It's unbeknownst to the man himself that he is very much a portion of a larger equation, a muddled legacy that necessitates his presence but never his sense of self or being. He is a half, but not for the purpose of creating a whole. People tread over shadows without wondering if the person it belongs to has hurt for it; Venom is riddled with footprints but he hasn't a name to attribute to his pain, if he feels it at all.

"You think I can do that for you."

His words when she comes back to wind, serpentine, around his body is phrased not as a question but as a soft concession of bemusement. This not-quite-girl with decades on him, this unknowable existence who will likely see the world burn three times over because of men like him, seeing a potential for wholeness in him, professing that he makes her happy?

It's all intensely preposterous. But, then again, what part of his life hasn't been?

This is what makes him laugh through his blood-stained tongue, features softening in morbid honesty while he tips his head back into the touch sifting congealed blood over his scalp. A low rumble, like the moments before an eruption.

"Can't say that that's something I thought I'd hear from you after what happened today." But it's the truth, that even catastrophes are fleeting when distance and time are on their side. Venom brushes into Eli's touch in a way that would remind others of a lion at a circus, regal if not for its docility.