Work Text:
Menace. It is a foul menace. It mocks him, filling up the entire field of his vision, blinking in and out of existence. Even that base construct of its being taunts him. Sometimes it is there, sometimes not. It hovers over the definition of physicality, moving in and out but always, always, haunting him.
Stupid, fucking cursor.
Eddie has been a journalist for years, decades, partly because he’s good at it (so it pays the bills) but mostly because he enjoys it. Enjoys the thrill of chasing down a story and the challenge of committing it to permanence through the written word. He usually enjoys that challenge of the written (and spoken) word. Delights in constructing sentences the way a Gothic architect would construct a cathederal. He's just as good, too. Usually. Right now, however, he’s ready to chuck his laptop out the fucking window and watch with visceral glee as it smashes to bits and pieces on the greasy sidewalk below.
Leaning back heavily against the top of his creaking desk chair, Eddie stretches until he feels the satisfying release of his upper spine popping before dropping his head with a groan. He’s been working on – struggling with – this particular article, or rather this particular sentence for hours now or maybe it’s been days, he does have a tendency to lose track of time when he’s working and - -
“EDDIE? UPSET?”
His other smooths up his cervical vertebra to resettle at the base of his skull. Eddie feels the cool, tingling sensation of the symbiote controlling and changing his body before the tension headache that’s been building for the past hour dissipates, fizzing out along with a majority of his annoyance.
“Thanks, love.” He murmurs, reaching back to thumb at the edge of his hairline in appreciation and can’t help the smile that cracks his face as a feeling of pleased contentment emanates from his alien partner. They wiggle around his spinal column and down his sternum to seep into his chest cavity, looping lazily over his godforsaken bleeding heart.
“LIKE TO HELP, EDDIE.”
He hums in agreement, and then revels in the doubled feedback of his chest rumbling and whatever the symbiote is vibrating with, which seems to be an endearing cocktail of -happysafehelpfulgoodhappyhappytrustedhappy-.
Eddie knows his other likes to help. They’ve always wanted to help, not that many other people could see that. Sure, sometimes they took things a little too far, but so did he, so who was he to judge? Just one of the many ways they were compatible. Now though, after an unfortunately needed period of growth (individually and collectively),they’re both in a place where they can help in a simpler, but perhaps more productive, manner. Like with headaches. Or bank robberies, without the added ‘assistance’ of killing the robbers. Most of the time. Unless they really deserved it.
Or hey –
“Darling, I’m having trouble with this sentence, do you think you could help?” They did have access to his prestigious vocabulary after all and had spent plenty of time on the internet practicing human interactions. He tries to imagine what their combined internet footprint looked like and then decides it's probably best he doesn't think about it and just upgrades their VPN. Maybe they should pay a visit to the NSA office in New York and surrepetitiously scrub out the incriminating mountain of browsing data that must exist in their file. Maybe corner some shitless little IT desk jockey and get them to spill their guts. About what information is being kept on him and his other, obviously. Not literal, slimey, surprisingly delicate and sweet guts. Because then it wouldn't be about protection anymore and Eddie Brock is all about protection these days.
Protection and going on tangents, apparently, judging by the slightly amused, mostly exasperated, all fond feeling the symbiote is currently beaming at him. He smiles with faux meekness and tucks the similarily faux sigh of his other deep into his molecules. For rainy days and safe keeping.
Returning his thoughts to the wretched, vile article, Eddie digs the fingers of his right hand into the junction of his armpit, feeling the thump of his heart and his Heart. His Heart pushes back against his fingertips and he swallows the giddy feeling that produces. Maybe the symbiote can catch it as it slithers by.
But, the article -- he focuses -- the article could maybe use some alien perspective to shape it up. God knows the human perspective was flailing and fumbling trying to write it. And an alien perspective, in his intimate experience, was a valuable thing.
A smooth (very much like the unbroken surface of a pond when you delicately skim your hand over the top, in his completely unbiased opinion) black head bobs up from where it was nestled safely under his skin to peer at the blinding light of his computer screen. Milky, iridescent eyes narrow at where the accursed cursor still blinks.
“WHICH PART, EDDIE?” His other turns to look questionly at him and he has the sudden, overwhelming impression of stain glass windows before his brain catches up to what the symbiote has asked him.
“This part here…" He points at the screen, finger lingering by the symbiote's mouth and then suppresses the image of them biting it. A tantizling image that could have originated from either of them. "It seems so clunky and unfocused. I feel like I’ve lost the important bits in all the grandiose trimmings.”
A squiggle of amusement shimmies up his sides and his other weaves around to bump him on his chin. “YOU DO LIKE ‘GRANDIOSE’ LANGUAGE, EDDIE.” They press the side of their face to his cheek. “MAYBE TOO MUCH? NO OTHER HUMAN TALKS LIKE YOU DO, EDDIE.”
