I wanted to write something with Eddie as a weird combination of comics!Eddie and movie!Eddie, and I have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do with this, if I even continue it? Didn't really have a plan for it to start with, but I just kinda kept writing until I liked it, so... here's a thing! Thanks for looking at it I guess.
Getting To Know Us
The two of them have settled into a comfortable, albeit distant sort of companionship. Friendship? Acquaintanceship? It was shocking (and a little relieving) to discover that cohabitation of a mind and body doesn't give two people the clarity to actually read each other's thoughts. If he had to guess, he'd say they land somewhere close to friends, but trying to gauge an alien's opinion of you is about as hard as you'd think it is. For all he knows, this being is prepared to run his body dry to accomplish what they need. He has no way of really knowing what their end goal is. If there even is one, anyway.
His other, as he decided to call them, comes off as someone who has no concept of boundaries or discipline. Something driven by base desires and raw emotion. Eddie Brock, on the other hand, is someone wholly dedicated to the things he believes in; at times obsessively so. His need to be a hero is only overshadowed by his need to be treated like one, and to be righteous in the eyes of the public, one must be seen bringing down the hammer of justice. You must be proficient; a mouthpiece for the people. It's not hard then to imagine all the ways this could go horribly wrong.
He hopes he's made the right decision. Ultimately they have a lot in common, and he wants the symbiote on his side. Who wouldn't? The kind of strength that could render bullets useless against his skin, the mind-rattling euphoria of leaping across the city streets like some kind of shadowy overseer - and of course, the fascinating company... Any journalist in his position would be crazy not to take it, and if there's one thing Eddie is not, it's "crazy."
You feel too loud. Shut up.
A roar of a laugh erupts from his chest as he removes himself from his thoughts, eyes downcast at his bare stomach. He's been training ever since they joined three months ago, and with the newfound confidence, decided that shirts can be completely optional if you technically live by yourself. There's still a bit of softness in that belly, though. Need to work on that. "You want me to talk about my feelings instead?" he teases, his other grumbling disapproval in that deep, cobblestone voice.
No.
They never really give him any leeway when it comes to talking. Everything is blunt and serves a purpose, though usually handled with all the sense and patience of a human child. Eddie's come to learn that it isn't necessarily a sour attitude that's the problem, just cultural differences. It's not so bad. His other mimics the language they see humans use every day. While Eddie doesn't consider himself stupid by any means, the words humans use during friendly conversation tend to be more simple and casual than what you find in articles. The two of them had quite the discussion after blurting "Thanks, dumbass" when a cashier handed them their change last week.
Stop sweating. Let's go out. Cold air helps.
"Sure, yeah," he exhales through his nose, hoisting himself off his damp mattress. Gross. Bodies are gross.
Fall isn't his favorite time of year - honestly, he could do without all the grey - but the chilly nights are something he feels a certain fondness for. It's even more prominent now, since his human body runs so hot and tires so easily. His organs are working overtime, and it feels like having a wet blanket suctioned over his insides. Maybe that's what it looks like in there, too. "Nothing too daring tonight, okay? We're protectors, we're not here to terrorize civilians. We don't need to go looking for trouble if there isn't any."
Mmm... tenderize civilians.
"No!" Eddie chastises. He can hear the smile in their voice, but he knows it's only half a joke, which is why he forces himself to frown. "No tenderizing civilians either. We'll pick up some rotisserie chickens on the way back or something." That's one thing that also makes him hesitate when trusting his new bodymate. Worse comes to worse and they go too long without excess food, there's no doubt in his mind that they'll forgo any human niceties, laws, or morals to get what they want. Shoplifting he's fine with, but attacking people or animals in a hunger fueled frenzy is a possibility he continues to wrestle with. He knows it's not their fault. He knows.
With a quick glance at the pile of dirty laundry overflowing from the basket in the corner, he offers a sheepish look to the empty air. "Can you, um... be a fancy sweater? Brown or red, I guess?"
Didn't know we were dressing to impress.
It catches him off guard how embarrassed that tone makes him feel. "Judgy. I can just wear two jackets if it's that much of a pro-" But before he can finish that sentence, there's already a black pool of alien goo expanding and crosshatching over his torso. A weird, prickly tar rising to the surface of his sweaty skin. It feels like losing circulation in a limb and bleeding through it at the same time. Then it changes color.
Oh no. This is not what he meant by fancy. "A Christmas sweater? It's October."
Take it or leave it, Rudolph.
Eddie, exasperated, decides to keep the bright red sweater with the jolly reindeer on it. He's learned over time that his other takes visual gags very seriously, especially at their host's expense. Getting a thick skin when it comes to being embarrassed in public is probably for the best when you talk to yourself a lot. Nearly photobombing a news anchor with Venom's signature grinning face protruding from the back of his pants was where he drew the line, though. Probably.
