Eddie Brock awoke with a headache. The bad kind. One steered from good intentions, flashing lights and loud music sorely based on thuds mixed with one drink too many. He felt its weight like a belt over his face, strapped across his temples.
A familiar fuss there too.
He could not remember the night before when he thought of it, no more than a glimpse or two. Intentions fulfilled, he supposed. Ha. A flash. The music. No more.
Good.
He tried to move, although his neck refused his heavy head and it stayed against the pillow and his hands. Eddie groaned. The warmth of loose tendrils pushing out off and against his back, laborious, tries to make them rise.
“You feel that too?” He spoke into the dirty pillow.
Yes.
He groaned once more. “Sorry.” He said into the empty air and meant it. Clenched his eyes further shut. Tried to open them at the silence.
The linens of the bed slowly became visible through blurred vision: small bumps of white, the wrinkled sheet. Eddie looked to the open door, shifted away from the extending tendrils. He moved his hands downwards, into the warmth of the linens as his mind slowly caught up with him. He imagined it frantically running, tripping behind him as the alcohol still had not left their body completely. It made it wobbly and slow. Cartoon legs and all.
He smiled as he felt a vibration spread throughout their body. All funnier with a little poison left.
What the hell .
He felt a pool of some kind beneath his fingers. Hidden underneath the blanket.
He was still wearing his jeans, worn out at the knees and inside the pockets by the edges of his phone, and his shirt, tight and a bit ugly. He knew that fluid by smell alone, he thought.
The blanket hovered and shook above the bed, clenched in a hard grip of whitening knuckles where he had pulled it to a stop.
“Fuck,” Eddie bit out. “Fuck, shit, fuck-” The blanket dripped, soaked with blood.
His brain sprinted, caught up, and fueled their body with panic. Eddie jumped out of bed. Tripped on his discarded shoes which his drunken self had tossed off in the middle of the floor.
“What did you do?” He asked and stumbled forward. “Answer me.” He demanded as he took the bedroom’s door frames in his hands.
Dinner. He felt the toothy grin.
Of course. To what surprise. Eddie had to swallow the bile. Ignore the coppery taste in the back of his throat. The obvious trail of blood that colored the wooden floor. His own bloody hands. Jesus.
We were hungry.
“Yeah?” Eddie flung his arms out, fought his balance, and felt the sleeves stick to his skin. “And we clearly have rules. They are meant to be followed.”
They stirred in his chest. Perhaps a whine traveled through his bones.
The rules are a foolish act of chivalry. But we follow the rules.
Eddie laughed. Perhaps the alcohol again? It was rather hallowed. “This-" he waved his hand around the apartment. “Is not following the rules, buddy.”
No?
He snorted. Ignore. Ignore. It is hard to ignore when it is in your head. Our head. Eddie tried nonetheless. He decided to follow the trail. The short trail. From the bedroom to the hallway and kitchen area. Or was it the other way around?
You wanted to break the rules, Eddie.
Eddie could not stop his face from twisting into anything but disgusted surprise as the trail reached its end.
“Oh, fuck.” He whispered and dropped to his knees, the liquid immediately soaked through his pants. He ran his hands across the person. The body? No. Still a person, he forced himself to think. The person lay against the apartment door on top of his knees as if they had been folded beneath his weight. Lines of blood aligned the door. He must have slid down. His face was not whole, blonde hair stuck to his cheek and through his gum. We did this? Helped. There is no pulse. The person was young. They looked around twenty-five years old.
“You should've stopped us.” Eddie said. Inky tendrils grew out of his chest. Formed a head, sharp, brutal teeth and milky eyes.
We were hungry.
“Already said that, Ven.” He met his other's eye. If guilt were to be displayed on something so expressionless that would be it, he thought. They turned away as they dripped.
You were hungry. Jagged rows of teeth clattered.
Confusion painted Eddie’s face at the dark rumble of words, fear crossed it then too, almost too fast to catch by even Eddie himself. He quickly swallowed it, deflected.
I, was drunk.
"Me?” He reached out towards the floating head. He creased his eyebrows as he pet them, as his finger sunk into the solid-liquid. “Somehow, I doubt that. Hamburger and fries, sure, but not this.” Felt the sting of disappointment throughout his chest as he hastily let go.
He breathed heavenly then, rose to his barefooted feet as he bit his nails. The head crawled back inside him.
“A little help?” He asked as he moved his hand. Looked down at the person beneath him with a grimace. A pile of useless limbs.
You are not mad?
