Chapter Thirteen
The thing about soulmarks is that, while yes, people do try to fake them, Leigh's heard about it, that's a difficult thing to do, given the fact that they're in that other person's handwriting. Everyone's heard the stories about obsessed fans wearing distinctive clothing and a faked soulmark, trusting the intel they got about a certain celebrity's Words. Then there are the stories of celebrities in committed relationships, whether they and their partner really do have each other's Words, or are defying the whole thing entirely, and they don't match. Most rare are the celebrities in new relationships, since the Snap.
When Leigh gets dressed for her shift at the soup kitchen, for lunch on Saturday, she makes sure to wear a short-sleeved shirt. She'd asked Tony to do her a favor before they parted ways the night before (he'd practically demanded that she sleep in his bed, and as much as she'd really really wanted to, Leigh had said no because of when she would need to get up), warning him that the press would probably make something of it being Steve Rogers' soup kitchen anyway.
So, before she walks into the elevator toward the gauntlet of press (Leigh really wonders if they'll follow her all the way to her destination), she checks that she has everything. Favorite skirt? yes. Wallet and phone tucked into the big pockets that she'd had a tailor add to said favorite skirt, years ago? yes. Hair braided into a crown on her head that will fit into a standard size hair net (she checked)? yes. Short sleeve blouse so that the vultures will see the words Tony wrote on her left forearm in his distinctive handwriting? yes. And finally, industrial strength makeup and durable skin shields to cover the actual soulmark on her right wrist? Yes.
Tony had really really wanted to write 'Hail Hydra' on her, but she had threatened to have her whole lower right arm amputated if he so much as started the H.
There are at least ten different people waiting for her at the front of the tower. Leigh knows she could take an Uber, but then they'd hound that person about what she said during the ride, and that could impact their day's earnings. Besides, it's a nice day.
Are you Tony Stark's soulmate?
Is that really the first thing he said to you?
What do you have to say about Councilwoman Aldrew's call to have Stark investigated for kidnapping for his actions in West Virginia?
Are you seeking some kind of reconciliation between Stark and Rogers?
Has Rogers paid you to increase publicity for this new soup kitchen?
Do you really plan to walk the whole way there or is this an attempt to get rid of the people's voice, Miss Balci?
Leigh almost responded to that last one. After all, there was footage of her walk to the building just the week before!
There are still four people following her when she gets there, but they're nothing compared to the group of twenty or more people shoving their microphones or recorders in the faces of anyone that comes close to the building.
"Excuse me?" Leigh shouts at them. "All right. The way I see it, you have two choices: One, I stand here and make shit up -sprinkling some truth so you can't tell the difference- for the half hour till this place opens, so you leave the people who are here to eat alone. Two, you act like the decent people your ancestors hoped you'd be, and stand back."
One of the women snarks at her. "What, you going to tell Captain America on us?"
"I have eyes and ears of my own, Ma'am," a man behind Leigh says.
Leigh recognizes the voice, and clearly the assembled press know who he is too, so they all crowd toward him, nearly knocking her over. She reaches a hand out to steady herself, and it's clasped by a large hand with a strong grip.
"You okay?" Steve Rogers asks her.
"Yeah, thanks," Leigh says, smiling up at him. Her first impression is that he's really tall and impossibly broad. She'd really thought at least some of that was just film trickery or good costuming.
"Desk guy said there was some trouble," Rogers tells her. "You here to volunteer, or are you a freelance crowd control specialist?"
"Volunteer," she says.
"I'll escort you in, then," Rogers says. He looks around at the waggling microphones being shoved at them and sighs. "I didn't miss this." With a solicitous smile that probably lit up homes all across the country, he holds out his right arm for her. "Nice to meet you, by the way. Steve Rogers."
Leigh laughs. "Leigh Balci," she says, hesitating only a second before she slides her left arm into his.
As she thought he might, Rogers looks down, then really looks, his brows furrowing. "Is that Tony Stark's handwriting?"
"Shall we?" Leigh says. Around them there's just a ridiculous flood of clicks and shouts, as the press take photos of the interaction. Rogers nods and starts walking, sweeping his left arm in an arc to clear their path to walk. He pauses twice to encourage a couple of people who are obviously waiting for the soup kitchen, rather than its organizers.
"Did anyone suggest asking for a police presence?" Leigh asks.
