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As one of the best investigative journalists, people always assumed that Eddie had found his soulmate, no problem. If he’d had a normal soulmark, he would have. Most people had a name or, more rarely, an incredibly specific image. Like a cluster of violets when your soulmate is named Violet. His wasn’t anything in particular; it resembled an ink spill, all across his right wrist. Some kind of cosmic mistake, he was sure. When he’d found out that it was supposed to say something or look... better , he spent a week scrubbing it dutifully in the tub, hoping that he could clean up the mess. It didn’t work.
His father never wanted to talk about them. He knew why, of course. It was Eddie’s fault that his dad’s soulmate had died. A fact that his father never let him forget. He couldn’t forget now, even though logically he knew it wasn’t his fault. It’s hard to unlearn truths that were beaten into you.
Eddie had seen his father’s in passing, once. Jamie , in beautiful script across his chest. He wondered if his mom’s had matched. It didn’t seem fair that someone like his father had a soulmate when he was destined to be alone.
He’d given up hope somewhere along the line. There was no point in holding out for someone who he might never meet. Life doesn’t wait for you to be ready. So he got used to hiding it under his bracelets, until he mostly forgot about its existence.
And then he met Anne, and it didn’t matter anymore. She was perfect and they had a good life together. They’d shared their marks out of curiosity once. Hers was a name, Daniel , in neat letters across her left collarbone. She joked that Eddie’s meant that he was married to his job.
Turns out she was right, in a way.
He turns the engagement ring over again, watching the city’s lights flash off of it. He could hear the cars rushing across the bridge behind him, the wind from their passing ruffling his hair and clothes. The water below was dark. It would be cold.
For a brief moment, he considered jumping. Or throwing the ring.
In the end, he did neither. She was right, he was devoted to his job. It was all he had left, even if he didn’t have an official position. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing, if he could save some people. So he pockets the ring, finds the doctor’s card, and calls her.
When they finally stumble home, he’s covered in mud. His other had gotten too excited chasing down their killer, and they’d ended up tackling him into a puddle so big it should be classified as a small lake. He kicks off his soaked shoes and makes his way to the bathroom. His socks leave small puddles with every step, and the only reason he doesn’t slip is V’s vigilance.
In the bathroom, he peels off his socks and tosses them in the hamper. At the sink, he starts taking off his jewelry, dropping them all one by one onto the counter. He’s going to have to wash those somehow.
He drops the last bracelet on the counter, steps back to tug his hoodie off over his head. V’s head appears over his shoulder, watching him in the mirror as he picks at the dried mud on his skin. How that much got under his clothes, he’ll never know. Probably has something to do with how much got on Venom to begin with. He’s going to have to run a load of laundry again. His jar of quarters is already super low, he thinks mournfully. And he’s going to have to sweep and mop the trail from the front door to where he’s standing. He doesn’t even own a Swiffer anymore. God, he’s a mess.
“ You missed a spot, Eddie, ” V says helpfully. Eddie twists in the mirror, studying his reflection critically. There’s flecks and smears of mud and possibly blood all over, caught in his hair, but nothing that will clog his shower.
Black tendrils lift from his shoulders, rippling down his right arm. They swipe at his soulmark in an attempt to wipe the mess off. Distantly, he hears his other say something about tattoos, but he can’t look away from the inkspill on his wrist. Because it’s not an inkspill, and he’s a fucking idiot. It looks exactly as his love does, an inky black puddle with thin tendrils wrapping possessively around his wrist. With the mark and the symbiote right next to each other, mirror images, it’s impossible to deny it.
His soulmate is an alien that lives inside his body.
“Oh,” he says dumbly.
There’s a hiss of displeasure, and V’s face is crowding close to his, all narrowed eyes and too many teeth. “Why are you crying? You aren’t hurt.”
Oddly enough (but what isn’t odd about his life anymore), that displeased rumble brings him back to himself. He wipes his eyes as best he can, smiling at his other.
“I’m fine, love. I’m better than alright.”
He never expected to meet his soulmate in this world, so it’s only fitting that they came from the stars. It was always meant to be.