Work Text:
Eddie has never considered himself a stealthy man, but tonight he is attempting something adjacent to it.
The hallway outside Investigations is empty, lights dimmed to that late-hour corporate gloom that makes everything feel vaguely illegal even if it isn’t. The cleaning cart sits abandoned near the elevators.
Eddie tells himself that if anyone asks, he is here on Very Important Journalistic Business. He does not clarify that the business involves breaking into a co-worker’s office because someone at a bar claimed to have a photograph of a vigilante, which is rather incriminating evidence of their identity.
Eddie couldn't help but think- What if it’s a photograph of that freak alien vigilante?
That freak alien vigilante being, unfortunately, him.
“This is... well... all for the greater good, yes,” Eddie mutters, jiggling the locked handle of Ronson’s office.
This is trespassing! Venom replies, almost cheerfully.
“Nothing morally wrong or risky going on here, nooo,” Eddie reassures himself.
A thin black tendril slips from beneath Eddie’s cuff before he can fully pretend he’s not allowing it. It works the lock with delicate precision that would be impressive if it weren’t deeply incriminating. There is a soft click. The door opens.
Eddie steps inside and shuts it quietly behind him.
We could simply destroy the entire office, Venom offers helpfully.
“We are not committing arson in a high-rise.”
Ronson’s office smells like stale cologne. The blinds are half-drawn, slats casting striped shadows across the desk. A single desk lamp glows, illuminating stacks of folders and an open laptop. Eddie’s pulse kicks up.
“Okay. He said it was printed,” Eddie whispers. “Said he had a hard copy... must be in an envelope then.”
We should eat him anyway, Venom suggests. As a nice, non-anxiety-ridden preventive measure.
“We are not eating my co-worker. That’s HR paperwork we do not want.”
Eddie moves quickly, rifling through the papers on the desk- expense reports, drafted articles, a half-finished hit piece on city infrastructure, mostly boring scoops on random celebs- nothing useful. He opens a drawer filled with pens, flash drives and weirdly, a stress ball shaped like the Daily Globe logo.
Eddie crouches down, and the second drawer sticks. He tugs harder than necessary.
It comes free with a sharp metallic screech.
“Sooo subtle,” Eddie mutters.
You are doing wonderfully!!!
He finds a manila envelope at the back. No label- of course there’s no label. He pulls it out, heart pounding a little too fast.
There it is, Venom purrs. The picture.
Eddie stares at it- His hands shake. He grips it tightly, and just as he’s about to open it-
The office door creaks open behind him.
Eddie freezes. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Oh- oh my God, I’m so sorry-”
At that, Eddie spins around.
Peter Parker stands halfway inside the office, one hand still on the doorknob, the other clutching a backpack to his chest like it might shield him from legal consequences. He is wearing a wrinkled Midtown High hoodie under a too-big intern badge lanyard. His hair is a mess, like someone who has been running.
They stare at each other.
For a solid three seconds, no one speaks.
Then they both talk at once.
“I can explain-”
“This isn’t what it looks like-”
They stop. Blink.
“You go,” Eddie says.
“No, you’re older,” Peter blurts. “I mean- not old-old, just, like, seniority-wise. In the workplace. Which I am technically part of.”
Eddie narrows his eyes. “Why are you here, kid?”
Peter glances around the office, visibly taking in the open drawers, the scattered papers, and the envelope in Eddie’s hand.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Peter says, attempting casual and landing somewhere near mildly panicked.
Eddie straightens, instinctively shoving the envelope behind his back. “I work here.”
“Not in this office,” Peter counters immediately, then seems startled at his own boldness. “I mean, departmentally speaking.”
Eddie points at him. “Why. are. you. here.?”
Peter hesitates. His gaze flickers to the desk. The drawers. The laptop.
“I left my-” he gestures vaguely, “-uh. Phone charger.”
Eddie stares at him.
“In a locked investigative reporter’s office?” Eddie asks slowly.
Peter nods too quickly. “I charge very… investigatively.”
Eddie squints.
