The Queen's Man Part 2

Eight Months ago.

They'd spent a few days together. Days, couple of weeks maybe, it all melded together in a blurred canvas of experience for Peter. Thought he could make himself handle it—being home one day, such as it was, and then going cross country with a complete stranger the next. Stuck on a bus bound nowhere specific for him and somewhere for her, home for a girl named Cindy Moon. It wasn't the best recipe for privacy, but that he didn't need to figure out. Sitting next to a telepath never was.

It took a lot longer to get to Massachusetts than he'd thought, and even when he realized they were taking the scenic route, doubling back and wasting time he hadn't said anything. Wasn't like he had anywhere special to be. They hopped from one tourist bus to the other, scenic routes and quiet rides, dinner at pitstops and leg stretching breaks on layovers. Him and Cindy and the odd feeling in his stomach, his bones, that she brought up.

She paid his way after the first time—they both knew the lint masquerading as budget money in his pockets would only last so long. She'd known how he felt about that, too. How he grimaced at the thought of being a drain on someone else, a burden. Said it was all on Ezekiel's dime like that made it any better.

"He's rich," Cindy had said, as they sat down and chowed down on burgers somewhere past Apathy and Ignorance. Peter didn't even bother keeping track of where they went. "Owns his own company and everything! You know I'm thinking of getting a Camaro for my next birthday?"

He worked his jaw, debating whether or not to talk. Wasn't like he had anything to hide. In the same vein, he didn't have anything to say that she didn't know. Or did he? He don't know how telepathy worked—it wasn't clairvoyance. Was it? God, he hoped not. If she could just go into his head whenever she wanted…

"Hey, if I could stop doing that I would. You think it's fun for me to see you dying over again? Or watching your Uncle get shot? No," she said, shaking a messy cheeseburger at him. She smiled, but he knew enough about smiles like that to know it was forced. "I didn't ask for this. Yeah, it's pretty awesome I get to see what gets you off so you can to smuggle time to nut in a bag and drown your room in air freshener-anal with your girlfriend, huh? Knew we had stuff in common—but I didn't ask for this."

He opened his mouth, closed it. Chose to ignore that. "You really see them?"

She looked down. "More than you, I think. At least I see more. Saw more. I 'saw' them too. Felt them. Not as much, they were… different. But just enough to know what they were thinking about when they died. What it felt like." She swallowed her food. "…Not good. Not fun. We should form a club."

Peter grunted. Yeah, the club of people who knew what being six steps from death was like by proxy. Or in his case, by experience.

"It was a hot, bright flash for… Quasimodo, let's call him, and for—I was thinking India, or Tarantula for the other one," she said leadingly, silently asking his opinion.

If there was one way to get over it, it was talking about it. Yeah, talking about the deaths of his clones. His life was taking a weird turn. Maybe this would be better than keeping it all in though. Cindy smiled slightly. "Uh…Tarantula," he said, and his stomach didn't turn as much from the effort.

"I knew you'd say that," she smirked. He rolled his eyes. "…Sudden suspension. Like he was flying. Didn't even realize it until… then nothing." She closed her eyes. Peter started to think that maybe he didn't need to know that. "Sorry. But yeah, when it comes to this, I'd be more than happy to trade your spider-sense for my 'I didn't ask for this' tier power."

Peter put his face into his arms against the table. Another night of less sleep than he thought was comfortable. He hadn't thought how it'd affected her. Now that he was, it wasn't doing his opinion on telepathy any favors. Or himself. ""I'll bet. Sorry."

Cindy quirked her eyebrow, spoke in hushed tones now. "What is this, the contention convention? Why would you be sorry?" she asked, like it was a stupid thing to say. "Not your fault. You didn't kill them," she said, and he clenched his teeth. "And they didn't blame you. Quasimodo was—alright, I'll be honest, he was way too obsessed with that redhead. Wasn't thinking much about you… or himself. Just angry. A lot like you."

"Thank you so much," he remarked, scathingly.

"It's not a bad thing, just… if you thought about yourself a little bit more, or a lot, because you're kind of a -10 on a 1-100 self-worth scale, I don't think you'd have as many problems."

Peter closed his eyes. "I'll try to keep that in mind the next time someone is dying."

"Not what I meant, stupid, but some people deserve to die- don't look at me like that," she said, cutting him off. He grimaced at her. "You know it too, don't lie. I know what you wanted to do with Octavius, and that CIA guy with him. The asshole who killed your Uncle. Some people just have bad shit coming because they're bad people. They deserve it." She scowled. "Not you, though. You take it, but you don't deserve it."