Eddie shook his head. “I don't know,”
He took the person into his arms. Lift with your knees , not your back. “We’ll have to see. Now help me with this.” The phrase played in his head as he heaved.
Our head.
He did not answer.
***
Eddie liked to think he hated how used to it he was. The person tumbled down from their arms to the bottom of the bathtub with a loud thud. Blood, guts, and gore. Far too used to it. He licked his lips as he carefully pulled the curtain fully aside. Frankly, he thought it horrified him.
Black, thick liquid uncovered his arms and hands as he stepped closer to the tub. The ripped curtain still hung loosely on two hooks beside him. An old reminder of his graceful fall and their first meeting. Demonic eyes in the mirror.
His every movement was urgent then. Stress and frenzy fueled his limbs. Eddie looked in the body’s pockets. Jacket. Pants. Found a cellphone which he curtly shut off after checking its display. No missed calls. Good. Hopefully, he will not be missed.
Fuck, that is horrible. He is horrible.
Tossed the phone. Discarded its background of a loved one.
He found an ID-card in the front pocket and he cursed himself for looking at it.
“Lucas Courtet.” He had been 29-years-old and he did not look as if he had been ready for the photo being taken. He must have hated his ID. Squinted eyes and bad hair. Perhaps he had mentioned that he had. A flash. The music.
Who is that?
Eddie pointed towards the tub with the edge of the card and proceeded to puke into the toilet bowl.
Nothing but saliva came out. Their body refused to give up what they had eaten, their fuel in the tank. It merely burned his throat instead and he could feel the other’s soft touch on his shoulder as he spat and puked. It stopped, he thought, he hoped. He spat and puked again.
It felt like he had been puking acid as it finally did stop.
Okay? Eddie could hear the concern beneath the rumble. Feel small pats of their tendril on his shoulder.
“Yeah,” He coughed into the cup of his hand, his throat raw, his hands coming off wet with saliva as he removed it. “We-we’re okay. Thank you.” He did try not to let his voice falter. His right hand gripped at the bowl, fingers slipping against its material as he took a breath, closed and opened his eyes, filled his lungs with the reassurance of air which the coughs had courtly ripped from them.
He intended to rise but paused and looked down at the saliva that lay in his hand. Small chunks of human flesh, tinted red with specks of blood, aligned its rough lines. He started to shake.
Fuckin’ breath.
Eddie?
In one motion he rose and yanked the curtains shut, interrupted the other before they even began. “We’re okay ,” he breathed out and merely stood there, hands squeezing the folds of the curtains. “I mean it.” Refused to look through its jagged rips, down, at the body.
They're okay.
He slowly unclenched his hands and let go. Claimed blessed ignorance of what is no longer seen.
Eddie needed to focus. He tried to breathe slowly. To think. To not think. What do you do in these kinds of situations? Surely, there’s no 101 guide.
Rid of it. They said.
Yes, he agreed. He turned and walked out of the bathroom. Crossed the hallway and then the kitchen floor, towards the cleaning cupboard which was tinted with dust from its rare use. A bucket of water and a mop; and he rolled it over the coated floor, handle in hand.
The water tinted red as he shoved its bloody head in it once more and the bucket shook slightly as he pulled it away. The wooden floor shimmered in the weak light after every stroke. Eddie sighed as he stretched his arm and the blood simply spread out. “Come one then.” He said as he let go of the handle, became three sounding thuds as he gripped the bucket and tossed the water out.
Brilliant. They laughed.
The wave landed with a splash.
“No comments, alright?” Eddie said squinting towards the apartment door, the empty mop bucket dripped and hung loosely to his side. The air pickled with irritation and then, acceptance and quiet. A nod and the bucket swung as he stepped back into the kitchen. “Thank you.” He sang, the ray filled it up again and he tossed the water onto the blood. Repeated it until the trail had become a pinkish bed of water.
***
The apartment stood striking clean and Eddie stood squeezing a rug in his hands. Rather. It all could be mistaken for a few drunken mishaps, and not a murderous one. The floor lay soaked with water, perhaps a broken pipe in the roof, and the front door displayed a stain which could simply be trails of neglect and rotten wood. None of it blood. Good. Eddie thought. Good, good, good. A voice echoed his own as he dropped the rug.
“Well,” he said to his other. Slapped his hands on his thighs with a sense of determination. “Crisis averted. This calls for a celebration.” He walked towards the kitchen with a sprung in his steps, could feel them stir awake fast till the moment his hand clenched frozen stiff to the fridge's door handle.
Eddie sighed. “Ven,” He clenched through his teeth. Dragged out the vocals. “Could you please let go?”
