Chapter Text
As Eddie’s knotting his tie in preparation for his interview, he can feel Venom writhing beneath his skin.
Don’t do it , he seethes.
“Look, V, I’m telling you, this is the story of a lifetime. It could reanimate the cold corpse of my dead career.”
It’s too dangerous.
“How would you know?”
We know what you know, Eddie. The Russian Mafia is dangerous.
“What are you even worried about? These guys are human. They’re no match for us. If anyone has the power to safely call out the Bratva, it’s us.”
Eddie feels Venom lapping at his memories, uncertain. Likely, he can taste the healthy fear that pervades all his pre-Venom impressions of mobs, cartels, and organized crime as a whole.
“Don’t worry, we’re going to be alright,” he says with real confidence, patting the front of his buttoned up shirt.
Grudgingly, Venom lets him walk out his front door.
Across town, Eddie tries not to feel underdressed as he enters the lobby of a beautiful hotel. Weaving between the columns that sprout from an expanse of marble, Eddie notices the chandeliers hanging overhead, delicate crystals twinkling in the soft daylight that pours through floor-to-ceiling windows.
Fancy. This news story will pay well?
Eddie hums his affirmative.
Will we be able to move into a place like this?
Now that Eddie has a job, he’s more careful about answering Venom out loud. Fishing his phone out, he scrolls through his apps aimlessly as he murmurs, “You like this kind of place? I thought you appreciated our grunge lifestyle.”
What makes you happy, makes us happy , Venom stresses, as if hoping if he repeats it enough, Eddie will start to believe it. You like bright, sunny places.
“I could just get a sun lamp,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes at the impeccably dressed maitre’d, the grand staircase, and the immaculate furniture. “This place looks like a museum.”
The doorman who's still within hearing distance bites down on a grin.
There are butterflies in Eddie’s stomach as he takes the elevator to the fifteenth floor.
If neither of us wants to do this, why are you forcing us?
“Because a lot of times the things that make you grow the most are the things you most don’t want to do,” Eddie says, petting soothingly along the black tendrils rising across his forearms.
Once the doors slide open, all it takes is a quick glance down the hall to determine which room the interview is obviously going to be in.
Eddie’s fifteen minutes early, but already there’s a pair of beefed up security guys, outfitted with suits, shiny shoes, sunglasses, and earpieces, standing guard outside of the room. Like the name of their position in the hierarchy implies, they’re built like bulls (or Byki).
It’s a struggle not to flinch as they track his progress down the hall, their backs stiffening as he gets closer. The tension is thick when he stops before them. “Uh, I’m here for the interview?” Eddie says, flashing the press badge with his photo ID.
Silently, the balder of the two men, knocks four times in a distinct pattern, cocks his head to the side as if listening to his headset, and then opens the door for Eddie.
“Thanks,” he squeezes past the two men’s significant shoulder bulk.
So polite , Venom teases.
Ignoring him, Eddie fixes his posture and strides into the room with a confidence he doesn’t feel.
There’s a man sitting in a corner of the room, away from the windows, facing the door. And, funnily enough, he looks exactly like Eddie imagines a mid-level mafioso would - hair slicked back, wearing an expensive suit, a lit cigarette between two of his fingers. Only one problem.
Eddie’s supposed to be meeting a Boyevik - one of the “warriors” of the Bratva. This man doesn’t look like much of a warrior. The only source of comfort is that the man seems rather slim, features almost lanky and poised.
Still, thank fuck for Venom.
Happy to be of service. He can feel the symbiote purr inside him, the shocks of which tingle beneath his skin.
“Hey, sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Eddie Brock,” he waves his press badge, awkwardly, not wanting to assume Todorov remembers his name. “I want to thank you for agreeing to take this interview. It’s great to finally be meeting you in person, Mr. Todorov.”
“Call me Semyon. Please,” Todorov says, in a smoother, more cultured accent than Eddie remembers. With a gesture, he directs Eddie to the loveseat that’s standing about half a room’s distance aways from him - not a big deal, but kind of awkward for an interview.
Rude , Venom growls, offended on his behalf.
“Um, sure, no problem…Semyon,” Eddie says, dropping himself onto the indicated cushion. “So, I was thinking I could answer any questions you might have before we begin the interview, if you’d like to go over any logistics, or - ”
“First logistic,” Todorov interrupts. “You drink.” He points to the coffee table where a shot glass stands ready and waiting, filled to the brim with a clear liquid, an open bottle of Spirytus standing beside it.