He lies poorly, Venom observes.
“So do we,” Eddie mutters under his breath.
Peter’s eyes widen. “Sorry?”
“Nothing. Thinking out loud.”
“About?”
“Pizza.”
Peter blinks. “…What?”
Eddie realises he is rather hungry.
There is a pause. A long one.
Peter clears his throat. “Okay. So. Hypothetically. If someone were to, um, hear a rumour that a certain journalist was scheduled to receive a compromising photo of, say, a masked individual… where they’re not exactly masked... and intends on selling it to the press-”
Eddie goes very still.
Peter continues, words tumbling faster. “And that hypothetical someone was worried about said masked individual’s privacy and maybe also structural integrity of their personal life, which is already probably fragile and doesn’t need more, you know, explosions- socially speaking-”
“Kid,” Eddie cuts in. “Are you breaking into this office to steal another journalist’s bit?”
Peter freezes.
“…No?” he deadpans.
Eddie gestures broadly at the room. “You are standing in a locked office. At night. With a backpack.”
Peter looks down at the backpack like it has betrayed him.
It does look suspicious, Venom adds thoughtfully. We could take the backpack.
“We are not taking the backpack.”
Peter squints. “You really talk to yourself a lot.”
Eddie folds his arms. “What vigilante are you talking about, anyway?” He freaks a little internally.
Act casual, Venom advises, immediately unhelpful. You are terrible at casual.
“I am perfectly casual,” Eddie mutters.
Peter hesitates.
Eddie hesitates.
They both narrow their eyes at the exact same time.
“No idea, could be any of ‘em. Why are you here? And yes, you first,” Peter says.
“No, you.”
Peter huffs. “This is very immature.”
“You’re seventeen.”
“I’m almost eighteen.”
“Congratulations.”
We are older than both of you, Venom remarks smugly.
“Not relevant,” Eddie whispers.
Peter opens his mouth, then closes it, recalibrating. His shoulders tense slightly, like he’s bracing for impact.
“I swear, that’s all I know, I heard Ronson received a picture,” Peter shrugs, feigning nonchalance so aggressively it becomes suspicious.
Eddie lifts the envelope slightly. “I’m guessing this is it.”
Peter steps forward- “We can’t let him publish that.”
Agreed, Venom says immediately. We burn it. Or we eat Ronson. Both are efficient.
Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Kid. We?”
Peter straightens, clearly bracing himself. “Yes. We. Whoever that is out there, they’re helping people. You can’t just blast them at their most vulnerable across the front page for clicks.”
Eddie studies him. The kid isn’t posturing. He is angry in that specific, earnest way that only comes from believing something deeply.
“You’re an intern,” Eddie says flatly. “This isn’t your fight.”
He is small, Venom adds. We could throw him out the windowww.
Peter’s eyes flash. “I work here too.”
“You alphabetise press releases.”
“I also have access to the internal server,” Peter snaps back. “And basic human decency.”
Basic human decency is inefficient!!! Venom comments.
“Not helping,” Eddie mutters.
Peter points. “You just did it again.”
“Did what?”
“...Never mind.”
Eddie snorts. “Basic human decency is great. I’m an investigative journalist. This is my territory.”
Peter folds his arms. “Breaking into someone else’s office?”
“Investigatively.”
“That’s not a word.”
“It is tonight.”
They glare at each other, both acutely aware of the envelope between them like a live wire.
Peter gestures at it, shoulders relaxing. “We should destroy it.”
Finally, Venom says with satisfaction. The child has a good idea.
“What- Excuse me?”
“If it’s really a picture of an unmasked hero, it’ll ruin that person. Their safety. Their vigilante- erm, job?” Peter swallows. “You know what i mean.”
Eddie does know. Venom is growing increasingly fascinated by Peter by the momen- and that’s not necessarily a good thing.
Eddie studies him for another beat. The kid is shaking slightly, but he hasn’t backed down.
“At least I’m a real journalist,” Eddie mutters. “I get to make that call.”
Peter’s eyes narrow. “Real journalists don’t protect sources?”
