19687/The Unexpected Spider

The Unexpected Spider
Date of Scene:	16 December 2024
Location:	5D - Felicia's Greenwich Loft
Synopsis:	After blacking out while talking to Gwen in Washington Square Park, Ben Reilly wakes up with Felicia Hardy sitting at the foot of the bed. Unfortunately, sympathy and bedside manner aren't exactly Felicia's most notable assets.
Cast of Characters:	Felicia Hardy, Ben Reilly

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Felicia Hardy has posed:
*bvrrrrrt*

Felicia Hardy, her long white hair loose and flowing around her shoulders, lowers the eBook in her hand enough to peer over the top and collect the phone sitting next to her half-finished glass of champagne.

GS> Inbound with Ben. We need a bed.

Aquamarine eyes narrow shrewdly at the screen, and long, elegant fingers type out a quick, one-handed reply.

BC> We don't rent by the hour.

Seconds pass.

GS> Not for that reason. Open the roof door. Please.

Languidly, the white-haired burglar rises from the couch, setting her eBook beside her champagne flute and stretching like a cat in a white, designer blouse and black leather pants as she pads her way up the stairs of the loft to the door that opens to the roof. She's barely gotten it unlocked when it jerks open from the other side and there in the opening stands Ghost-Spider with an unconscious man draped over her shoulder.

"Gwen. This is very cave-woman of you," the thief purrs, stepping back to let the two of them in.

"Not now, Felicia. This is serious," Gwen retorts.

"Clearly."

Gwen's still holding Ben with one arm while she reaches up and jerks off her mask with the other. "Where can I put him?"

"Where does one put any unconscious man? In the bed," Felicia sighs, raising a hand to gesture to the only bedroom that's only a bedroom. The Master Bedroom is on the second story of the loft, not far from the roof access, large and just as comfortably yet stylishly decorated as the rest of the place. "Should I ask what happened to him, or is this secret Spider stuff that I'll have to find out from Peter later?"

"He's... he's losing his powers and blacking out," Gwen explains, hefting Ben past her to the bedroom and tilting to catch him, to set him down gently.

"Like Peter." It's a statement, not a question, from Felicia as she follows not far behind.

"I don't know," Gwen admits, dragging fingers nervously through her short, shaggy, blonde and pink hair and shaking her head.

"Hey." Felicia's voice softens, warms, a hand with manicured nails reaching out to set gently on Gwen's shoulder. "He's here. He looks... okay, all things considered. He hasn't sprouted four extra arms, so... take a breath. What do you need from us?"

Gwen lets out a long breath and then turns to hug the other woman, who hugs her back just as tightly. "Can you keep an eye on him? Call me if he gets any worse? I need a chance to go figure some things out."

"Sure," Felicia says softly. It wasn't that long ago, after all, that her nerves were just as shot, worried about Peter. It wasn't that long ago that she was crying herself to sleep while Man-Spider prowled Central Park, and she was helpless to do anything about it. If anyone understands what it's like to love a Spider-Man, it's her.

"Thanks." And with a weak smile, a last glance at Ben, and a moment stolen to simply set her hand on his cheek, Gwen turns and makes her way back to that rooftop door, pulling on her mask as she goes.

Which leaves Ben Reilly alone in the care of perhaps the most notorious cat burglar in the world, her sharp blue eyes looking down at his unconscious form as a soft sigh escapes her lips. He looks so much like Peter. Same features. Same build. Different hair, but if she didn't know better, she might mistake them...

...no. She wouldn't. There's more than a handsome face to the man she loves. His scent his different, the roundness of his cheeks is different, the fine worry lines on his face are different. There's not a doubt in her mind that she'd be able to tell them apart. But it is fascinating.

"Not at all how I expected this fantasy to play out," she muses to herself as she turns away from the unconscious man in her bed and makes her way back downstairs.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
By the time Ben wakes up, the lights will be dimmed to something more comfortable. Night will have fallen outside, and Felicia will be occupying a comfortable recliner in the corner of the bedroom, her legs pulled up underneath her, eBook in her hands, and a fresh glass of champagne next to her. She must have the stuff on tap.

Ben Reilly has posed:
Like so many times over the past half a year, Ben's eyes slowly open and that fmailiar sense of not knowing where he is takes over. Even when he wakes up at home, it takes a moment for him to realize that he's blacked out again and has to piece together that he's somehow made it home. Although this time, he hasn't.

Oh no.

In an instant, Ben is sitting up, hands planted on the mattress on either side of him, looking around like he's messed up big time. His eyes dart around the room, searching for anything that might indicate where he's ended up. Then they find something. Felicia.