Rogers gestures for her to walk inside, as he holds the door. "Generally speaking, a police presence can discourage some of the people that need this the most. We might send some burly volunteers out there, though." He leads her through a second door from the lobby, so he can guide her around the many tables and chairs in the cafeteria area.
"For what it's worth, it didn't occur to me that coming here would ramp up any of the coverage. I hope it's all positive," she confesses when Rogers finally stops walking in front of the string of tables where the food will be distributed from.
Rogers turns around, a polite but stern look on his face. "Yeah, about that. I recognize his handwriting, but I'm not sure I've ever heard Stark say 'feed the poor' in my life. You want to explain what's going on?"
"Wow, 0 for 2 in meeting the estranged in-laws. I'm super great at this," Leigh says. She resists the urge to cross her arms protectively around herself, playing off the initial move to do just that by tracing her palm over the phrase Rogers mentioned; ' Feed the poor. ' "He wrote it on me last- yesterday. Wrote it yesterday," Leigh corrects. 'He wrote it on me last night' seems like the sort of thing one just does not say to Captain America.
"So you're Tony Stark's…"
"Girlfriend," Leigh says firmly.
"And you came here -?"
"From the tower."
"Where you live with him?" Rogers looks like she's been explaining that she's Tony's drug dealer instead of someone he clearly cares enough to perpetuate a joke on the press with. One that brings more attention to this soup kitchen, even.
"In a separate apartment, not that it should matter."
He takes the rebuke, nods. "But, you're his soulmate." It's a question, one he seems prepared to doubt her answer to, should that answer be 'yes.'
She knows that Tony lost his fiance. It wasn't just 'celebrity news,' it was on actual news channels, mostly because of her position as the CEO of his company. Leigh knew that Virginia Potts had been one of the ones lost in the Snap before Tony Stark had even shown back up, alive but barely. Steve Rogers had probably known Potts, had probably liked her. She's trying not to take his attitude personally, but it's difficult.
Leigh says, "Are you a journalist now, Steve Rogers?" in as sweet a voice as she can for how deadly her expression is.
"No, but I was- am , his friend."
She can't help but admire his steely-eyed conviction in the face of her own resistance. Most people Leigh knows aren't prepared for pushback. They try to soften it. Steve Rogers's faith in his ability to withstand and deflect instead is a sight to behold.
"Miss… Balci, you said? How is he?"
"Leigh, please," she says, rejecting her initial instinct to tell him to call her Felicia. Damned man would probably make her like it again. "He's… broken."
Rogers' reaction to that is the first time she's seen him falter. It makes her feel some kind of way.
"Well. Francine can tell you what to do," he tells Leigh, shooting a look over his shoulder at a woman in a hairnet and apron, hovering behind them. "Don't leave?"
It's a command, despite the uplifted inflection he puts at the end of the phrase.
Rogers walks off, and Leigh watches him, despite herself. The man is large in every sense of the word- powerfully built, morally intense, and emotionally leashed, if only barely. She can't even imagine what the interactions between him and Tony had been like.
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Even though Captain America seems not to have, Francine takes an instant liking to Leigh. She gives her the cutest apron and the least messy station.
They bond over their mutual dislike of fake butter.
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Leigh's throat hurts from friendly chatting by the time the three hours are up. Once they're officially released from their volunteer duties, she pulls her hairnet out, fatally destroying the braided crown in the process. Leigh pulls one of the chairs away from its table and starts to dismantle the two braids, her fingers aching by the time she's done. Instead of braiding it back up, she does a loose twist and secures the ends, pulling the puffy mass over her shoulder and sighing.
"You waited," Steve Rogers says from across the room. He's coming out of the kitchen, which must be empty, because he switches the light off and shuts the door.
"Yeah, well, it seemed important to you," Leigh says, straightening up in her chair.
Rogers puts both hands out in front of him in a placating gesture. "We just served almost twice what we expected to show up, today. Can't help but think some of that came from you."
"Something tells me that's not the metric by which you judge a person's character," Leigh says.
"It's not," he smiles. "I just wasn't expecting it, wasn't expecting you, I guess."
"No one has, so far," Leigh jokes. She rubs her hands together and gives in to the urge to slide her left palm down and hold it against Tony's name on her wrist.
"Did he send you, Leigh?"
Rogers asks it gently, but she can't not hear his air of authority, and it sets her teeth on edge.
"I think maybe you should stick to Miss Balci, if this is an interrogation."