Eddie’s heart sinks. Ever since he landed this jackpot of an interview, he’s had doubts that it was going to happen. But getting this far, finally meeting with someone in-person, had given him hope. And it’s at this moment that the hope fizzles away.
What’s wrong, Eddie?
No doubt, Venom can feel his rising dread.
For V’s benefit, he lays out the points in his head.
He asks me to sit far from him, but he could be paranoid.
His voice isn’t as gruff as it was on the phone, but it’s been weeks since I spoke to him. I could be misremembering.
But he asks me to drink a shot of Spirytus Rektyfikowany, which has an ABV of 96%? What the hell for? It’s a liver kill switch. Fuck, I’m pretty sure I’ll die of alcohol poisoning if he forces me to drink the whole bottle. And it’ll look like a natural death.
You think he wants to kill us?
I...I’m starting to think so, yeah. The only other possibility I can think of is that this is a test.
What kind of test? Venom asks, suspicious and wary.
In vino veritas - the idea that if a person drinks enough to be under the influence, they’ll reveal secret thoughts and desires.
Does it work?
Eddie feels a distinct spark of interest from his symbiote.
Don’t even think about getting me drunk. Although you might not get the chance if I don’t get out of this alive.
Forget the interview and leave.
If he wants us dead, then I don’t think we can, buddy.
We can do whatever we want. Leave.
I don’t want to reveal you if I don’t have to. And if this is a test, then leaving would mean throwing away any kind of rapport I’ve managed to acquire with him.
There are prickles along his skin as Venom twists with irritation. Rubbing at his arm, he realizes that he’s been quiet too long.
Todorov is staring at him, flakes of that friendly veneer having chipped away. “Drink,” Todorov repeats, the command coming out sharper this time.
What makes him reach for the glass though is Venom.
Drink.
Are you sure? Hey, what if it’s poisoned?
I’ll make sure all of it gets filtered out. Now, drink.
Eddie knocks back the shot. The alcohol proof is so high that it practically scalds all the way down. Fuck, it’s nasty. Through the glass, he can make out Todorov’s thin-lipped smile.
So, was it safe to drink?
Never safe to drink this shit. Humans are stupid. We won’t let you kill off brain cells like this anymore.
Biting his lip to keep himself from arguing with Venom, Eddie clears his throat. “Do you have any questions about the format of the interview, or would you like to begin?”
Unfolding his...really fucking tall frame, Todorov stands smoothly and paces forward, catching the neck of the Spirytus bottle. “I’d like to propose a toast to this interview,” Todorov says. “Raise your glass.”
When Eddie complies, he fills it again to the brim.
“Drink.”
“Uh...doesn’t a toast mean that we both drink?”
Todorov’s cocked eyebrow perfectly illustrates just how stupid he thinks the question is. Without dignifying it with further answer, he asks, “Do you like your job, Eddie?”
Tossing the second shot down his throat, Eddie shrugs his shoulders, eyes slipping closed, muscles going lax. “Sure. Get to meet a lot of int’restin’ peeeeople who do a lot of int’restin’ thi’gs,” he slurs lazily.
Todorov pours him another glass.
“Can you take moooore, V?” Eddie blinks, pretty sure he asked that out loud.
Working on it. This is worse than we thought , Venom rumbles.
Unfortunately, Todorov wasn’t born yesterday. “Unbutton your shirt,” he says. “And drink.”
His voice is so cold that Eddie finds himself rushing to comply, one command at a time. As he moves his hands to pop the buttons, alcohol spills down his shirt.
Losing patience, Todorov doesn’t come around the coffee table. He’s tall enough to catch Eddie’s collar with a long hand.
Don’t let him touch you , Venom hisses.
“No choisss, bu-ddy. At least ’s a cheap shirt.”
With a surprisingly powerful tug, Todorov rips the material right off Eddie’s body and buttons go flying everywhere. Then, satisfied Eddie’s not wearing a wire, he refills the glass again.
“Drink.”
This shot really goes to Eddie’s head. He’s actually starting to sway in his seat. Fuck, the effects are so damn quick.
Stop it! No more!
“Does anyone know you’re here?” Todorov asks.
Eddie blows bubbles with his spit. Even drunk, it’s really fucking weird when the big, mad Bratva boss takes a seat on the coffee table and wipes the spit off Eddie’s lip with his thumb. It’s even weirder when he licks that spit off his thumb .
Let us eat him!
Shit, Venom sounds enraged.
“Nope,” Eddie says to Venom, unwittingly answering Todorov’s question at the same time.
“Does anyone know you’re working on this story?”
“Y’r E’glish ‘s so g’d,” Eddie compliments.
