Pete's brain was definitely the wheels constantly turning. He really liked her high speed thought teleporters, though. It meant he didn't have to explain too much and she had things figured out at blistering lightspeeds. And since they were basically on the same wavelength and volume, it was like having his own very smiley and pleasantly chirpy encyclopedia set to counteract his blunt n' cranky factualisms.
"They're aliens, they tend to invade, an' are utterly shite. Although there were the Skrull Beatles, and I got on quite well with Skrull John Lennon. Well, I did, until his face was blasted off b'cos he was mouthing off against authority figures. Imagine that." That incredibly bad pun was partially intended, even if he was incredibly upset about John dying. And he wasn't even there really, even if there was powers and memories bleeding over.
As for what he could do? Pete held up one index finger in an uno momento gesture, took out a cigarette, put it between his lips, and flared up a plasma shaped blade of pure heat off his index finger. It was so hot, that it incinerated half of the cigarette even before it made any sort of physical contact. It was purely because of proximity.
"...voila," he said while taking a puff off the ultra light ciggie he had as part of his 'emergency stash.'