"I'm just trying to understand. A year ago he-"
"A year ago he was stabbed by a madman. Saved by a sorcerer, or so he says. Starved most of the way to death, and came home to try to choke down the guilt of three billion handfuls of dust. It's not his fault he ended up with someone who can't keep her nose out of his business." Leigh stands up. "I'll see myself out."
She starts toward the door, having to wend her way through the messy warren of chairs that haven't all been straightened up yet.
Rogers is loud, behind her. "Wait. I wasn't trying to-"
She hears him moving and tries to ignore it, right up until a clean plate flies past her and hits the top of the door to the lobby, knocking the locking bolt down into the floor.
Leigh stops walking.
"I'm not trying to upset you. I am not trying to imply that I don't trust you. You took me off-guard, that's all. I-" Rogers sighs. "You didn't have to come at all. Tony's donation last Saturday was enough to fund the whole operation for a year, even with numbers like today's."
Leigh spins around, stunned. "What did you say?"
"You didn't have to come, but I'm glad you did. Just, you know, surprised. A year of no contact, and then suddenly over a million dollars-"
She gasps, covering her mouth. "What time did it come in?" Leigh thinks back to last Saturday, sets the day on a wheel and spins it past the meeting, past the lab, past coming to this very building. Tony had texted her about leaving the tower, mentioned Chuck.
"The donation? Early Saturday, I think. Not everyone was here."
He didn't have a GPS tracker on her, but had Tony checked her email? The coincidence was just too strong.
Unless Rhodey had said something.
"Are you okay?" Rogers had come over and was quietly arranging chairs at the tables nearby.
"Probably," Leigh says, feeling a kind of hysterical laughter bubble up. "I had no idea he made a donation. I didn't think he knew I was going to visit. Clearly I underestimated him, which when I say it out loud, is entirely embarrassing."
"How long have you two…"
"That depends on how you gauge time, honestly." Mentally, Leigh facepalms. Sure, tell that to a man who was frozen on ice for seventy years. "We met in May. I'm-" she laughs. "I'm his architect."
"I gotta say one more thing. You're welcome to slap me, if you don't appreciate the question," Rogers says, walking closer.
"If you check to see if there are any more press outside, you might get another bump in attendance for next time, if you're so sure I'm going to want to hit you," she says. Her voice is shaky, but that can't be helped.
Rogers smiles, then reaches down to lift up her right arm. He taps one finger on the well-concealed place her soulmark resides. "Do you hide this from Tony?"
"You really can't help it, can you?" Leigh says, astonished, amazed. "No, don't frown at me, I'll answer you, but- he says he drove you all away. I don't doubt it, he can be infuriating. But you're still looking out for him, aren't you? Even if it's a safe bet he wouldn't appreciate it."
"Miss, you don't go through what we did without having the kind of loyalty that lasts till the end of the line."
"That's beautiful," Leigh says, reluctantly.
"It's the truth."
"Well, Thoreau, I'll show you this, but then I'll ask you to back off, okay? You're kind of intimidating. For what it's worth, my brothers are-" Leigh winces, wondering when if ever that will go away or get easier. "-were, big fans."
"Both of them? I'm sorry." He lets out a puff of breath, his chiseled face full of compassion.
"Oh, honey, you have no idea," Leigh can't stop herself from saying. "Okay. Stars, I sound like Tony today. That is just all kinds of not okay!" Leigh groans. She backs away from Rogers, using a fingernail to break the makeup seal on the skin shield. Leigh almost never puts this much effort into hiding the soulmark, but she'd known there would be press coverage. Rogers watches intently, and when she lifts her arm to show him the name, a beautiful smile crosses his face. He looks… relieved, and Leigh's not sure what to make of that at all.
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"Hello, this is Dr. Banner, Bruce Banner. I'm calling about- I'm in town, as I said I would be. For the next few days, at least. If you'd like to have dinner, talk about some of the things you're interested in, from the Avengers, I'd like that. If it's all right with you, can it be just the two of us? I'm not trying to step on Tony's toes or anything- god, that sounds absolutely- Is there a reset on this thing? No? Great. It's just that you said he wasn't involved in what you were doing, reaching out, and dropping this on him last minute, doesn't seem like it would be very kind. Well. If you're not running in the other direction, I'll look forward to hearing back from you at this number. Goodbye."