Slipping gloves onto slim hands, Todorov just repeats the question. Silently, he takes the shot glass from Eddie, pours the clear liquid into it, and then waits.
“Not yet,” Eddie admits, momentarily transfixed by the sharp planes of Todorov’s face. “Y’look kin’a like-a mo-d’l. Ev’r been’n Vogue?”
Patronizingly patting his face, Todorov presses the rim of the shot glass to Eddie’s gasping mouth and tips the liquid in. “Swallow,” he commands.
Thoughtlessly, Eddie complies.
LET. US. EAT. HIM.
Eddie clutches at his ears as Venom’s voice goes booming through his head. Obviously, the gesture doesn’t help since the noise is coming from inside him. The ringtone that plays from inside Todorov’s pocket is completely drowned out.
Eddie’s too out of it to hear any of the one-sided dialog being exchanged, which sucks because it’s apparently important enough that the man is on his way out.
It’s bad reporter-ing. He should be listening to conversations that happen right under his nose.
“ Proshchay, pretty boy,” Todorov says, stopping only to ruffle Eddie’s hair before he swans out of the room.
Unfortunately, Venom isn’t ready to be saying goodbye to Todorov. He starts to bubble to the surface. Violently oscillating ropes of his essense criss-cross Eddie’s skin. The process, it turns out, is a lot slower - Venom’s control dampened and tenuous - when Eddie’s body is blind drunk.
Honestly, it’s a miracle that Venom manages to surface in time.
A second later, one of the Byki walks in. “Avtorityet got called away,” he says as he saunters over the threshold. His smirk freezes and the extended arm holding his silencer droops like a wilted flower as he takes in Venom, now seated on the couch.
“ You were saying ,” the symbiote growls, taking an unsteady hop over the top of the couch.
Mob training must be pretty rigorous, because the Byk’s hand whips up and he manages to squeeze out two rounds (that harmlessly bounce off Venom’s skin) before his mouth opens on a breath, ready to scream.
Unfortunately for him, even a slower, swaying Venom is a power to be reckoned with.
Much like actual beef, the Byk’s life ends as dinner.
Venom stalks to the door, intent on finding the other two.
Which is not good. People will see Venom. They’re moving so slowly, a child could follow them. They’ll be captured, taken to some government lab, and the rest of their combined life will be spent as a science experiment.
Eddie’s deeply opposed. But he’s also incredibly sleepy. As if out of a peaceful dream, he gets stuck on the idea that Venom shouldn’t pass the threshold lest he be seen. It’s a hopeless thought. Venom is absolutely dead set on eating the Russians. There’s no way to stop him.
Except...Venom freezes.
Not of his own volition.
Not because he wants to listen to Eddie.
But because he can’t move.
Like every time ever that he pinned Eddie to a wall or froze him midstep, in this moment, Eddie is the one who holds Venom suspended.
Startled, his next thought is for his body back. The coast is clear and Eddie has a liver that needs help processing alcohol and perhaps Anne to call for advice. Should he go to the police? Is there anything the cops can do to help him?
Effortlessly, Venom is absorbed back beneath his skin, furious and raging all the way.
How did you do that?!
“‘S my b’dy,” he murmurs.
It’s ours . And we have prey to kill.
“Lat’r,” Eddie says, fumbling for his phone. He nearly drops it when it buzzes with an incoming call. It’s Anne. “Annieee!” he says into the receiver. Or actually the speaker since he’s holding it upside down.
“Eddie?! Are you alright? Where are you right now?”
“Hotel?”
“A...hotel? So, you’re safe? You didn’t wait to see if they could save any part of your building?”
“My build’g?”
“Yes...the fire?” she prompts.
Fire?!
Eddie can almost feel Venom curl up inside him, the physical equivalent of a whimper.
We are not whimpering!
When he just hums for a few long seconds, Anne asks,”Eddie, are you drunk?!”
“It w’s the Russssian,” he blames. And as he says it, in his head he sees molotov cocktails. Of all days for their to be a fire...yeah, Eddie’s pretty sure it’s related to the interview. Maybe even the phone call.
Told you this was a bad idea.
“Yeah, s’rry bu-ddy,” Eddie murmurs, but fuck the apartment. He’s more worried about what Todorov will do when he realizes that Eddie’s still alive.
Todorov...Eddie doubts that’s his real name. Call me Semyon. He hadn’t been the man he talked to on the phone. Fuck, what did he get them into?
Shhhhh... Venom’s ripples over his back and arms, covering him with warmth, massaging at his rising fear. We will fix it.