He didn't respond to that. Wasn't the first time she'd hit the nail on its head. Yeah, it was unfair, with everything he'd done and what he'd got in return. Ended up being turned into the veritable Christopher Columbus for people with powers, and not the kind they told to second graders. Made things harder for them, for mutants, all because people like Jameson had an axe to grind, all because people like… like Aunt May, just didn't want to look past their own blind… what? Hatred? She didn't hate him. She hated Spider-Man. All because of Peter. Who was…

Well, that was a conclusion that he could've gone without.

Cindy smiled softly at him. "See? Some people? Assholes. They, do not deserve, to be this… responsibility thing you have. The only person you need to look out for is yourself and the people that care for you."

"Suppose that has a double meaning for you," he said, then bit the inside of his cheek.

Cindy looked proud more than anything. "Damn straight."

Peter knew that he managed to fail double at that cardinal rule, though. Shook his head. "If you heardthem, then-" he said awkwardly, referring to his clones.

Cindy shrugged. "The Little Ms. Tuffet version of you?"

"I think you're more of a little Ms. Tuffet," he said.

"Oh, thank you! I always wanted to be a Disney princess, but you know, the part for Mulan was taken, and I don't think you'd find me nearly as cute if I was one of those Japanese spider-Oni or whatever. Maybe a Power Ranger?"

"That's not Dis-" he sighed. "Yeah, her. Her name's Jessica."

For a second Cindy frowned—so quick he almost didn't notice it, but on her porcelain skin it was jarringly noticeable. "I didn't know that. The other ones I could hear. They were… close enough to you, I guess. Quasimodo had a mind like a broken mirror. And the other ones-"

"I know about the other ones," he said. "Let's not go there."

She shrugged. "Girl-you, was different. They were all like you, but different and she's… different-er than different."

"She has a vagina."

"I bow to my deductive King. You get trained by Batman or something?" Peter snorted. "No. You are a guy. A really stuck on hero-mode guy, but whatever. They were guys too." She held one hand out, then the other. "…'Jessica'," she almost groaned, for some reason, "Is a girl. There is an entire world of differences in mental processes and faculties between you two. Yeah, she's you… as much as you would be if you were born with a twat instead of a third leg. So kind of… but not really."

"Am I seriously getting lessons on existential cloning theory from a telepath… Isn't this supposed to wait until after the advent of artificial intelligences?"

"Hey, don't I know it," she said, kicked at his foot under their table. "But it's better than getting mindswapped by one," she said. He bristled. "What I'm trying to say is we're, like, hooked up. Signal wise. Her signal is different. And it gives me a headache… All of you have really nice butts though…"

He tilted his head the slightest bit at that. If only he could give telepaths headaches. Maybe getting an annoying song to play in his head all the time would help. By now he noticed he was developing a mental censure to everything not TV-Y7 that she said.

She picked her burger apart and popped a cherry tomato into her mouth. Would have been more innocent if she hadn't poked it with a sharpened claw made of webbing and caressed it with her small, pink tongue while looking him in the eye. "But if you're wondering if I know about the dreams you have of her, yeah."

He froze. She waved him down. "If remembering hugging your literal self after a pretty crappy night makes the bad stuff go away, dude, that is… so alright with me. I think it's pretty friggin' adorable."

He put his face in his hands. "Wonderful…"

"There's also a really interesting way your dreams can be construed as a way your subconscious is trying to overcome your… you-ness."

"What?"

"Usually most people have a death-wish—subconscious mind trying to screw them over. Subconscious mind's a bitch, lemme tell you. You though, you're weird," and she smiled, like that was an accomplishment. "Yours is stubborn. Takes that death wish and gets into a knockdown, drag out brawl with it. Just doesn't know when to quit. Just like you," she said, looking strangely in admiration at him. "But you said it yourself. Thought it. Not the biggest fan of yourself. Finding comfort from being hugged by yourself—even if she has a twat—is, like, dream interpretation 101. Right up there next to dreaming that everything's alright and blondie isn't dead."

"…Alright, you need to get the hell out of my head."

"If it helped you and I could, I would," she said softly. "It's not like I want to be a Jean Grey to you, Peter. I just want to help."

So had he, but maybe she'd have a better track record than him and all his clones combined. He was quiet for a bit. "Yeah, well… Thank you so much for your permission to dream about myself," Peter grunted. "It's all I've ever wanted. Really."

