tanned arm; thick, toned thighs lying still on the pavement. For one, obnoxious second, Sirius wondered about the possibility of being picked up and twirled around before shutting that train of thought down real quick. 

How utterly delusional, and he wasn't even the one bleeding out.

He was dressed in athletic wear--perhaps out for an evening jog?--and the fabric was molded to every crevice of his body, thanks to the rain. Before he'd passed out, Sirius had the opportunity, the honor, of seeing huge, brown eyes staring up at him with desperate pleading shining through them.

And that thought, that memory, was what got his blood boiling all over again. 

How dare his soulmate lie here, bleeding, on the edge of death if the holes in his chest were anything to go by, and desperate and alone? If Sirius hadn’t been out for fucking alcohol, if Reg hadnt been a depressed, heartbroken parasite in his house, if that asshole Evan hadn't cheated on his baby brother--if, if, if. 

His soulmate could've...would've been alone, dying, dead.

Sirius slowly unclenched his trembling fingers, letting go of the deathly cold fingers sticky with blood. His other hand was still wrapped around the man's--his soulmate's--back, helping him lean back against Sirius' chest. A sort of quiet, dangerous thrum filled his body, taking away all the restlessness from before. He didn't know what was about to happen next, how the man would pull through, how he would pull through. But he knew this: whoever did this would rue the day they were born. 

 He made two phone calls. 

First, The ambulance--a man is dying, come as quick as possible, I dont know how long he has left. 

 Next, his father. 

 'Father.'

'Son.'

'I need you to find someone for me.'

And that was it. Sirius might've had his differences with his family, might've run away from them in multiple fits of pique, might've even been threatened to high heaven and back but at the end of the day he was still a Black and Blacks looked out for each other. Rule number one. As long as he had blood running through his veins--and perhaps even after that--there was nothing on Earth that could keep them away from each other. 

John Doe. 

That's what it said on the patient chart. John fucking Doe.

All those blood tests, all the evaluations, and what use was it for if they couldn't even conduct one measly identification? 

Sirius resisted the urge to growl out loud; he wanted to throw something, wanted to scream the place down until something happened, but he barely controlled himself.

No. That wasn't the way to go about this. 

Dammit, this soulmate business was quite annoying. He hadn't felt this many emotions in such a short span of time, with such intensity, for quite some time. Perhaps never. That's what made him so deadly as a businessman. Sirius had never once needed to raise his voice, or his hand, to get something done. 

Which is what made his sudden penchant for violence so...jarring. He didn't know how to control it, couldn't keep the bloodlust from seeping into his thoughts. He had half a mind to check his reflection in a mirror--surely his eyes, usually a dark grey, would've turned red by now at the force of his impulses? 

He shook his head at the ridiculous thought, wondering when he'd lost his mind.

(He knew when. It was the moment he heard the bang-bang-bang, the thump of someone falling onto the pavement. It was when he looked down and felt his own flesh ache in response to the holes left in his soulmate's body. It was the outpouring of years of emotions he hadn't even known he'd repressed) 

"Mr...Black?" A hesitant voice brought him back from his memories, making him internally grateful for the distraction. He stood up to face the doctor looking at him with a weird look on his face. Sirius could see why--here he was, dressed in a half undone suit, blood soaking his satin shirt, probably dotted all across the rest of his body, and of course, the dirt stains on his knees. Not to mention, the rain had created an even bigger mess of him. The stares he was getting were quite understandable, really. 

"That's me, yes." 

"Er--the man you came with--are you quite sure you have no idea who he is?" 

This time, Sirius didn't resist the rumbling of his voice as he ground out, "Like I told your receptionist, then a nurse, and finally the constable after that, I found him, just like this, on the pavement. Don’t make me repeat it again for the sake of your incompetence. Now, what is the status of his condition?" 

The doctor cleared his throat, pulling at the knot on his tie. "Well, then, uh. Mr. Black, I'm afraid I can't disclose that information--patient confidentiality, I'm sure you understand." He let out a little laugh at that, as if this was all a big fucking joke, and turned away. 

Like Sirius would let him leave. 

In two quick strides, he'd reached the doctor's side, deftly pulling him into a corridor off the side, pushing him against the wall as soon as they were out of sight. 

"Listen here, Doc," he sneered, pushing him back with his forearm against his chest, "That man in there? He's my soulmate." The doctor paled at the word, igniting dark satisfaction in him. Somewhere inside, deep down, Sirius knew he couldn't have known, but in that moment, it didn't matter. "So you can take your 'patient confidentiality' and shove it up your arse, got it?"