Well…he supposes that might be possible. The symbiote is right, he does have a proclivity for being overly verbose. But he likes big words. He likes the feeling of them curling around his tongue, almost to the same extent that he likes the feeling of curling his tongue around razor-sharp fangs. Both feel deliciously strange, like his mouth has become a foreign object, which isn’t too far from the truth, actually. And he’s had plenty of foreign objects in his mouth since this all began – sealed behind his lips, brushing against his palate, sliding gently down his throat – that he’s bound, trained even, to luxeriate in the feeling. His other has certainly never complained about how talkative, how loquatious, he is, especially during --
"EDDIE…” His other is gazing at him with a decidedly smug expression, like they can tell what direction his thoughts have taken, which… they can, of course. He fights off a blush and gathers the gooey form in his hands to press a smacking kiss between their eyes. Said eyes scrunch up in feigned disgust, the glow of the computer screen backlighting his darling in a luminous disk as a teasing ‘hsst’ tickles his nose. “DIDN’T KNOW YOU WANTED THAT KIND OF HELP, EDDIE.”
A delighted laugh booms out of him, encouraging the texture of the symbiote to wiggle with the joyful sound waves; they’ve always loved the distinct vibrations of his laugh. “Love, as much as I would enjoy a little ugly bumping with you, you know I meant help with the article.”
“KNOW, EDDIE. JUST LIKE TO TEASE.” They press their own sharp approximation of a kiss to the crooked bridge of his nose (he doesn't even pretend to be disgusted like they did) before turning back to the text on the screen.
That ‘like’, the like of teasing, is more recent than their like of helping, one that seems to have surfaced with their reunion. Maybe it’s something they learned from Thompson, although Eddie sincerely, jealously, hopes not. His other’s relationship with the veteran isn’t something Eddie cares to dwell on overmuch, though the symbiote assures him it wasn’t anything like what they have. And it’s not that he doesn’t trust the symbiote about that but love takes many forms and can be extended to many people and the symbiote is so, so irresistible, how could anyone not want, covet, desire them and...well…old habits and old insecurities die hard. Some harder than others. That's part of the reason the symbiote had needed to be away from him.
“BOTH NEEDED TO BE BETTER.” His other reassures, reaching a stray tendril out to tap on his knuckles and projecting a burst of -reassurance- and -trust- at him without turning away from the screen. Eddie smiles, using his thumb to tap back at the creeping trail of goop and returns the projection with his own twang of -appreciation-. They sit in relative silence for a few minutes while the symbiote skims his writing, eyes narrowed in concentration or contentment or both. He closes his own so they can focus, letting his mind fill their silence with the crooning of Frank Sinatra, a favourite of them both since the beginning. Eventually, he feels a prod at his consciousness so he opens his eyes to see a portion of the passage that his other has highlighted. “KEEP USING THIS PHRASE, EDDIE. SEEMS UNNECESSARY. REPETITIVE.”
Eddie squints at the screen in curiosity; which part is the redundant bit? The only word he's repeating is the corrupt CEO’s name, which okay, yes, maybe he should add in more pronouns to switch it up, but the symbiote is pointing directly at the dude’s name like it’s the offender. “Could you elucidate, love?”
His other lets out a put-upon, clicking sigh before rumbling, “THIS PART. HERE.” They jab the screen by the man’s name again, “KEEP USING THE SAME WORD. OVER AND OVER. BORING.”
“That’s his given name, darling, I have to use it. Although, I do agree, it’s not very…inspiring… to say the least.” Certainly no one would shake in their boots over the name Brian Smith. For God’s sake, if you were going to be a reprehensible villain, might as well give yourself a thrilling moniker for the fair citizens to scream, right? He certainly thought so.
“CHANGE IT.” The symbiote asserts with a decisive head bob.
“I can’t just change his legal name.”
“WHY NOT? CHANGE MY NAME ALL THE TIME.” His other’s confusion squirms around behind his eyes, much as they usually do under his skin. And the confusion is only magnified as he processes what they said.
“Wait, what? What do you mean you change your name all the time?” Eddie jerks upright from where he was slouched low in the chair. “Fuck, wait, have you had a name this whole time?” His stomach clenches at the thought. What if he’s been calling them the wrong thing for years? For decades? He just assumed after they never gave him a name when they introduced themself, but maybe they were just nervous he wouldn’t like it. Or wouldn't care. They were so scared all the time back then, freshly rejected by someone they loved for something they had no control over. For being what and who they were. Fuck. Fuck past him and his blinding anger. (Also fuck Spider-man but that wasn’t a rabbit hole he could afford to Wonderland down right now.)
The symbiote swings their head around to look at him and his panic and guilt must be apparent because they soften – at least as much as soft goo can soften further. “YOU CHANGE MY NAME ALL THE TIME, EDDIE.” A wave of -lovecalmreassurancelovelove- settles against his swirling intestines. “’PARTNER’. ‘OTHER'. ‘DARLING’. ‘LOVE.’ NEVER HAD JUST ONE NAME WITH YOU.”