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By the time Leigh's back at the tower, she has a message: Alden Marteau is finally ready to show her something.
It's not, as it should be, the actual property he wants to build on. No, apparently it's a building similar to the one he wants her to design. Leigh is skeptical and more than a little suspicious, but Marteau is pushing her to come ASAP.
She leaves a message for Tony with the address, both as a text message and verbally, to FRIDAY, puts her hair into a low ponytail at her neck, and calls an Uber.
It's after four thirty when she gets there. As usual, she checks in with Charriott, as a safety measure. The building is in a line of poorly-maintained brownstones, and its condition being the worst of the lot gives the impression of a line of soldiers holding up a struggling compatriot.
Alden Marteau doesn't live up to his name at all. He's unnaturally tall and can't be more than forty, but he's fully grey, and not in the way that some do, dyed to look cool. His is slightly yellowed, like his teeth. He's got a mustache, wild blue eyes, and he's downright twitchy. Leigh had been picturing the American version of a quirky aristocrat, even would have bet any takers that he wore tweed. Marteau wears ratty jeans and a polo shirt on top of what just might be another polo shirt. He smells bad, too.
Every single instinct she has is telling Leigh something is wrong.
He bounces on the balls of his feet as she talks to him about what his expectations are. When Leigh balks at the idea of going inside the building (he confesses to her that the electric is off. When she demands to know whether he even has permission to be in here, he has the audacity to tell her that it isn't her concern), he pulls out his phone and tells her that he's not beyond calling Branson and getting him to order her inside.
Leigh tells him to go ahead. Branson is at a family birthday party today. She stands at the bottom of the stairs up to the front door and watches a line of ants navigate the peeling paint, as Marteau lets the phone ring and ring.
"Give it fifteen," he sneers, when he gives up. "How about we check the back? You have some kind of moral objection to looking at the back windows?"
"Are they even visible? Have you ever been here before?" Leigh asks, her skepticism undoubtedly written all over her expression. She wonders how much Harriot is going to be angry when she tells him Marteau is a fraud who has been wasting their time. Honestly, the walk around the block is probably worth the look on his face when he realizes she's not as stupid as he thinks she is.
"Look, sweetheart, I can tell by your face you're not up for the kind of hard work this contract is worth. Before I demand your boss reassigns this, I want to prove you're wrong. Testimony is evidence, little one, and I will fucking sue you if you tell them I lied about this house right here," Marteau hisses at her, leaning over to get in her face. He reaches down and grabs her wrist, dragging her up the stairs. Leigh tries to yank free right away, but all that manages to do is tear away her skin shield under his scraping fingernails.
Leigh's quick glance around the area tells her it's basically deserted. She's almost ready to scream for help, even if the man-baby who's gripping her arm really is the selfish, entitled prick he appears to be.
"You'll let go of my hand if you want to have anything to do with the company again," Leigh practically growls at him.
If she has to scream for help, she's not going to hesitate to grab for her gun. Leigh's purse is hanging on the side he's got ahold of, but she thinks she could grab it if she can bounce the purse off her hip with enough force to swing it around her back for her left hand.
Leigh hopes she won't have to, but if she's honest with herself and how much disgust and outrage she feels, she's not going to mind the look of dismay on his face if she has to brandish.
Marteau gets the door open, yanking her by her right arm with the kind of torque that would have broken her wrist if she had dug in and tried not to move. This launches her into the entryway, jamming her shoulder painfully. It's dark, and Marteau looms at the doorway. Leigh unzips her purse as quietly as a person can when they're frightened and furious .
"Missing this?" he sneers, holding up the scrap of fabric that had hidden her soulmark.
"What in the actual fuck is wrong with you? Get out of the way."
Marteau starts laughing. "It only took a year. A year and that ridiculous romantic nonsense. Call him. Tell him I've got half of his soul, ask him if he wants to make jokes about my brother in law anymore?"
Being threatened is one thing, but being threatened by someone who seems completely deranged is something else entirely.
"Blabbering gibberish at me isn't going to make me call anybody." She has a choice here. Most houses of this style are pretty predictable, and Leigh's sure he only chose this one because it's unlocked. She can probably find a secondary way out, but that would require going further in. Right now, that's too risky.
"HAMMER, you stupid bitch!" Marteau shouts. He reaches into his pocket, and Leigh pulls out her gun, rocks her hips into a shooting stance, slides the safety off, and points it at him, both hands held rock steady.