No. Came the answer.
Flabbergasted. “No?” He echoed, twisted his shoulder stubbornly towards his hand. Alas, it remained locked in place, beyond his own control. “Let go.”
His fingers tickled with the sense of a hundred ants. No,I will not allow you to poison us. Again.
“It’s one beer,” Eddie answered. A thousand ants. Shook his shoulder and arm again. “Stop that, it's uncomfortable.” They did. Although, they kept the hand.
One, yes. And then two and three. It's uncomfortable. They mock and pause. It makes us sick.
“Makes us drunk.” Eddie pulled his finger upwards, it shook slightly as he ignored the first statements. “Would make this ,” He then said, showcasing it all with a free and open hand. “Easier.” Let it fall limply to his side.
“So, again-” He paused. Shock his shoulder and arm harshly. “Could you please let me go?”
A moment. He breathed and waited.
No answer. Eddie screamed. He screamed at his fridge. Jesus. Fuck.
“Oh, the silent treatment, huh. Great! ” He yanked his arm so hard that it hurt. “Need I remind you who got us into this situation, hm ?” A small movement stirred in his hand, Eddie pulled back. “ Yeah . You used my body without my permission.”
Our body. And we-
“You killed somebody!” Eddie yelled and the fridge door flew open, the insides scrambled backward as suddenly as he did.
He landed on the floor together with mayonnaise and a beer bottle which courtly broke. The black veins inside his body quickly retreated up to his arm and back to his lungs and heart. Settled there like a cold chill. He sat still, felt the spilled beer slowly spread, and soak the side of his pants. Embarrassment then there too.
“Sorry.” He said, staring at the insides of his fridge whilst. Hoped it sounded like he meant it as much as he did.
He shifted to move to his feet at the silence then, but the skin beneath his thumb stung.
“Shit.” He hissed as he turned to look downwards; a beer bottle glass shard protruded out of his hand, glimmered mockingly in the whirring light of the fridge. It stung further as he reached for it, hurt as he yanked it outwards between two fingers and caused him to bite his tongue.
It scrambled to the floor and as he looked down at the wound, a deep red crevice in his skin, it remained. It mocked him. He laughed.
“Mature, Ven.”
Eddie licked the blood beneath his unhealed thumb and swallowed as he rose. Already distaining the silence. He pulled out a bottle from the top shelf.
“Well,” He said. The bottle almost slid through his bloody hand as he uncorked it with a bottle opener formed like a flower, and the fridge scrambled before him, shut with his foot. “Two can play that game.” He raised the beer towards the empty apartment in cheers and drank.
Gladly welcomed the dark’s accompanying silence when he got to the third one.
***
"What do I have to say to get you out of here?"
The guy's question tickled Eddie's ear with its breath, and thus he took a step back. Studied him, for a quick moment — blonde hair, the sweat across his forehead —from a clearer distance and answered with a chuckle.
“Aren’t you a bit too young for this?” He leaned forward, voice loud enough to travel over the thudding music, his arm against the bar's sticky, wooden surface.
The guy laughed. A noise deep down his throat. “No,” he said. “But I’m flattered. Really. Is that a hard no on my advances then?”
Eddie rolled his eyes. Raised his glass in a mock salute. “That.” He said and took a gulp of the liquid. Squinted as he smiled behind the rim of the glass at the confused look in return.
" That? " The guy questioned. His voice incoherent over a drop in the music, a thud, thud, thud which never seemed to stay away for long, Eddie could read his lips nonetheless.
"How to get me out of here," He pointed towards him with his glass. "Just that ."
The guy smiled. Happy. "Fantastic." He said and put his drink down. A hard smack against the wood. Determent he seemed. He tossed a knuckled together bill from his pocket to the bartender, a lousy tip to bid him goodbye. An open hand pressed towards Eddie’s chest as he slid down the barstool then, a polite smile. Somewhat coy combined with the alcoholic shimmer in his eyes.
The noise, a thud, swallowed his name. He wobbled slightly on his feet as he awaited the handshake. “And you are?”
“We are Eddie Brock.” He shook his hand.
If he noticed the slip-up, he did not say. What’s a little crazy if not expected picking up strangers at a bar whereas it was either to get black-out drunk or to fuck?
“Holy shit. The Eddie Brock?” He let go of the hand. Laughed once more. A girl tossed herself onto the bar beside him, barely missing him as she shouted her order. Gin And Tonic. “Don’t shy with the Gin, love.”