He goes through the routine. Grabs his keys, turns the lights out, locks the door, and starts his nightly walk. The city gets quiet on Monday nights, and it's nice. The sky feels more real when there's less commotion, a window to the universe that closes when the sun comes up. That's what he loves so much about the dark, he supposes. It lets him see the world as is.
Cold air helps.
"Yeah," he nods, shoving hands in his pockets. It's definitely true that he isn't sweaty anymore, but that's probably not what they meant. There's a synergy, a back-and-forth flow of chemical reactions that does most of the non-verbal communicating between them. Right now it's peaceful, and he can feel a series of low, rumbling clicks from the happy alien resting in his guts. Someone hard of hearing might mistake it for a large cat purring, but it sounds more like the rapid clunk of metal against a blunt object. Like someone running a pipe or a crowbar along a fence instead of a stick.
Hot chocolate. Hot chocolate, Eddie.
His line of sight meets the front door of a quaint little cafe, a few people chatting inside over coffee and pastries. Dim yellow lights against dark wood make for a warm atmosphere, and he has some money he's been saving to use on something frivolous. "I thought I was Rudolph," he snorts. His sweater gets pulled by the neck at that, snapping back mercilessly with the newfound texture of a taut rubber band. If it didn't hurt like hell, he'd be impressed. "Ow!"
This is important.
Right. Chocolate is very important - crucial, even - for reasons he doesn't quite understand yet. The symbiote has a hard time putting it into words for him. Not that he's ever been one to complain about stuffing himself with junk, but if he wants to hone his body to take full advantage of his new powers, it might be a little tough getting weighed down by all the extra pounds. There's one cup of hot chocolate, and then there's a stash of jumbo peanut butter cups and candy bars in your bedside drawer. Guess who needs both. "Fine, but we're getting a medium. I still need to buy those chickens for you. God help us all if you eat a vegetable."
Meat fills us more than dead leaves, idiot.
He wants to correct them and say that vegetables aren't leaves, but decides not to make it a whole situation on the sidewalk. It's just one cup. If need be, he can do a few extra push ups or crunches. His other must feel his worry, because there's a subtle stirring around his chest when he hands over the cash at the counter.
Can be strong for you, Eddie. Humans are supposed to be soft. You are already bigger than most, can lift more. Good the way we are.
"But we can be stronger," he offers as they exit, taking a long sip. Too sweet, but something in him gives a joyful little chirp when he drinks it. Should've gotten dark chocolate. "Bigger. Faster. Right? You work with what I have, so I should have the best I can. That way you have more to work with. Like... buying the newest model of a car, or upgrading your phone so it runs better, or something."
You take the subway.
Eddie glares ruthlessly at a fire hydrant. "My point being yes, you're great at what you do, but maybe I can pull my weight a little more. Make us more efficient. Eating leaves helps me do that. And meat, and grains, and things. Human bodies need all kinds of vitamins and nutrients to function at their best."
It goes quiet as they make their rounds, finish their hot chocolate, and pick up four whole rotisserie chickens at the store. Not an awkward silence as it sometimes is after an argument, but more of a comfortable walk together. Every now and then, he feels something shifting under his skin and prodding inside his biceps. The muscles around his upper torso are sore, and his thighs hurt just a bit. His other had offered to muffle the post-workout pain and fatigue, but he likes it. It reminds him that he's working hard, and helps him sleep. These days, he needs all the help he can get in that department.
As the walk comes to an end outside their apartment, Eddie takes one last look up at what remnants of stars he can see past the light pollution and shoves his key in the lock. Living in the country someday would be nice, but then he'd actually have to drive to the store. He'd probably miss all the human activity and dinner options, too. What would a journalist have to write about out there, anyway? Cows?
The rest of the night is spent enjoying each other's company, not much actual speaking involved. They down the first three (slightly cold) chickens in roughly 40 minutes, pausing in the middle of a movie when Eddie almost chokes on a bone. His other thinks it's hilarious, especially when they make him eat right through a chunk of fat and watch him gag on it. It is not, in fact, hilarious. When they finish, he puts the last one in the fridge for tomorrow, between a tupperware full of leftover spaghetti and some tangerines. They'll need to pick up some milk and some kind of side for the chicken tomorrow. "Maybe spinach," he muses as they settle into the warmth of their bed. It's been far too long since he's eaten something green.
This really isn't so bad. Days like this are easier to get used to than when they're beating people into the concrete, a knife's edge and a stomach's growl away from comitting some unforgivable sin. He hopes the symbiote thinks of him as a true ally at the very least, not just a vessel. Someone to fight alongside in their quest for a better world - maybe even a friend. Their interactions seem genuine enough, but Eddie still has his doubts. Then again...
Goodnight, Eddie. The hot chocolate was good.
... Maybe he's just being silly.