Eventually his gestures move towards practicality, touch relinquished in search of water and handtowel. He comes back to her, and the subsequent swipe of damp cloth over soiled cheeks is as religious as a saint washing the feet of his apostle. Nothing quite as absolving, but the ritualism of it stands in the methodological and reverent workings of callused fingers.

Her skin is clean under the layer of anonymous blood. A part of him wonders if he should offer his slicked fingers as sustenance, but that feels far too much like telling a human to feed off of the ground using their tongue.

He sits up, understanding that the response he's been given lacks the shroud of posturing, and feels a breeze of relief at her candor. It floats in comparison to the heavy reality of Eli's worries, the all-encompassing need to prove one's utility.

"...Being able to kill doesn't prove your use." If ever Venom understood how to pad his words so that the impact of them didn't rattle bone, he's also learned that the dampening rarely makes things easier. The crevasses of his scars darken, but they crease in a way that speaks to weariness more strongly than austerity. Like a man who knows that this sentiment, like many of his sentiments, are as hypocritical as his own life. "I'm not here to play judge or jury."

A tip of his head, in silent questioning: what makes you think that you're starting out in the negatives, needing to work your way up?