The man nodded so hard it was a wonder his head didn’t fall off to the ground. 

“Un-Unconscious, sir. He’s been bleeding out for too long,” the doctor stuttered out finally, “We can’t guarantee any—”

Sirius pushed harder, cutting him off midway. “Finish that sentence and I’ll cut off your tongue and stuff it down your throat.” The clack of the man’s teeth shutting close filled him with more satisfaction than it probably should have. The silence, however, was too much of a relief for him to think about that just yet. 

No guarantee, he says. He’ll show him ‘no guarantee’. 

Sirius took a deep breath and stepped back, straightening his shirt as he did. He waited for the doctor to compose himself before lifting one hand to smoothen the wrinkles on his coat, ignoring the flinch. Clearing his throat, he said, “Doc. I hope you know who I am?” 

No response except a wrinkled brow. 

“Sirius Black, heir and CEO of Cassiopeia Industries,” he clarified and sure enough, the man went paler than what should’ve been humanly possible. Sirius’ smile was thin, dangerous. “Yes, I see you’ve heard of us. Good, I’m glad. It’ll make this much smoother then.” 

He leaned in closer, close enough he could smell the sweat beading along the man’s neck, the sourness of his breath, could see the dilated pupils. “So you know what I can, and will, do to you if you can’t ‘guarantee’ my soulmate’s life, yes?” 

He didn’t have to say much else then, not after the doctor’s vigorous nods and assurances. 

There were other things to do, after all.

He was sitting on the uncomfortable plastic bench, leg tapping an annoying rhythm on the linoleum, when a pair of sleek, polished shoes entered his vision. Sirius released the breath he’d been holding in since the minute this evening started. 

Father was here.

“Sirius.” 

“Father,” he replied, standing up for their customary handshake. Not too firm, never too loose. Know your place in the world and be secure in that knowledge. Lessons he’d had drilled into his head since before he could speak. 

(He wondered what his soulmate’s handshake would be like?) 

“I’ve got the information you asked for, though I can’t wonder why you would need to get in touch with what seems like, on the surface, a common street thug,” Father said with his usual upturned lip. His eyebrows were slightly raised, which was about as much emotion as he allowed himself to show in public. 

Sirius’ eyes were fixed on a point slightly to the left of his head, on the cream-coloured wall with years of misuse plastered across it in dark spots. “I was out for…an errand today—”

“That brother of yours still drinking his swill, I take it,” came the expected comment. He paid it no mind. 

“And just outside the shop, this man…he was—shot. Four times. Seemed personal.” Sirius’ voice was cold, clinical, recounting with perfect clarity and none of the panic that seemed to be seeping into every inch of him. 

“And you thought today was a nice day to become a good samaritan?” His father’s disdain for a good samaritan was clear in the tone of his voice. Sirius almost smiled at the familiarity of it. There had been many family dinners where he’d suffered through his fathers disgust for ‘a bunch of nosy do-gooders with neither a penny nor any dignity to their name, poking their limbs in where it’s not needed.’ 

“Not exactly, no,” Sirius stalled, knowing he wouldn’t be able to do so much longer. Already, he could see the impatience lining Orion Black’s countenance, the foot slowly tapping on the floor, expecting, no—demanding an answer. “It was my…soulmate. I could feel it. He’s in there right now—“ he tilted his head towards the OR “—and they don’t have ‘any guarantees’ supposedly,”

At any other time, Sirius would’ve been ashamed, no, horrified at the way his voice cracked at the end, wouldn’t have been able to look his father in the eye for a week afterwards but just like his patience had disappeared in the course of his evening, so had his shame, it seems. 

But he couldn’t muster it this time. Not even when his father’s lip curled farther up at the vulgar display of emotion. He didn’t say anything, though, probably dredging up the last of his humanity to do so—merely put a hand into his coat and pulled out a plain black envelope. 

“Do clean up, Sirius, this sort of behaviour is most unbecoming of you.” With one last parting shot, he left the envelope in Sirius’ hands and left, just as imperiously as he’d entered.

Sirius smoothed one hand over the soft planes of the mystery man’s cheeks, touch featherlight and ready to withdraw at a moment’s notice if needed. 

He looked…peaceful, completely at odds with the prognosis clutched in Sirius’ other hand, like his heart wasn’t on the verge of giving up at any time. It was a cruel illusion, a painful distortion of reality, and yet, Sirius wanted it for as long as he could have it. 

“How I’ve looked for you, darling,” he whispered, thumb running repetitive circles over the man’s cheek. “And now that I’ve found you…” 

“Are we doomed to forever live like this?” 

