Tw for light, indirect description of a rape attempt.

This is how Eddie Brock spends a Sunday: He wakes up at 6 in the morning to an insistent 'Eddie, Eddie' and glide of pitch against his body hairs and skin, feeling completely refreshed but irritated, because someone had spent the whole night assisting his body's self-repairs, therefore rendering more sleep unnecessary but no one woke up at this ungodly hour, okay; it was the principle of the thing. Then he mumbles his way out of bed at a companion no one (else) can see to shower and brush his teeth. Sometimes he'll look up and see fangs and pupil-less eyes staring back through his own face at him, except he no longer reacts to this with a girlish squeal of terror, just a roll of his (white, blind-looking) eyes, so Venom is probably already cooking up something new to pay him back for that. It keeps him on his toes. He finds that he could care less.

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Breakfast. It's the trickiest meal of the day. Not just because it's supposed to be the most important, no, it's also the time when someone, who spent the whole night working at Eddie's body, feels the hungriest, so he's more insistent than usual at going out. Only, dawn's the time the criminals are least likely to come out, you know? Just dicks who harass homeless people, if any, and that's hardly a crime at all. He's already explained this a hundred times, so it's just a tired argument where they go through the motions as he whips out the overnight oats. And the lox bagels. And the egg burrito.

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Sometimes he'll compromise by letting him take over to gnaw on a bloody steak, especially if he hasn't had anything living to chew on the nights before. Those are the days when he waits to brush his teeth. Other times he makes choc chip pancakes, or indulges in a box of breakfast muffins. For some reason he no longer has to worry about his blood sugar.

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Who would've expected a sweet tooth on a homicidal alien?

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They eat in front of the TV. The TV that used to be there to fill in the silence, now the point of occasionally strange and at turns, exasperating conversations. It's one thing to understand pop culture and human behaviour because the knowledge was plucked from Eddie's brain. It's quite another to comprehend the whys of it all. Like, why do all the soap opera characters have a habit of splitting up and getting back together? Why do all the cartoon characters have such giant heads and tiny bodies? (It was a pity they didn't exist, they looked convenient to eat.) Why do people enjoy the trashy filth that constitutes reality TV?

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Eddie does not have all the answers, so they spend a lot of time on Wikipedia and YouTube, so much so they eventually ignore the TV. Eddie has never learned so much trivia in his life. He could probably try his hand at a game show soon at this rate.

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10 a.m. is when he gets up to brainstorm for his blog. A journalist's work never truly ends, but he would not give it up for the world. His cohabitant, his partner, understands this (understands even better that investigative crime journalism leads to even more heads to eat). Eddie is good at what he does. He's almost never wrong; you'd be amazed at how much people babble when they see a slavering monster and think a literal demon is standing before them. So Venom enters a hibernating state, a half-wakeful trance, in the back of Eddie's mind while he types away. They co-exist like this until it's 1 p.m., time for lunch, in which Eddie cannot order takeout because they are pathetic, sad dead things that taste even deader than usual; why not that nice (half-bloody) chicken in the fridge? Eddie will roll his eyes for the second time that day, because he knows the real appeal lies in the bird's gizzards and bones, so they settle for a gigantic bowl of chicken noodle soup with liver and bone stock instead.

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He wonders what the alien will think of pizza. So far hotdogs and burgers have both their approval, even the type with pickles, so Eddie's betting good money that pizza will be a new favourite too. In fact, the only reason he hasn't introduced it is because he's afraid of a repeat of the Taco Incident that has left him blacklisted from his third best Mexican joint. He has only one top pizza place, and he's not about to waste it on a fussy eater.

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Afternoon rolls around and sees Eddie hitting the gym. True, he technically has no need to with a spanking new, nigh-invincible protector and absorber of calories, but he still remembers Riot's throwaway comment on how Eddie was a strong host, how that had been the only thing that gave them an extra edge to survive the onslaught of lethal attacks, and he can't stop. What if, what if something showed up again, maybe even from Venom's home comet, what if Venom stopped being so impervious to bullets because he slacked off? He knows he's being a bit ridiculous but hey, cut him some slack, he nearly lost his…his friend only a month ago. Between his renewed vigour at working out, the new exercises and his protein-rich meals, he's starting to bulk out even further and has a six pack that could rival some Hollywood star's now. He notices the ladies eying him with greater appreciation, and although he preens, he doesn't feel the need to welcome another into his bed just yet. Not since Anne.

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(Sometimes, he asks himself, is Venom really a friend? Is he a friend if he's there for every second of Eddie's life; is he a friend if he's there even when Eddie masturbates? Is he a friend if he, too, feels content in the after-glow; is he a friend if the quiet after feels brimming with promise and mystery?

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He's not quite sure what label to put on them yet, but friend feels awfully inadequate for what they have.)

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5 p.m. By now Eddie's just puttering around the house, vacuuming and doing laundry, feeling restless. They both feel restless. Sundown is almost upon them, and they can feel the approaching darkness in their veins, the darkness that's fast becoming a second home to them. Finally they pace a bit, check Eddie's emails a bit as they wait. And wait.

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6:30 p.m. hits.

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They don't take their bike to where they're heading. That's just a good way to get it stolen, and in any case, the brisk walk helps take the edge off their energy. The neighbourhood grows darker and darker as there are fewer and fewer functional street lamps in between, but Eddie never needs more light to see now. The stench of uncollected rubbish assaults their senses but it doesn't bother Eddie anymore, not when Venom is this excited, adrenaline a fierce thrum in their blood and a chanting of food food food mixed with gravelly metallic laughter in their head. This close to their prey, this deep in the hunting hour, the danger is a mixture of heady seasoning and a sharp reminder that lends clarity to their head, so that they are still careful, ever so careful at Eddie's behest as they scan the area with their hearing… there. A woman, begging and whimpering to a man's disgusting pants and the sick thud as he slams her into a wall.

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They transform, and Venom grins grins grins.

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The rest of the night is pretty much the same, for even after Venom eats his fill, he enjoys chasing down the running, screaming perps and subduing them tremendously. So Eddie meanders around, shaped like a fragile human being, drawing attention to himself or going to some poor soul who drew the attention instead. Then he reinforces the urban legend that's crawling around the Net now, and leaves behind no witnesses except the innocent before bounding across the rooftops, up and away. So far the people he saves are too shell-shocked to snap pics with their phones, but he thinks it might not be long now before they do. He thinks they'd have no problem stopping if Venom asks. Politely.

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(The demon of vengeance, they call him. An alien, the sci-fi enthusiasts argue. A government experiment gone wrong. Venom, Venom finds it fun to hunt. But messing with the conspiracy theorists and offering misleading information and photos on the forums? That's all Eddie.)

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So high are they both on the thrill, that it always takes the alarm on Eddie's phone to jolt them to a halt. Then they stroll home, content, Venom tucked behind Eddie's face again. Today is a good Sunday. Their bellies are full.

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(Last week was not a good Sunday. Eddie had to wrestle a sulky Venom home and promise him anything he wanted to eat. Luckily, what the symbiote wanted was copious amounts of blueberry jam on waffles, much to Eddie's relief. That, that he could do.)

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This is how Eddie ends his Sunday: flopping down on top of his blankets after nodding off in the shower, mumbling a good night to thin air. In the shadows, he cuts a lonely figure on the large bed, still and quiescent at its centre.

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Except he'll never be alone in the dark again. Not for the rest of his life. Especially not in his head.

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Eddie Brock turns over, and smiles in his sleep.