Eddie exhales sharply. “Fine. We destroy it.”
Peter nods once, immediately. “Good.”
“Okay,” Peter says finally, reaching for the envelope. “I’ll take it. I can shred it downstairs.”
Do not give it to him, Venom warns. He will trip. He looks like he trips.
Eddie pulls it back out of reach. “Absolutely not.”
Peter frowns. “Why not?”
“Because you’re a kid who will absolutely panic and drop it in the hallway.” Eddie sputters out, not having enough time to think of a more reasonable excuse not to hand a picture of who could possibly be Eddie mid-transformation to a teen intern.
He will, Venom agrees. And then we will have to eat the hallway.
“We are not eating the hallway.”
“I will not-”
“You’re visibly sweating.”
“It’s warm in here!”
“It’s seventy degrees.”
Peter huffs in frustration. “You’re not the only one who cares about this.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“Then give it to me.”
“No.”
They both grip the envelope now, tugging lightly but stubbornly, neither willing to fully escalate into a wrestling match but clearly considering it.
This is pathetic, Venom sighs. We are stronger than him.
“We are not using super-strength on a teenager.” Eddie whisper-shouts.
“Let go,” Peter insists under his breath.
“You let go.”
“You’re going to crumple it!”
“That’s the point!”
The envelope bends dangerously between them.
This is inefficient, Venom observes.
“Not now,” Eddie mutters.
Peter’s eyes flick up. “Sorry?”
“Nothing.”
We could simply burn it- I like small, controlled fires. Exposure therapy and- Venom suggests, almost bored. Fire burns paper.
Eddie pauses.
“…That,” he says slowly, “is not the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
Peter blinks. “What?”
Eddie releases his grip just long enough to snatch the envelope back entirely. He glances around the office and spots Ronson’s metal trash bin beside the desk.
“Wait, what are you doing?” Peter asks, alarm creeping in.
“Solving the problem.”
“Define solving...”
Eddie pulls a lighter from his pocket.
Before Peter can protest further, Eddie flicks the wheel. Flame blooms, small and controlled. He holds the corner of the photograph to it.
For a second, nothing happens.
Then the edge blackens. Curls. Fire licks upward, devouring glossy paper in hungry orange tongues.
Peter steps back instinctively. “Oh. Oh, wow. You’re actually-”
“Relax,” Eddie says, holding it steady over the trash bin as ash begins to fall. “I’m not burning the building down.”
We could- Then we would run away- very, very fast, Venom murmurs, pleased.
“Not helping,” Eddie mutters.
Peter watches as the image shrivels, the vigilante’s frozen form twisting into smoke and ember until it collapses in on itself. Eddie drops the last flaming fragment into the metal bin and stamps it out with deliberate precision.
Silence settles over the office, broken only by the faint hiss of cooling ash.
Peter stares at the charred remains.
“Well,” he says after a moment. “That worked out.”
Eddie brushes soot from his fingers.
Peter exhales, tension draining from his shoulders. “You know, for someone who said this was your department, you escalated to arson pretty fast.”
Eddie arches an eyebrow. “You broke in, too.”
Peter opens his mouth, then closes it. “…Fair.”
They stand there a moment longer, the adrenaline fading, replaced by something quieter. Relief, maybe.
Peter adjusts his backpack strap. “So. We were never here.”
“Obviously.”
“And if Ronson asks-”
“It mysteriously disappeared.”
Peter nods solemnly. “Tragic.”
“Very.”
They move toward the door at the same time and awkwardly sidestep each other.
“After you,” Eddie mutters.
Peter slips out into the hallway, then glances back. “Hey.”
“What?”
“Thanks.”
Eddie shrugs, already turning the lock back into place. “Someone’s got to protect the integrity of the press.”
Peter smiles faintly at that. “Sure.”
They head in opposite directions down the dim corridor. And for one quiet moment, both of them were relieved there were people out there who shared the belief that some stories do not belong to the public at all.
He smelled familiar, Venom murmurs.
“Not helpful,” Eddie whispers.