"All I've ever wanted was for my King to notice me. We've fulfilled each other. Let's tie the knot."

"No."

Before his eyes, she rammed three fingers into a small hole she'd made out of webbing. "Plug my balloon knot?" she asked sweetly.

He ignored that. "So now I'm getting psychology lessons from a telepath," he said. He took a chomp out of his food and sighed to himself. Far cry from homecooked meals, but beggars couldn't be choosers. He wasn't about to beg, but he wasn't about to be an ingrate either. "Thanks for the food."

"No sweat, Big Dick," she said, and he choked a little. "I know a little about psychology. I don't spend most of my time watching you masturbate. …Alright, all of it, I have schedules." Peter glared witheringly at her. "And if you want, I can also… probably, stop the dreams?" She said, rocking her hand uneasily. It didn't take a second for him to realize what you meant. "Before you chew my head off… you could really get a lot out of chewing between my legs. But with no teeth."

"I'm not letting you anywhere near my head," he said fiercely.

"Spidey, you don't have a choice. Neither of us do. I'm giving you options."

"Don'tcall me that."

She put her hands up. "Fine, fine… just so we're clear, that's a no on the facesitting right? Because it wasn't like your girlfriend could do that for you."

Peter ran a hand down his face. "We were interrupted. And if I knew that someone else was watching us-"

"You would have still railed her at the table if you had the time…" she bit her lip, popping an eyebrow up. "And hey, we're at a table."

"Jesus car-tossing Christ." He threw his hands up. "What is with you telepaths anyway? Are all of you perverts and voyeurs?"

"That's pretty powerist of you," she remarked, snickering. "I can't speak for Ms. 'Look at me, I have telepathy and telekinesis', but… yeah, probably," she grinned. "I'm just saying, a telepath messed up your chance to lose your virginity with your sweet, caring mutant girlfriend, and Marvel Girl over there was probably rubbing herself raw watching you wet-hump her friend at the kitchen table. I know I was," she bit her lip. "And at least I'm honest about it. So why not let another telepathic mutant girl take responsibility for it?"

Peter looked at her with half lidded, tired eyes. "I think I might actually hate you."

She smiled. "We both know that's not true. So, like I was saying… thinking about getting a Camaro for my next birthday. "

He snorted. "You even know how to drive?"

"Do you?"

"No."

"We'll learn together then."

It didn't take Peter long to go back on his decision about the nightmares. Doing it to help him was one thing. He didn't to be helped, didn't think he needed to. At least the dreams about Ben were something he had months of experience dealing with. This was no different. Cindy doing it to help herself was another, and he… was strangely okay with that. Maybe because everyone who tried to help him always ended up getting inevitably screwed over.

Cindy was having his nightmares. That made it his… God,responsibility. Last thing he wanted was someone else—who didn't deserve it-getting screwed over by his problems. If he could stop it himself, he would, but his track record and the feeling in his gut said that'd make things worse.

So he let her do it. Back on the bus—back on a bus—Cindy called it a 'Jean Grey'. Piss-poor joke if there ever was one.

He half thought he was going to end up in a body halfway across the country. She said she wasn't that strong a telepath, it didn't work that way, but she was good enough to be his Tylenol for easy sleeping. His cute, mutant girl-space-friend Tylenol, and promised, gave her word she wouldn't do anything untoward.

Said he was such a stubborn jackass with a willful subconscious she wouldn't be able to. And apparently, that was extremely rare. Peter didn't want to know how she knew that and he had a few ideas already.

What occurred to him was that she was being presumptuous. And that he could always have worse friends. Like a corpse. Gwen Stacy, RIP, probably wasn't interested in the same things he was. Probably wanted to punch him in the face…

She puther forhead to his and her hands on the sides of his head. His spider-sense worked and tweaked like a Geiger counter when she did that. He could feel her in his head and it raised the hairs on the back of his neck, Subtle and soft, but there. From that point on he knew he'd be able to recognize her, look for the signs, the way her thoughts differed from his. Admittedly, there was a hell of a lot less self-loathing. Great. He really was exceptional.

She went further than Jean had gone and the sound of her thoughts was all an entirely different feeling from Jean's telepathy. More… intuitive. Intimate. Like it was in his ear. It was a tickling feeling that didn't do the sensation of his bones seeming like they wanted to outgrow his skin any favors, like scratching a limb that was dead asleep.

And then it was done.

He didn't feel different, but Cindy looked proud with herself, She was sweating a little, and before he could do anything she pecked his forehead. "You were verybrave today," she said, as if he was a scared kid who just got a shot. He didn't push her away, not after that. Too busy trying to focus his eyes.

