Chapter Text
Despite planting the bug weeks ago, none of them have had time to look at any of the footage. It’s all locked up in a file on Tony’s personal servers, ready for review, but there’s always another emergency. You’d think that after facing an intergalactic criminal threatening to destroy the entire universe, with most of the population surviving through sheer luck, a species could get their shit together for a month or two.
Not humans. Give them an ocean, and they’ll find a way to set it on fire.
The Avengers, though closer to normal than they’ve been in years, have been run ragged. The stress is one of many strains on their already tender relationships. Steve and Tony are acidic on a good day, downright cruel on anything else, and Bruce and Natasha still can’t look each other in the eyes - talk about office romances gone wrong. Thor is uncharacteristically lethargic, balancing the responsibilities of being a wayward king with the obligations of protecting the planet under his protection. Clint has earned his retirement ten times over but won’t go home, pushing himself further every time they’re called out.
And that’s only looking at the original members’ relationship troubles. Rhodey, Sam, Bucky, Wanda, Scott, Hope, Stephen, Peter - they have their own inter- and intrapersonal issues, too. The war with Thanos wasn’t easy on anyone. Just because they have more bodies than ever before doesn’t mean the work they have to do gets any easier.
The egos, as usual, don’t help either. Between the chaotic mess of Earth post-galactic war and the many levels of their interpersonal bullshit, they’ve had to prioritize what messes to clean up first.
Carlton Drake’s mess barely registered when it happened. Tony can vaguely remember thinking it was nice that they didn’t have to send anyone out because the dumbass had blown himself up - a generosity that was a stark foil to the man Drake had been in real life. Tony always knew the man was garbage underneath that angelic face, but outside of a vindictive sense of satisfaction, it was mostly forgotten about.
And then Daredevil had passed on a tip from a friend of a friend, that San Francisco has been quieter than usual. As in - the “criminals dying left and right” kind of quieter. Apparently there were whispers of a monster, or a vigilante, or a cannibal - Natasha didn’t hear anything conclusive from her contacts, and breaking into the locals’ systems wasn’t much more helpful. The deaths were messy, but not necessarily anything inhuman - though Steve argued with the utmost confidence that some of the marks could only be made by claws. Some organs MAY have been missing - and how they couldn’t be 100% sure on that, Tony isn’t sure he wants to know - which implies either an organ harvesting organization or a real-life Hannibal. The deaths are consistently horrible people, though, and nothing ties them together other than their scuminess.
Murderers, rapists, pedophiles, abusers - no, this monster doesn’t go for anything less than the absolute bottom of the barrel. It’s not the usual serial killer MO. It reeks more of a vigilante gone radical. Like if Spider-Man was a jaded, disgusting, people-eater.
In between arguments (excuse him - trade negotiations and treaty discussions) with other planets, keeping the world from descending into complete entropy, and eating a protein bar here or there, they took turns looking into it. Bruce eventually finds out that a semi-infamous ex-TV host, Eddie Brock, was somehow mixed up in the Carlton Drake bullshit.
There’s some footage of him during those couple of days that is damning, to say the least. He’s shown breaking into Drake’s HQ with the help of the now-deceased Dr. Skirth, followed by a subsequent breakdown at a fancy restaurant (where he /eats a live lobster what the fuck-). There’s a short clip of him and /something/ kicking the shit out of Drake’s personal SWAT team, and then grainy footage of a battle between two huge /somethings/, before a body is hurled into the bay.
Eddie Brock was admitted to the hospital, hours later, soaking wet, with broken ribs and a severe case of shock. According to his medical records, he was kept for a week for two reasons.
The first: he had apparently been at the hospital earlier that day, and his organs had all been rotting. At this second trip, he was healthier than anyone over the age of thirty had a right to be, with a heart that gleamed like a new Ferrari.
The second: after they told him his organs had miraculously /regrown/, he apparently burst into tears and made some comments that brought his mental stability into question. They kept him in the psych ward for the second half of the week, the doctor’s disagreeing over a diagnosis of major depression, schizophrenia, or schizoaffective disorder. All of which had to be googled before any of them knew more than the bare basics.