Eddie splutters, not at a loss for words per se (an unlikely event), but rather at a loss for any good ones. “I—that’s different! Those are just... nicknames…” Fuck. Names were so important. They were what first impressions tended to be based off of, even unconsciously. Names were carefully selected by either the parents or the individual as a representation of what kind of person they were going to be. Eddie Brock was Eddie Brock for a reason, not Edward or Ed or Allen, God forbid. The idea that he had chosen the symbiote's name, the idea that he had done it offhandedly, instinctively, unintentionally, with no care or concern of how it would affect the symbiote was more than a little nauseating. His other deserved control over themself, over their personhood. He couldn't be just another person who had taken that control from them. Even if the names had been terms of endearment, he should't have -- they shouldn't have just let him -- no, that wasn't fair to them either. Crunching his own emotions down into a 1 x 1 cube, he looked at the symbiote dead on and tried to project as much openness and apology and acceptance as he could. “You should get to pick your own name.”
“IT’S...IMPORTANT?”
“I…yes…Yes, I think it’s important." 'Because you're important' goes unsaid, but he hopes it comes across.
The symbiote 'Hmm's like an approaching train and stretches up away from him. They scrunch up their pretty, pretty eyes, form becoming slightly sticky in their concentration. “Take your time, though, choose one you really like…although if you change your mind later, I don’t mind and —”
“’LOVE’.”
“Yes?”
His other leans forward and presses their silky head between his eyebrows. The shimmering iridescence of their eyes hold his gaze, an illustrious ciborium over his stuttering anxiety. He sucks in a breath as they gently headbutt him, finding he already knows and understands their answer. “I CHOOSE THE NAME ‘LOVE’. AND ‘DARLING.’ AND ‘PARTNER’ AND ‘OTHER’.”
“Oh…" Eddie sucks in a breath. "Oh, of course, darling." Feeling warm, Eddie thinks about stained glass windows again and the promises you make in front of them. "Whatever you desire.” The vows you make to your love.
The grotesque nature of the symbiote means that they’re always sort of grinning at him -- like an ill-formed, much beloved, skull -- but now their grin stretches out into a toothy smile, fangs glinting in the bright light of the laptop screen. Eddie smiles back. He can make vows. He's good at vowing things. “I’ll call you whatever you desire, love. All the days of my life.”
They nod, eyes glittering, and obviously glad that his overwhelming worry has been replaced with overwhelming adoration, chest nearly bursting with it. And wouldn’t that be cinematic? The manifestation of their love, ripping through his chest, shredding lung and bone and artery and nerve and fatty tissue, to come splattering into the physical world, so that everyone could gaze in admiration – and maybe a little bit of horror, sue him – at how they feel about each other. Like a better version of that sci-fi thriller the symbiote had insisted they watch (and then hated). He knows that this feeling, this love, has been gestating in his body for years, tenderly swaddled amongst his organs and nourished by his lifeblood. Not at all like a parasite, but rather something that he had been missing his whole life, that had been killing him slowly in its absence. The symbiote gazes at him, floods his tongue and back of his throat with their form until his eyes are brimming with tears. He relaxes and let them overwhelm him. His core is pierced with -lovelovelovelovelovelove- and he bites down, hard, and gets flooded with more -lovelovelovelovelove-. He knows they feel it too, this love they've been growing together.
The symbiote ebbs away and his body gasps for oxygen, though he doesn't really need it. They would never let him suffocate. Because they love him. He giggles and it's not from lack of air.
“YOU MAY CALL ME ’HONEY’. ’SWEETHEART’. ’BABY’." An impish glint sways through them. "...’ANGEL’.” They reach a tendril out to tickle his ear. Apparently, he has not been as subtle as he thought with his biblical sidebars. He flushes but feels no shame. His other is something of sublime beauty and worthy of a little blasphemy every now and again. He can take their teasing about that.
He can also dish it out.
“What about ‘pookie’?”
“HMM…”
“’Smoochums’? My ‘main squeeze’? ‘Toots’?” He powers through the pinch he receives, “Oh, I know! ‘Babylicious’! I think that one really suits you.”
“EDDIE.”
Eddie beams at the resignation in the symbiote's voice. They’ve given him entirely too much power and he’s never done well when great power was given to him. Leveling him with a look that would inspire fear in anyone else, his other rumbles good-naturedly. “YOU MAY CALL ME ANYTHING. WITHIN REASON.”
“Ah...I see. I understand." He pouts half-heartedly. "No 'Babylicious' then."
His other blinks pointedly.
Faking contemplation, Eddie bites his lip just to watch their expression. Feel the way his muscles twitch in reaction. "'Love' is just for me though, right?"
The symbiote exerts pressure on his stomach, forcing him to sprawl back into the chair. He goes willingly. "YES, EDDIE. ONLY YOU."
"Oh, good." His theatrical nonchalance is strained as the pressure increases. "And what about everyone else? What will they call you?”
The symbiote crowds close and nuzzles against his cheek, where a layer of stubble prickles them, before encircling his upper body in a thin, but unbreakable layer of goo. A symbiote embrace. Delicious. He sends a burst of pure -lovelovelovelovelovelove- towards his other and presses a kiss to their toothy mouth when they wrap him in reciprocal -lovelovelovelovelovelove-
“THEY MAY CALL US ‘VENOM’.”