She noticed and stayed right where she was. "How do you feel?" she asked. It was night time again, and the dark stretch of road from their last stop onto their next—wherever it was—was lit by the odd street light and sparse traffic. The bus was quiet and he could barely see her. Could feel her breath though, could taste it.

Peter backed away and realized he was already against the window. "Not about me," he said, awkwardly turning away. "Did this for you."

"There you go again…" she said fondly. He saw her smile, but then saw her eyes gleam red. She noticed him staring, even in the dark, and blinked. "Oh, uh, sorry," she said, blinking the red away. "That happens when I get… excited. Anyway… I said it before. We can help each other, Peter. You're not alone. Or, you don't have to be."

He ran his hands through his hair. "Yeah, thanks… I think. If I find anything wrong with my head though, I'm-"

"Going to be very sexually egalitarian with me," she finished. "Hm… there's an idea. Synonymous with sodomy, if you think about it."

"I'd rather not," he said, and paused. "You're a… weird girl, Cindy. But thanks. I mean it."

She leaned back in her seat, then against him. Made herself comfortable and he was more comfortable than he'd been. "I know. Hey, we rule together. King and Queen. We're a team, united we stand, yadda yadda yadda, blah blah blah."

Peter considered that. Couldn't help his mind storming his mind thoughts of how that would work, exactly.

"My superhero name would have been… Silk, I think?" she said, wriggling her fingers and spinning a silky looking long glove over one arm. "'The Queen' just sounds cooler. …I think we would have been good together. And I know we will be good together."

He didn't say anything. Maybe she was right. Maybe not. Either way, it was time to get some sleep.

After, he'd managed to get through a night without dreaming about Ben's death, or his own. And then two, and then four. A couple of days of that, in celebration, they had gone to Philadelphia. Cindy's treat, Ezekiel's dime. Peter recognized he was in a markedly better mood—not seeing himself get Sonny Corleone'd or javelined went a long way. Cindy said she was sleeping better too. He elected to believe her—if only because for once he was waking up before she did.

They, she, had rented a room for them, didn't tell him where, and then they'd seen the Liberty Bell together. It was their first stop after a day cheesesteak sandwiches. That definitely wasn't tuna casserole cooked by Aunt May, but Peter thanked Little Ms. Tuffet for it anyway.

Cindy'd taken her phone and asked him to snap her lifting the Liberty Bell, since he was such a staunch believer in the equality of her strength. And when she tried to lift it and to keep the crowd from seeing them with her powers, like Jean had with the X-Men's jet in Queens… Peter heard the pop of her spine. She succeeded though… and had nearly thrown her back out in the process, ended up with a splitting headache for a better part of the day. Peter supposed he was supposed to feel guilty. Apparently he and Jean Grey made it look easy.

He carried her back to the place, stopping to admire that it was a pretty nice hotel, and to give her a look that she didn't meet. It was a place that made the Parker monthly expense look like chump change in comparison. He didn't deserve to stay there on someone else's paycheck.

"All on Ezekiel's credit card," Cindy had repeated.

The room came equipped with King and Queen beds, When he saw that he all but dropped her on hers, the Queen, and mostly hesitantly went to his. Didn't need eyes in the back of his head to know she had the smuggest grin possible on her face.

She limped to the bath since he wasn't about to strip her and put her in there himself, and tried to make himself comfortable. Watch TV. It was easier than he thought. He was in Philly-freakin'-delphia. Ben always wanted to go there with the family. Wondered for a second if that's why Cindy brought him there. Didn't matter anyway. He was already there. 'Well Uncle Ben,' he thought, 'I made it.'

And an hour later Cindy came out of the bathroom naked.

Well, that wasn't accurate. She was covered where it didn't count. At her shoulders a towel hung just over the slight buds of her breasts, small and petite like the rest of her, and her ivory skin was flushed pink, the wet tap of her feet as she walked by his bed the only noise she made, like it was no big deal, but he knew it was. Watched her walk with poise. Dainty and faux clueless, her dark hair streaming down to the small of her back as the mist from the shower chased after her…

And when she sat down, the reality of rooming with a perverted girl with telepathy and a microscopic brainfilter started to set in and stare him in the face. More accurately, her pussy was staring him in the face. All puffy and reddened and wet… He looked away, of course he did. Kitty. Another word for-

He'd never seen one bare. Then again, Cindy had probably known that. Of course she did.