Perhaps if this was a movie, that would be the cue for his soulmate to wake up, to dramatically open his eyes and proclaim his love for Sirius; they’d take each other in their arms and never let go, savor the kind of pleasure that only the other half of your soul can give you. 

But this wasn’t a movie, and Sirius was no hero.

He left soon after that, unable to look, helpless to do anything but. 

It was in the car that he opened the envelope for the first time. It contained two things: a slip of paper with a name and address on it, and a photograph, black and white and grainy, like it was taken with a cheap instant camera. 

He traced one finger over the smiling face, comparing it to the unnatural stillness of the man he’d just left behind, and clenched his jaw. Throwing the photo across the seat, he put the car in reverse and peeled out of the parking lot. 

Tom Riddle didn’t know what was waiting for him. 

“Who are you?” The harsh words were accompanied by a gun aimed straight at his head. Sirius couldn’t be less bothered, however. From the way the man’s eyes were dilated, unable to focus on one point, to his shaking hands that couldn’t even grasp the revolver properly, to the disarray of his jet black hair and clothes—it was safe to deduce that he was more of a danger to himself than anyone else. That coffee table off to the side, for example, looked particularly menacing if he knocked himself over it, which judging by the sway in his frame, he seemed quite likely to. 

“You don’t need to know that, Mr. Riddle,” he replied in a calm, soothing voice. He looked down, adjusting his cufflinks as he spoke. “I’m here for one thing and you’re going to give it to me.” 

“I don’t swing that way, honey,” Riddle slurred, making Sirius grimace in response. The man wasn’t…unfortunate looking but even if he hadn’t found his soulmate—and loved him on the spot—Riddle was not his type. His tastes tended to run a bit more discerning than drunkards in old, run-down motels who couldn’t even hold a firearm properly. 

(Could James hold a gun, he thinks absently. He could teach him, if he wanted, would love to see the way his muscles move as he pressed down on the trigger—) 

“And I’m sure mankind is glad for that,” he said dryly.

“You—” Riddle spluttered, stumbling forward, narrowly escaping the corner of the table (sadly). Sirius looked on in disgust, wondering how vermin like this could’ve even gotten near his wonderful, beautiful soulmate, close enough to not just hurt him but do so badly enough that he’s lying on his deathbed, waiting for divine intervention to save him. 

“This man.” Sirius held up his phone, where a photo of the mystery man lying on the hospital bed, thankfully cleaned of all blood and grime, is looking out at them. “Who is he?” 

“No clue, buddy,” Riddle tried to shrug but Sirius wasn’t having any of it. His patience was already at an all time low and now this clown’s shenanigans weren’t helping. 

“So help me, God, if you don’t tell me right now who he is and why you shot him four fucking times—“ Sirius threatened, finally getting up from his not-so-comfortable perch on the windowsill. Riddle only shrugged again, taking a step back. 

That’s it. 

Sirius moved forward, quick enough to probably seem like a blur to Riddle’s drink-addled mind. In a single manoeuver, he had the man turned around and pushed against the wall, face smushed into the peeling paint. His hands were held in a bruising grip in one of Sirius’ and he gun was safely out of reach from where it had clattered on the floor. Judging by the lightness of it, it had never even been a threat. 

“I’m running out of patience, honey,” he crooned. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to get creative now.” 

Saying that, he stepped back a little, just enough that he could pull Riddle’s index finger back, back, back until a loud crack and a sob filled the air. 

Neither the cracks nor the sobs stopped for the rest of the night.

"More blood, Sirius?" 

Sirius didn't respond, only continued dabbing at the stained blood on his shirt--his second of the day. 

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, boy!" His father's voice echoed sharply in the empty room. He hated being ignored; that's why Sirius did it, after all. 

"Thanks for the help, Father, I really appreciate it," he said instead. Once he was satisfied that as many of the stains as possible had been removed, he moved onto his hands, lip curling at the dried flakes stuck under his nails. This was always the worst part about these things. 

"And what of all this...soulmate business, then?" 

"What about it?" Sirius looked up, then, meeting his father's eyes through the mirror, grey clashing against grey. 

"Well, what're you going to do?" His father was neutral as ever, but Sirius knew him well enough to see the glint of curiosity in his calculating gaze. 

"What anyone else does with their soulmate, I believe." The resounding sigh at his glib answer made him snicker into his fist. Sirius might be old and powerful enough to make the world tremble at his feet but there was a unique joy in upsetting his father's composure that never lost its charm. 

"Sirius." 