"H. Hey..." he mutters out nervously, trying his best to smile. He manages to, but it's very slight and crooked. His eyes return to looking around the room. "I am so sorry."

He swivels on the bed so his legs hang over the side and his feet touch the floor. He wants desperately to get out of here and go home. Figure out what happened. And.. Oh shit. Gwen.

He pushes to his feet as if to take off running, but when he stands, he falters for a moment. He's always groggy for a few minutes when he wakes up from blacking out. His hand lifts to his head as if it will steady him again. His other hand finds the corner of the bed and keeps him upright.

"I'm so sorry," he repeats and looks over towards Felicia who he assumes is petrified from his presence. "I need to go, please, I'm sorry." He starts looking around again, then down at his feet to see if he's even wearing shoes.

He sits back down on the edge of the bed and shuts his eyes tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, "I didn't mean to come here." Wherever 'here' is.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
She shouldn't play cat and spider games with a sick and/or injured man.

She shouldn't play cat and spider games with Peter's 'brother.'

And yet, there's something rooted deep, deep in the core of Felicia's DNA that requires it. Besides, if it seemed like he was on the verge of death, either she or Gwen would have taken him somewhere with more specialized care than a burglar with a light champagne buzz.

"Hi there, sleepy head."

Her words are silk and velvet and honey and melted chocolate all rolled into one. Her voice is a throaty purr that's just on the edge of laughter, the pleased curl of her lips as obvious in it as it is from looking at her as she slowly uncurls herself and sets her book aside.

There's no rush. Frankly, if the man chooses to jump up, rush outside, leap off the roof, and plummet to his death, it's... not really her fault. Though, she doesn't really want to have to deal with all the paperwork that would entail. Then there's the fact that it's Peter's brother, Gwen's boyfriend (as far as she knows), and everyone at the funeral is going to point the finger of blame squarely at her...

Sigh.

No, she probably shouldn't let him go rushing off. Either way, she said goodbye to a quiet evening hours ago, when Gwen dropped him off. But, she's the one that chose to be a part of this family, with all of its little trials and tribulations.

"You don't need to go anywhere," the woman says, her voice softer -- a lover's caress rather than an order or a threat.

But she's seen that look before. The panic. The confusion. And she knows her little games won't make it any easier to keep him here. She should have tied him to the bed when she had the chance...

...but how would that have looked? Besides, he has Peter's strength, and really, she can't keep buying headboards. Millions of dollars in the bank aside, they do add up after a while.

"Gwen brought you here to keep you safe," the woman continues, finally drawing close enough to ease down and sit beside him on the bed. She's light on the springs, like she's keeping most of her weight in her feet, ready to spring up just as fast as a Spider, though the tension that's obviously coiled across her entire body -- ready to fight, to catch him should he decide to run, to pin him down if she has to -- doesn't show. Lord knows she's had enough practice wrestling with Peter, even before they started dating officially.

"Peter will be home eventually, but I didn't summon him. I wasn't sure when you'd wake up, but I thought you might want some time to get your bearings without all of the worriers fighting to wipe your nose every time you sniffle."

The smile that curls her lips now is less predatory. More knowing.

"I've got some left over pasta in the fridge, if you want some." She pauses, lifting her eyebrows. "May gave me the recipe, and Peter seems to like it. What do you say?"

Ben Reilly has posed:
The casual way that Felicia treats his presence catches Ben off guard. When she rises from the chair in the corner, her voice calm and soothing, he falls silent and watches her. He doesn't have to go anywhere? The confusion continues to mount until she reveals how he arrived.

Gwen brought him here. Gwen brought him here? Why?

"Peter...?" he says, echoing Felicia, not catching on at first, but then he realizes which Peter she means. His eyes widen. Oh man, this isn't good. He felt bad enough the night before getting Peter involved in his problems. Now, not even 24 hours later here he is at Peter's place.

"May? She always made such good-" he stops himself, shaking his head. Of course he loves May's pasta. Anyone would be crazy not to! But no, this is bad. This is not where he wants to be. He looks at Felicia with a mixture of apology and panic, "Listen, I really appreciate you letting me stay here. It is incredibly nice of you."

He looks around the place, taking a moment to realize how much nicer it is than he would've expected. Geez, Peter is killing it. It makes his moldy hole in the city look.. well, pretty horrible. Ben's place is horrible compared to a wet cardboard box.

"Wow, nice place."

He gets distracted, but quickly snaps back out of it. "I really can't be here," he says, looking back at Felicia, his eyes begging her to understand. "This is not Peter's problem and it's not your problem and I just need to go."

Why the hell did he have to black out when he did? Why did Gwen have to bring him here of all places? He knows she was trying to help and probably had no idea where else to go, but the last thing he wants is what's happening. Why did he have to answer her message?