Peter was aware that being a hormonal teenager was a trial in itself. Being one who had last reached some semblance of… relief when he'd been prepared to lose his virginity, take his girlfriend's. Dry humping Kitty at the table, rutting against her ass with his arms wrapped around her while she ground back and breathed heavy into his ear.

Cindy noticed him staring. She brought her leg up, putting one toned, smooth thigh on display like he wasn't a hardup, red-blooded, hard up male teenager. Was that a smirk on her face? "Sorry, I really just needed to play with myself. Did you want to go in? You could have joined me." She spread her legs the slightest bit, all the while weaving a stocking around her leg.

Peter got up and stalked into the bathroom. He hadn't gotten off in days. She knew. Cindy Moon was a royal bitch and she was doing this on purpose.

Her voice chased after him into the bathroom. He shut the door on it. "Let me know if you need some help in there, partner!"

"I hate you!" he called back.

"No you don't!"

Other cities, other places he'd never been. Peter wondered if he should keep a journal to store all his thoughts. Then again, with Cindy acting as his de facto teller, it wasn't like he needed one.

They'd gone to Baltimore, back on their way to Massachusetts. Celebrating being newly minted 'spider-besties', all because he hadn't immediately shot the concept down. For what she'd done for him, Peter taught her how to websling in the Baltimore nighttime skyline. In return, Cindy had offered, not for the first time, to let him fling his jizz in the back of her throat; they both knew the last time he had managed to get off was before any of this.

She was nothing if not a very giving friend. "The 'bestie'," she called herself. He'd never had a bestie before.

By the time they'd reached their final destination together—and something about saying it like that made him shiver—he'd developed a resistance to her telepathy either out of pure stubbornness or like an immunity to a cold. She'd used it so much, he'd been so on guard against it, he learned how to stop some thoughts from coming up by going Zen. Wondered if it would carry over to any other telepath, but keeping Cindy from knowing about the progressively weird direction his dreams about the girl-him and him were going was just fine by him.

He had gotten intensely aware of her breath on his neck while they hugged, and if that was weird, and it was, then realizing how she'd give him this soft, lip-biting look… or how she smelled like gunmetal and smoke, sweaty and matted and tired, like him, but still so sweet… and then he'd wake up. He started to think that it went a little past self-healing. Maybe it had something to do with his straining testicles. Maybe he could add narcissist to his list of descriptors after everything else.

When they'd rode into Massachusetts a limo was waiting for them. Cindy, being Cindy, knew what happened the last time he got in one of those. Nearly eating a guy while rocking the Richard Parker and Edward Brock Sr. cancer suit had him sicker than he thought and she picked up on that. Got them an uber. Had her feet in his lap the entire time while he watched the scenery pass by with a quickly dawning sense of realization at the large expanses of land and nothing but green grass and blue skies.

She cracked jokes about them making their own spider-themed X-Men, and their Danger Room could get set up in the basement gym. They'd have an obstacle course and would hit the showers together, all sweaty and spent and tired, but still satisfied. Subtlety was not a power of Cindy Moon.

Took him a bit to process that. When he had, they'd arrived and his mouth was wide open. They stepped out, Cindy with a few bags of clothes she'd helped herself to buying over the course of their trip. Peter looked at her, then at the gleaming white building in front of them. "…You live in a freaking mansion?"

"Yeah, don't you?" He stared at her. She hissed. "Sorry. I'm royalty, and you're my King. We're gotta sleep in style."

He laughed despite himself, took a breath of fresh air along with her. Maybe… maybe this could work. He didn't know about being an X-Man, a spiderman, but it'd be nice to not have to hide his abilities anymore. Not have to walk around eggshells because May might have a heart attack and hate him for that. Been there, did that. Not to have to fail spectacularly in gym class. He could run, loosen his collar for a bit. Or a bit longer than that. Let loose…

Cindy smiled at him. The front doors to the place opened. Out came a man dressed in a black suit, no tie. Just whitening hair and outstretched arms. Cindy ran to him like he remembered running to Uncle Ben, called out his name like Peter remembered calling out Ben's. "Ezekiel!"

Peter hung back and watched, feeling more like an intruder than anything else. Ezekiel looked at him, smiled in greeting and started to walk toward him. His voice was friendly, easy, like Ben's had been, his hand gnarled with working years, stuck out. "Peter? Cindy has told me somuch about you. I'm a fan of your work."

And Peter looked at the outstretched hand… and suddenly became aware that there weren't any buildings around for him to swing from.

And that his spider-sense was going off.