Since the mess started with Drake, Tony did digging on that end too. A lot of Drake’s information was gone forever - long-since purged since the company tanked. Brock’s articles about Drake’s human experimentation is the only concrete thing he finds, which is infuriating. It’s not like Drake’s systems had ever been good, if he had just gotten there a few weeks earlier he would’ve had all the information he could ever need -
But. Priorities.
There’s mentions of “symbiotes” - whether symbiotes are artificial or natural or alien, Tony can’t glean from the scraps he was able to find. Human experimentation was definitely involved, and from what he can tell, it seems like Drake was trying to enhance humans by shoving a parasite at them and seeing what happened. One of the many reasons Tony prefers mechanical science - biology is disgustingly imprecise. So much observation, not much doing.
The notes say this much: it wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility for Brock to still be carrying Drake’s tapeworm or for that tapeworm to have a hankering for human flesh.
This all leads back to the bugs placed at Brock’s place. Clint happened to be on the west coast for a week, and he was able to plant them when Brock was out at the farmer’s market he frequents weekly. Tony’s inventions, since their knowledge of the universe has expanded, have joined a whole different league than ever before. His bugs? State of the art, even for the rest of the galaxy. They’re virtually untraceable, recharge themselves automatically, and upload the footage to his private cloud hourly.
So when things were busy, it was easy to leave them go and not worry about Drake’s bullshit. Weeks later, though, there’s hours upon hours upon hours of footage to go through to see what the hell in the world is up with Eddie Brock. They finally have enough projects and missions offloaded that he can’t justify ignoring Brock’s situation any longer. If it’s an alien threat, it’s their jurisdiction.
Bruce and Natasha join him, because everyone knows he’ll get distracted without supervision. Plus, three sets of eyes catch more details than one, no matter how observant Tony can be when he’s focused. In this case, it’s probably a good thing Bruce and Natasha can’t look at each other. They’ll be staring intently at the screen to avoid each other, which means Tony can let his thoughts drift a little more. He has so much to deal with that this really should be offloaded onto someone else’s who’s slept in the past week, but after (being proven /right/ because he’s always right) Thanos, he can’t quite shake the need to be involved in anything involving extraterrestrials.
“So,” he claps his hands together and smiles, close-lipped, at them. “Bugs were placed in the entryway, in the curtains, in the bathroom window, and in the bedroom. We’ll start with the entryway and curtains and only move to the bathroom or bedroom if we have just cause. Because apparently even suspected cannibals have rights - “
“Please,” Bruce begs. “Not this argument again. Privacy is a right, Tony. We’re already pushing it by recording him without his knowledge.”
“Well, it’s not like I’ll get arrested for it,” Tony says snippily. “If we had something like, oh, I don’t know, a set of regulations, that would lay out consequences for morally repugnant behavior in powerful people, just maybe--”
Natasha slams her travel mug against the table in front of them, like a judge with their gavel. “It’s way too early for your high horse. Knock it off.”
Tony starts the footage without another word, handing the remote to Natasha immediately. She’ll know when to fast forward better than he or Bruce would - they’re more detail-oriented and would get caught up in something dumb, like analyzing Brock’s shoe choice for the day rather than what they’re actually looking for.
The first thing Tony notices is that his apartment is a dump. Like, worse than any of the safehouses they’ve used since first forming back in the early 2010’s. It’s small, the lighting is shit, and clearly Brock has more important things to do than take out the overflowing trash or clean up the bits of food scattered across the floor. It must sting to have fallen from semi-famous mudraker to an underpaid line cook.
Natasha throttles the remote until Brock walks through the front door. He’s loaded down with grocery bags, one hand shoving a Hershey bar into his mouth, and is saying through the bites, “I swear, they’re just like tater tots - They were all out! What did you want me to do?”
He kicks the door shut behind him and drops the bags, sighing and then subsequently choking on the chocolate he’s still shoving down his throat.
“C’mon, sweetheart -” He swallows and grimaces, turning away from the wrapper his hand is insistently pressing against his cheek. “Look, we got chicken. You like chicken! Yeah, dead, sorry, but - I know, but we can’t go out tonight.”
He finally takes the wrapper with his other hand and tosses it behind him. “I’ll get us something nice on payday. Yep, two days. Two days and I’ll get you a lobster. All fresh’n shit, yeah?”