Pain courses through his head again, causing him to rub his eyes with the pads of his palms. "I'm okay." He takes in a deep breath and tries to calm down. Through the pain and panic, he remembers seeing a video of a bunch of goats that faint every time they hear a loud noise. It reminds him of himself. He's turned into a fainting goat for the love of god.

Felicia Hardy has posed:
It's really too bad Felicia didn't get to hear the fainting goat reference. She might have laughed for most of the rest of the evening at the thought...

Alas, she doesn't. Instead, she's faced with Mopey Peter, which lifts one of her delicate eyebrows and tugs a little more firmly at the grin threatening to creep back onto her lips.

The mention of it being a nice place does allow a soft, throaty laugh to escape her lips, the rich sound to fill the bedroom. Not girlish. Never girlish. There's nothing about Felicia to suggest those connotations of youthful innocence or purity. Everything about her is sensual, from the way she sits, to the way she talks, to the way she laughs.

"Not bad for student housing, right?"

Amusement lingers in her eyes, sparkling, daring. 'Come onnnnn,' she almost seems to purr, 'don't just sit there! Play with me...'

But then he says he can't be there, that it's not Peter's problem, and that expression turns almost pitying -- like she's looking at a child begging for a toy and it somehow simultaneously amuses her, just slightly. She doesn't understand. In fact, it's almost as if the whole sentiment pisses her off... just a little.

"If you really don't think it's Peter's problem, you're a shittier clone than I realized," she sighs, most of the amusement and playfulness seems sapped from her voice. It's merciless, but it's not spoken with the venom it could have been.

And with those words, she rises from the bed, her bare feet carrying her in a slow swagger back to her chair. Either she's exaggerating the roll of her hips or that's just how she walks, but whatever the case, she seems to have an innate awareness of where her body is at all times. Her grace is utterly feline, and as she bends slightly to collect her champagne flute from the side table next to her chair, she glances over her shoulder.

Maybe she's expecting to catch him staring. Maybe it's a test.

With Felicia, everything is a test. The number of people who have ever gotten the opportunity to see the 'real' Felicia -- the vulnerable woman underneath all of those layers upon layers of practically predatory sexual energy -- is very, very small.

"But at least you got the whole brave soldier even in the face of death thing down," she sighs.

Flute in hand, she walks towards the bedroom door, hand lingering on the frame briefly as she once more looks back over her shoulder, white hair framing her face.

"I'm not going to force you to stay. Gwen cared enough to bring you here because she knows that whatever else might be going on, Peter considers all of you family. So if _you_ want to go cry into your Fruit Loops, go. But don't blame Peter. Just do me a favor and take the elevator down, because... you're not okay."

Her fingers slip from the door frame, and she disappears down the stairs. The sound of her footfalls, however, are nonexistent. She's absolutely silent when she walks.

"If you decide to stay," she calls a few seconds later from farther away, "the offer of pasta stands. Let me know if you need me to bring it up to you. I don't want you face-planting down the stairs, either."

Ben Reilly has posed:
Since waking up here, the only thing that has been on Ben's mind is escaping. He doesn't like being out of control, and waking up somplace that isn't his home makes him feel like he's not in control. Not that he's felt in control for a long time, he just feels like he needs to retreat back to his home.

Then she calls him a 'shittier clone.' Not only that, but the tone that suggests she feels sorry for him. It would almost be better if it was spit at him in anger. But either way, the callousness pierces his chest like a dagger made of ice. There it is. The panic is gone.

When she saunters away and look back over her shoulder at him, she will find him staring at her but perhaps not in the way she may be expecting. Not in the way most men would stare at someone who looks like her walking the way she does. Instead, she'll see a hardened face, his brows pushing down and a little wrinkle between them.

He continues to study her as she takes her flute and head towards the door, continuing her spiel. The way she speaks to him does a pretty good job of sobering him up from the situation he's found himself in. The overwhelming feeling of being an alien in a foreign place sinks in.

The jab about crying into his cereal would ordinarily result in a sarcastic quip, but not right now. Blame Peter? He doesn't understand why he would think to blame Peter.

Once she's left the room, Ben takes a moment to collect himself before rising to his feet. He really doesn't feel welcome here and all he wants is to get out. If he had his suit, he'd open the window and be gone by now. Damn.

Instead, he pulls on his shoes and grabs his coat and starts making his way down, looking for the way out.

"Thank you for the hospitality," he says flatly, looking for the door. His demeanor has changed completely. He's become cold. Disconnected. Reaching the door, he will open it without giving the loft a second glance and step out so he can catch the elevator, tugging the door shut behind him.