Suddenly, Marteau's flying sideways, hands flailing everywhere, directly at her. A black-clad assailant has his wrist, their gloved hands reaching expertly for his knee before it even flies in that direction.
Leigh puts the safety back on and scatters, gun in her right hand, trigger finger laid flat. Marteau is groaning expletives.
"You okay?"
It's a woman's voice. Leigh leans her head out of the doorway she'd run into. The woman's hair is two-toned, pale blonde and deep maroon red, but everything else about her screams Black Widow.
"Wow, really?" Leigh blurts out, looking down at the squirming asshole at the other woman's feet.
The woman shrugs. "Gave me a weird feeling."
"You were just strolling by, huh?" Leigh checks her gun and tucks it away. She sees movement, looks up to see that Possibly Black Widow, WHAT putting zip ties on Marteau's wrists. His arms are not in the most comfortable position, for which the other woman seems to have little to no sympathy for. "I think what I meant to say is, thank you?" She starts slowing down her breathing, hoping to settle her racing heart.
"You'd be surprised what a knee-length crochet sweater vest can cover up in the city these days," the woman says in a rich, amused voice. She nods expectantly at Leigh. "If you wanna call the police and report this I can meet you down the street." Something about her tone tells Leigh that this is the least desirable of any available options, but that it's not this stunning-looking death machine's job to lead Leigh to water.
"And tell them… what? He attacked me, someone attacked him, helpfully incapacitated him, and here's my number so he can absolutely sue me for whatever damages?" Leigh says, frowning.
"Well, I could notch out a chunk of that zip tie and we could leave. He'll get free eventually, think he'll want to admit to breaking in and attacking you?" Her tone is much more pleased to relate this option, Leigh notices.
At their feet, Marteau has rolled onto his side, and he's squirming his hips frantically. It looks like he's trying to get within reach of Is That Black Widow's knee high boot.
"One problem with that," Leigh says. Her adjusted breathing has worked, she supposes, because now she's just confused and nervous instead of mostly terrified. "Not sure you can do anything precise with a knife with him moving around like that."
Marteau freezes, then starts to kick his legs, spinning on his hip to turn his whole body toward the front door.
"Good point," the other woman says. She leans over and whispers something, her hair swinging down to cover her lips even if Leigh did have some kind of ability to read them. After a second, the pathetic figure on the floor holds still, and Widow leans down, swirling around a knife that came from somewhere. "Time to go, then," she says next, gesturing to the door.
Leigh steps around Marteau, feeling like she somehow stepped into a surrealist landscape, with the dark room, twisted figure on the floor, and the guide who looks more like the subject in a Titian painting even without the brassy red hair Leigh knows she used to have. When she gets outside, she sees that there is indeed a puddle of knotted yarn cloth at the bottom of the stairs leading into the brownstone. She leans down to pick it up, shaking off the leaf and grass pieces.
The other woman takes it from her and shrugs it on. It actually does a decent job disguising just how utilitarian her clothing is underneath its homey mesh texture. Leigh's low-key impressed.
"Thank you," she says, again. "I'm, uh, Leigh Balci, if you're who I think you are, you clearly got my email." It seems a bit ridiculous to point out that there's almost no way to connect an email sent a week ago to the day's events, so Leigh doesn't try.
"Natasha Romanoff. You didn't mention that." She nods at Leigh's wrist. The 'Tony' is clearly visible.
"Would you have believed me?" Leigh asks, rubbing her left thumb across the black lettering. If anyone had told Leigh last May how much joy, grief, and trouble those four letters portended, she would never have ever believed them.
"Maybe," Romanoff allows. Her grin is blindingly beautiful. She knows it, too. "You hungry?"
"Think it'll be my last meal?" Leigh asks, angling her head back up at the house they're still standing in front of. Something about Romanoff's presence makes her feel safe to be standing there, despite knowing that the man inside would absolutely hurt her if he could.
"Already sent a profile of him off to a contact of mine when I saw him throw you inside. He's out on parole. I doubt you or Tony will ever hear from him again." Romanoff tips her head to the side, spilling her blonde-tipped red hair onto her cheek. "Do you need to tell him you're all right? Did you hit the panic button?"
Leigh does half of a head shake. "No idea what you're talking about?"
"Боже мой . Really, Stark? All right, I'm going to need to ask you some things."