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He hasn't been so roughed up in a while. Peter feels fifteen all over again.
Almost.
There's no aunt May waiting up for him, to hear stories about bullies and basketballs going the wrong way (the right way) — no-one to tend to his cracked lip and throw ice-cubes inside a mantelcloth and bring him ice-cream as he lays down on his bed and moans and aches all over.
Definitely no uncle Ben to tell him to be the bigger man. No lecture to be heard or impromptu boxing lessons while dinner brews up in the kitchen.
There's only a broken elevator and an endless set of stairs. No one waiting for him up there. Only that absolute asshole who blasts rock though his walls when Peter needs to sleep and the neighbour opposite — the weird one that eats an alarming amount of chocolate that Mrs. Chen unfairly keeps out of stock for everyone else.
Well. Most of it, anyway.
But Eddie's a cool guy.
Peter makes it to the opposite door with a painful groan, leaning on the wall he dips a hand inside his duffel bag to fish his keys out.
But there is no jingling sound. There are no keys.
"Aw, come onnn," he mumbles, having a proper look inside. It's not the only thing missing.
Just his damn luck.
The cherry on top of an already fucking dreadful patrol.
Because fighting a big black gooey human-eating alien wasn't enough, was it. Because his web-shooters getting stuck thirty feet from the ground when he was trying to swing himself to safety wasn't enough rotten luck for one night, was it. He couldn't even move for ten minutes straight — watched as colours blurred around him and walls shifted in odd angles and felt like throwing up all over the dirty pavement as his attacker got away. Again.
If he knocks the door off its hinges the landlord will have his head... right? Gosh, he can't believe he's actually considering it.
"Hey man, you alright?"
Shit.
He didn't hear Eddie opening the door behind him. He must be royally concussed. And now he's standing there like a deer caught in the headlights.
"Hey!" his voice comes out too cheery, he keeps his back turned, doesn't think he's got the eloquence to make up proper excuses tonight, "yeah! Just... my key? Got stuck?"
"Oh, shit. Lemme have a l—" Eddie stops dead in his tracks when he sees his battered face. "—ook," he finishes with a sympathetic grimace.
Well that's that, then. So much for trying to play it cool.
"I lost my key," Peter provides with a tired sigh. "And I got... mugged. Again."
There's no way Eddie is going 'I knew it! You're Spiderman!' just because he sees him turn up like this twice in a week. Right?
"Riiight," Eddie provides like an echo of his own thoughts, looking him up and down like he's a street dog in need of saving, like he's worried he'll keel over and Peter thinks to himself: I definitely look like shit, "why don't you stay here and I'll go see Roberts about a spare key, hmm?"
Peter nods. Because he's fairly sure that was a question.
It sure sounded like one.
"Peter?"
"Yeah I'll... just have a... close my... yes."
Is the floor moving?
And then, vaguely, he remembers that was the spare key.
Peter's heavier than he looks. Eddie definitely doesn't think anything improper as he drags him over to his sofa and tries to set him down gently without sending them both tumbling face-down to the wooden floor. Hands keeping a strong hold of hips, visibly toned muscles under that baggy hoodie.
"Mugged my ass," he blurts under his breath. By the time Eddie turns around, Venom has an assortment of bottles assembled on the coffee table. "Don't need all of those, V."
«He is bleeding from his head, Eddie.»
"Yeah, but those pills are for– from his head?!"
Missed that one.
Eddie scowls as he leans down to have a closer look at Peter's grimy hair — his clothes look clean. No tears, no bloodstains.
«You like him.»
Eddie shakes his head and soaks a towel in peroxide. Checks the bottle. When was the last time he used that? It's probably expired.
"Shut up. I'm almost twice his age."
«He smells good.»
"Well, sometimes smelling good isn't enough."
"I bet he tastes good too."
Venom hovers in the air, a protruding head of symbiotic goo that extends its tongue in Peter's direction. Eddie yanks it right back with a grunt.
"Stop it!" he whisper-shouts, "what have I told you about—?!"
A soft but pained moan has Venom scurrying back inside and Eddie squatting down immediately. A hand supporting Peter's head as another keeps a damp cloth firmly placed under the dried blood on his nape.
"Heyyy, don't move," Eddie coos, because he can't imagine Peter finds loud noises very pleasant with a swollen brain inside that skull, "you need to go to the hospital, man. Your head is bleeding."
«I can fix that, Eddie! All of him!»
Peter slowly peels his eyes open to the dim-lit living room.
"Did I just faint?" he croaks.
"Only a little bit," Eddie answers with a cheeky smile, "but your handsome neighbour was there to catch you."
«And me! I have better reflexes!»
Peter closes his eyes again, the corner of his lips tug up in a smile.
"Lucky me."
Eddie's amenable smile slowly turns into a frown as Peter's suffering expression doesn't fade.
"Who does this to you?" he asks. In present time, of course, because he's seen Parker like this at least five times since he moved in two months ago — and that's a lot of times for a kid like Peter, a freelance photographer with a part-time job and a degree in physics who happens to look and behave like an angel sent from above. Something definitely doesn't add up. Abusive partner? In debt? Some kind of fight club à la Leonardo Di Caprio?
«Bad guys! Can we eat them? Look at him! They're very bad guys, Eddie!»
"If I told you I would have to kill you," Peter mumbles, and then opens his eyes again to gaze groggily at Eddie.
"I'd like to see you try."
"Maybe next time..." Peter says, glancing at the older man's tattooed arm, a hand firmly holding his head, and suddenly Eddie realises he's way too close — certainly overstepping boundaries, there.
So he clears up his throat and leans back.
"Alright then, Parker. Keep your secrets."
He very gently retrieves his hand from Peter's nape but leaves the towel there, turns around to grab another one to clean the dried blood on his lip and finds that his neighbour's eyes are fluttering closed once again.
He's pretty sure that's a big no-no when it comes to concussed-related injuries.
«He is fine. Healing quickly. Let him sleep.»
That's not how humans work, buddy, Eddie rolls his eyes, then adds in his head: just us.
«Then he is not human.» Venom adds, deadpan.
Eddie shakes his head and rubs a pair of fingers over his eyes. He doesn't have the energy to indulge the symbiote tonight.
"Can't argue with that logic," he mutters under his breath.
«Don't patronize me!»
"What?" Peter mumbles again, not yet asleep. Eddie goes red all over as he sports an awkward smile. Wonderful. Just great. Fucking idiot, can't shut up for a straight minute, can you. Can't even begin to pretend he's not a fucking weirdo hosting an alien entity when he's in front of gorgeous Peter Parker.
«Ha! I knew it!»
"Nothing," Eddie blurts out, because Peter's scowling at him this time — definitely about to sit up, stand up, walk away and never look at him again.
"I'm twenty-six, you know," is what Peter says instead, and plops his head back down on the cushion, "you're not twice my age."