"Father." It was his turn to sigh this time as he finally turned around, taking out his handkerchief as he did. "Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to go in there, pray to a God neither you nor I believe in but hopefully he does, and sit by his bedside for as long as it takes. Everything else can wait." 

"The business?" 

"We have a board for a reason, incompetent as they might be on a  good day," he fired back. 

"Your brother withering away in your flat?" 

"Nothing new there," Sirius scoffed. "Reg'll be right as rain in a few days. Then he'll be back on his usual cycle of finding another terrible partner, getting cheated on, and coming right back to nest on my lumpy couch."

"That thing really is terribly lumpy," Father muttered under his breath before straightening up with a firm nod. "Very well, then. I wish you the best of luck. Bring your young man around for lunch when he wakes up. I'm sure your Mother would like to examine him." 

Sirius couldn't articulate, in that moment, how much it meant to him that his father said 'when' instead of 'if’ he wakes up. That was something he hadn't even considered so far, afraid he'd break at the slightest possibility that he could lose his soulmate just as he'd found him, didn't even want to put the thought out into the universe and here was his father, perhaps the most self-assured, confident man he knew, saying it casual-as-you-please. 

 He was still reeling from the comment when his father took his leave, getting the last word in as he did, per usual. "And try and get your brother with you, yes? Kreacher would be delighted to see his 'Young Master'."

 It took three days for something to give.  

Every single day, Sirius could be found either sitting in the uncomfortable chair beside his mate's bed, holding his hand, stroking his hair, rubbing his thumb against his hand. There was a...tenderness in him now, one he'd never thought himself capable of. He both loathed and admired it; loathed, because the one person who should be receiving it was unable to, admired because it was a wondrous feeling, this lightness in his chest, the innate urge to give, without expecting anything in return. 

Sirius had been a career businessman, and casual criminal, since he came out of the womb. This was an entirely novel experience for him and he couldn't even enjoy it, for fuck's sake. 

"Wake up, goddammit.” he burst out on the third day of no activity, of hearing the shallow, almost nonexistent breaths of his mystery man amplified by the machines hooked up to him. “I need you, you bastard.”

So focused was he on those wires and the beeping machines and the sterile fucking room that he almost missed it. He wouldn't ever have forgiven himself if he had. 

"Prefer...darling...I think," a voice croaked. The most beautiful, wonderful sound in the world. 

"What--" Sirius whispered in wonder, staring unblinkingly at the wide brown eyes looking back at him, exhausted and drooping and red-rimmed but open. Alive. 

"You called me...darling..." The man repeated, less confident this time, a crease forming between his brows. "Or did I--?"

Sirius lurched forward, grabbing his face desperately with both of his, ready to do anything to get the frown off his face. "No, no, I did--that is, I called you that--darling--that was me. I did it." 

He couldn't even be horrified at the uncharacteristic stuttering, unable to care about anything except the shy smile blooming on his soulmate's face, the warmth of it chasing away all the demons that had taken up residence in Sirius' head since that day.

"Oh," the man exhaled, biting his lip. Sirius leaned further in, entranced by the action.  

"I'm--I'm James." 

James. 

Finally. A name. The most perfect name. 

"James," Sirius breathed out, as if all the air had been punched out of his chest, leaving room only for jamesjamesjameshisoulmatejames. "I'm so happy to finally meet you." 

"I can...tell," he replied, still a bit shy, unsure. Sirius wanted to wrap him in bubble wrap forever and hide him away from the world. He also wanted to entirely devour him at the same time. It was a confusing set of impulses. "I could hear...everything...when I was...y'kno." He made an adorable gesture with his fingers, index finger circling in the air to signify his little...hibernation period. Sirius hoped he could refer to it so casually one day, though he doubted it. 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." James nodded. "Though--I didn't…get your...name?" 

It was Sirius' turn to bite his lip now, not half as cute or sexy, he was sure, only conflicted. Would his soulmate be scared away? Would he even know who Sirius was? Did he want him to? "Sirius, uh--Sirius Black." 

There was a beat of silence, fraught with tension (or perhaps Sirius was just projecting?) before James' broke out in a wide smile, completely eclipsing the brilliance of the previous one. He extended one shaky hand towards Sirius from under the covers. 

"Hello, Sirius Black, it's very, very nice to finally meet you too." 

As if in a daze, completely unable to believe this was happening to him, Sirius placed his hand in James', feeling tiny pinpricks of electricity racing up his arm and down his body in a flash of delicious warmth. He could see, judging by the tremble in James' frame, that he felt the same. 

Their hands clasped (not too firm, never too loose) and Sirius knew everything would be just fine.