Eddie swallowed hard at the recognition that crossed the other’s face. At a moment’s notice, caution became a mere word in a dictionary in a dusty bookcase, his frame, which had been a bit tense despite his care-free demeanor, now relaxed. The once reporter, voice to the voiceless, stood before him. A genuine guy. The known becomes trustworthy.
For yet another rare instance: his fucked-up past serves him something good. His mind goes to Venom immediately. Missed their presence, the emotion pushed back as he looked towards the guy, his big eyes and coy smirk.
Eddie shook his head. Snorted as he discarded his drink. And with his hands, he showcased himself like a ringmaster. “The one and only.” He smiled, his mouth salivating. What an easy prey.
“I seem to be in luck.”
Eddie grinned, toothy and wide. “You and me both.”
***
Eddie wished for his consciousness to return slower, to remain in his dreams (memories) a while longer rather than to reap the consequences. But he could feel the cold surface of his kitchen island against his cheek, the strain on his back as he once again sat in the chair in their apartment — theirs not only his anymore — tainted by the smell of cleaning liquids and copper. Of what he had done.
“Did you?” He asked, straightened his back as he looked upon the kitchen, at the aftermath of crushed groceries spread across the floor. He noticed his hand, once again whole disregarding the trails of dried blood.
Yes. Memories play a big part in our dreams. It wasn’t very hard to pick-and-choice.
Eddie simply hummed and sunk his head into his palms, elbows rested on top of the island.
He could feel a sense of excitement throughout their bond. Perhaps a Eureka! was in order?
Eddie.. They said instead. What's wrong?
He grimaced into his hands at the question, defeated, felt his days-old stubble tickle his palms.
"Don't you know it?" He bit out, petty and childish.
He felt the movement across his back like the growth of a phantom limb, not really there but all there the same, and he sunk into the embrace that came after. A pair of black arms around him.
I want to hear you say it.
Fucker . He let the insult slip before he could stop himself and he felt an amused rumble across his back in response.
To be desensitized towards the violence. Their hunts. One headless bad guy left after the other in their wake. Torsos bleeding out on wet concrete ground in an alleyway. Was it really wrong if it made San Francisco a better place? If it were to rid it off a rapist, a murderer, some low-life?
It was not wrong, Venom meant. Just as Eddie had taught them.
"But he wasn't -" Eddie thought of the dead man in the bathtub. The dread and the guilt stuck in the pit of his stomach. At the thought of the man catching his eye, his would-be murderer, across the bar it became a solid weight. What had he done wrong?
Except made it oh, so easy for him.
Eddie hit the island at the unwelcome thought and it broke with a sounding crack beneath his fist.
"Fuck." A rumble of both their voices ripped through his throat. His vocal cords felt hoarse and mishandled. There was a cut in the island like a bolt when he removed his fist, their arms disappeared but their presence remained.
You enjoy it. A toothy smile brushed against the back of his neck, rows of teeth purred and made him shudder.
What would Anne think?
He felt what must be shame wash over him at the thought.
We enjoy it , he thought and they gleefully agreed. He did not dare to speak it out loud.
An image of Anne lay stark at the forefront of his mind. Her sharply-framed face and her all-knowing eyes judging the last slip of his fractured mask of humanity which he had worn so diligently ever since I became We .
Wrong became right.
Her judgment would have been swift and deadly. A little tear and wear were to be expected but now this ? He imagined she wouldn't be too pleased.
"You're sick!" The shudder of her voice, her fear mirroring his own, so long ago but still so clear in his mind. A solid memory that never left him. The disgust in her eyes.
He cursed under his breath. Brushed away a few crumbled pieces of the island embedded in his skin, shook the ache in his hand the impact had caused away.
A rough scoff sounded behind his back, his lines of thoughts an open channel. We do not care what Anne thinks.
A blossom of red-colored the side of his closed fist, he stared at it, forced his voice to carry the conviction he pretended he had as small spots of blood surfaced through his broken skin.
"Speak for yourself." He said, voice now very quiet. The spots of red entrancing in some primal way.
A loud laugh broke out. Unconvinced.
We speak for us.
The wound remained unhealed. The blood dripped to the island like water from a tap not quite turned off and Eddie felt his conviction break. He felt his throat go dry, thirst at the sight of his own blood.
The sensation was sick.
Oh, fuck, he thought . "I enjoy it." He breathed out.
What do you enjoy?
"Don't ask me that."
The power?... The taste?
His mouth waters. "To kill. To eat."
Don't we have any left-overs?
Their mind brought back to the body in the bathtub, Eddie straightened his back.
Eureka.
He had never been more hungry.