Brock’s smiling as he starts putting groceries away, humming every once in awhile like he’s acknowledging someone else talking. He chimes into the imaginary conversation with noncommittal answers like, “yeah, that’s good,” or “nah, you’re not feelin’ that. What about that house show? You liked that, didn’tcha?”
It’s extremely off putting. Even Natasha looks disconcerted.
“I swear if this guy is just a lunatic, I’m going to lose it,” Tony breaks the silence, inelegant as always. “I am not watching weeks’ worth of some nutjob talking to the voices in his head.”
“Rude,” Bruce chides. “He’s obviously sick. You’re the one who said his medical files showed a history of mental illness, with a recent re-diagnosis- you could be a little more compassionate.”
Tony grumbles.
On screen, Brock is picking up the last bag. He leans in and sniffs it - with a weary sigh, he goes, “You’re really going to make me do this, aren’t you.” There’s no answer - obviously - but Brock responds anyway. “You gotta let me know before it gets this bad - we can work something else out. Compromise, remember?”
Natasha pauses the video a split second after he says that. “Do you see that?” She points at Brock’s shoulder. “The shadow. That wasn’t there before.”
“Timestamp, FRIDAY. We’ll come back to it, let’s keep going.”
She starts it again. Brock rips open a container of raw chicken thighs, picks one up, and, after a somewhat disgusted look, shoves it into his mouth.
Whole.
“What the fuck.”
For a split second, he doesn’t chew.
It’s in his mouth - and clearly, Brock is unhappy about that. But his shoulders straighten, and suddenly he’s barely biting down into it before he’s swallowing, hands picking up a second and third and shoveling them into his maw. Bones and all.
“Is his jaw unhinging?” Bruce asks, fascinated. “Look, that’s - mouths aren’t supposed to open that far.”
Tony, green and full of regret, says, “Explain why, out of all of the shit I’ve seen, this is what's closest to making me lose my lunch.”
Natasha says, “You haven’t even had breakfast, though.”
She’s also interested. No wonder her and Bruce fucked - they’re both weird as shit.
Brock keeps going until the pack is empty - and then there’s a second one, and he’s going to town again.
Finally, the torture stops. Brock licks his lips with a tongue that is inhumanly long, collecting a streak of chocolate that had been left high up on his left cheekbone. While licking his hands clean, he growls, making a noise that sounds like nothing human.
In his original voice, no trace of an inhuman snarl, he responds, “I’m sorry about the damn tots - if you really don’t like the waffle kind, we’ll get better ones tomorrow.” He wanders over to the freezer and pulls out the bag of fries he had just put in there. He parks himself on the couch - of course neither of the bugs can see him clearly from that angle, which is just their luck, fuck you Clint - and tears open the bag.
The next hour is him tossing fries into the air and trying to catch them with his mouth, interspersed with bits of one-sided conversation. The silences are generally accompanied by a tongue that’s longer than his arm - said tongue grabs any fries that don’t make it to his mouth. Even ones that are on the other side of the room.
Tony says, “So, the talking to himself makes me think crazy. But the steel stomach and freaky tongue make me think not crazy. Or, well, not as crazy as previously assumed.”
Bruce is on the edge of his seat, almost starry-eyed. “Look at that dexterity - If the symbiote - that’s what it must be, right? If it’s man-made, Drake’s scientists were better than I imagined. It would have to have - anteater? Maybe anteater DNA. Or a giraffe - I can’t think of any other mammals with tongues that have such fine motor abilities. Do you think it’s conscious or is he talking to it as a result of his illness? God, that dexterity is something - ”
“You know that isn’t my area, pookie. The extent of my experience with tongues like that is limited to weird anime porn.”
The pained look Natasha and Bruce exchange is enough to make Tony smirk.
The rest of that day isn’t anything special. It’s actually kind of pathetic. Brock and - whatever is inside of him - sit and chow on fries, and Brock bitches about House Hunters but makes no move to turn it off. Then he grumbles about always being hungry but doesn’t get up, lying facedown on the couch. Eventually, Brock’s breathing pattern signals sleep, and Natasha presses the fast forward button again.
For a few more days, it’s exactly the same. Brock does manage to find tater tots on day three, which are promptly dumped, still frozen, into his mouth. It’s unnerving to see him tilt his head back and open his jaw like a shark’s gaping maw, teeth sharper than they should be. He also eventually comes home and eats two live lobsters, as promised, which Tony has to look away for.
The rest is the same as that first day. It’s more boring than it has any right to be when there’s a parasitic potential-alien in the mix.
At the end of the second week of videos, though, a change occurs. Brock doesn’t leave the bedroom for a whole day. Tony, ignoring Bruce's disapproval, fires up the bedroom and bathroom footage.
In the bedroom, Brock wakes up around seven in the morning. He rolls over and looks like he’s thinking about falling back to sleep, before his eyes dart open. He bolts up, and there’s almost a manic grin on his face.
“Well hello there,” He says to no one. He holds out a hand, and something starts to pool in it. Black sludge spills out of his palm, dripping onto his thighs, and he laughs. Delighted, he scoops it up and nuzzles it. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think I’d never see you again. I thought I’d just have to deal with your constant complaining and hunger pangs.”
“We missed us, Eddie,” Something absolutely demonic says, startling all three of them. Natasha curses and rights her travel mug after knocking it over, and Bruce takes a few deep breath. The sludge ball, meanwhile, grows predatory teeth and large, chalk white eyes.
“Real words too. It's Christmas," He says, deadpan. He softens after a moment and says, quietly, "Yeah we missed us." He snorts when the sludge attaches itself to his face, temporarily hiding his features. When Eddie smacks a kiss to it, the black ball disperses into his skin. “Aw, sorry, is that - ?”
“Eddie missed us too,” It says - if Tony had to ascribe a tone to it, which is extremely hard to do when it sounds like every single person’s worst nightmare combined into one amalgam or horrific death - wonderingly. If anyone pressed, Tony would say it’s awed. A tendril of black creeps up Brock’s neck, curling around and around until it presses at his lips. “This is how you show affection. You want to give us affection.”
“Yeah, I mean,” Brock is suddenly flustered, scrubbing the back of his neck and looking at the ceiling. “I thought you died. We died. Our chance of being a ‘we’ died.”
“You want - ?”
“Of course I do!” He sounds almost offended, eyes darting back to the sludge slowly encasing him. “C’mon, I mean - we had a rocky start, but - “
“Perfect Eddie, perfect host, perfect us,” It chants, and a truly terrifying face, with so so many teeth appears next to Brock’s face. With painful slowness, it licks his face. From chin to temple, a tongue the size of Brock’s arm slides up and down and up and down before retreating. The head then nuzzles Brock’s face as it repeats itself a few times. After a second of hesitation, Brock returns it, petting the thing with the hand that isn’t encased in sludge.
After a few minutes of petting, Brock says, “Next time we can skip the licking part of the reunion. Yeah?”
“No.”
“It's kinda nasty.”
“Non-negotiable.”
“We're gonna have to compromise - “
“I’ll compromise your face.”
“Man, c’mon - “
“Feed me and I’ll consider it.”
“You’re going to make us fat.”
“We’d be so soft,” It croons, somehow pulling Brock to his feet. Brock stumbles and the black mass pulls him back by his scruff so he doesn’t fall over, before starting to strip him. “Cushy stomach protects organs better. And bigger Venom could take on bigger bad guys.”
“Let’s get us back to full health before we worry about bigger bad guys,” Brock mumbles. He seems as surprised as Tony feels when ‘V’ pours out of his pores and quickly becomes a pair of jeans, a t shirt, and a jacket. “Are you doing that - “
“Less money on frivolous human things. More money for tater tots and chocolate.”
“Clothes aren’t frivolous - “
“Food, Eddie! We’re hungry.”
Brock laughs and says, “You’re awake for five minutes and you’re already hungry?”
“Not my fault you eat like a wimp. We have to eat better to heal. Let’s go find food.”
“Sushi?” They duck out of the window and disappear from the cameras’ sights.
Tony takes the remote out of Natasha’s slack hands and shuts the screens off. “So. Not crazy. Anyone else wanna take five? I could use five. Hell, let’s make it ten.”