Chapter Text
The neon sign for Al’s 24-Hour Hardware & Surplus buzzed with a low, erratic hum, casting a sickly green glow over the damp Manhattan pavement. It was 10:47 PM on a school night, and Peter Parker was standing on the corner of 9th Avenue and 48th Street, clutching a plastic shopping bag to his chest like it contained the crown jewels.
Inside the bag was a vintage, salvaged circuit board from a defunct 1990s synthesizer—the exact model he needed to salvage copper wiring and a specific micro-resistor for his web-shooters. He’d had to take the train all the way from Queens, transferring twice, just to hit this specific, incredibly sketchy corner of Hell's Kitchen before the shop owner decided to lock the doors.
Peter pulled the hood of his oversized, faded gray sweatshirt down lower over his eyes, shivering slightly as a cold breeze swept off the Hudson River. He didn't want to use his web-shooters to swing home; he was in plain clothes, wearing a beat-up pair of sneakers and carrying a backpack full of AP Physics homework. If he started doing acrobatics over the tenements, someone would notice, and Mr. Stark’s AI would definitely flag the unauthorized patrol.
He just had to walk three blocks back to the subway station. It was a simple, normal, civilian task.
He took exactly four steps past the rusted green mailbox on the corner.
Thud.
The sound was so soft a normal human wouldn't have even registered it over the rumble of a distant city bus, but Peter’s head snapped up instantly. His internal alarm—that familiar, prickling sensation at the base of his skull—gave a tiny, polite nudge. Not a "dodge a flying pumpkin bomb" warning, but a highly localized "someone is staring at you very intensely" heads-up.
Shadows shifted on the fire escape directly above a shuttered bakery.
"You're out of bounds, kid," a low, gravelly voice rasped from the darkness.
Peter froze, his sneakers squeaking slightly on the wet asphalt. He squinted up into the gloom. Out of the deep shadows of the fire escape stepped a figure clad in dark, armored red leather. The streetlights caught the dull, menacing gleam of two small horns protruding from his mask.
It was Daredevil. The actual, literal Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. The guy who supposedly beat up entire syndicates with his bare hands.
Peter blinked, holding his plastic bag a little tighter. "Uh. Hi? I’m just... walking to the subway?"
Daredevil didn't move. He stood perfectly still on the iron grating, his head tilted at an odd, precise angle, as if he were listening to the exact rhythm of Peter’s lungs. "Subway is back toward 8th. You're walking West. Go home."
"I was just looking for a slice of pizza first!" Peter protested, gesturing vaguely down the street with his free hand. He knew for a fact there was a decent dollar-slice place just two blocks into the neighborhood. "I have a metro card. I’m a paying customer of the MTA. I’m allowed to be on the sidewalk."
The vigilante dropped from the fire escape. He didn't use a rope or a wire; he simply let himself fall twelve feet, landing in a perfect, silent crouch on the pavement before straightening up. Up close, he was incredibly intimidating, smelling faintly of old leather, rain, and copper. He stepped directly into Peter's path, blocking the sidewalk entirely.
"The Kitchen is closed," Daredevil said, his tone flat, unyielding, and utterly devoid of room for negotiation. He pointed a gloved finger back toward the East. "Turn around. Now."
"Are you—are you seriously carding me for a neighborhood?" Peter squeaked, his voice cracking slightly in sheer disbelief. He was Spider-Man! He fought purple aliens in space! He had a highly advanced titanium-weave suit sitting in a duffel bag under his bed! And yet, he was currently being bullied by a grown man dressed like a giant crimson mascot. "Is this even legal? I don't think you have the jurisdiction to do this."
"I don't need jurisdiction," Daredevil replied smoothly. He didn't reach for his batons, but he adjusted his stance, his broad shoulders completely cutting off Peter's view of 9th Avenue. "It's eleven o'clock. School nights mean curfew. Go back to Queens."
Peter's jaw dropped. How does he even know I live in Queens?!
Daredevil let out a sound that was dangerously close to a chuckle, though it was quickly masked by a stern clearing of his throat. "You have a Queens transit-bound metro card in your front right pocket, your sneakers have trace amounts of the specific clay soil from Flushing Meadows Park, and quite frankly, you sound like Queens."
Peter instinctively slapped a hand over his right pocket. He felt the thin plastic of his MetroCard through the denim. This guy is a wizard, he decided right then and there. A terrifying, red-suited wizard.
"This is profiling," Peter muttered, taking a cautious step backward. "I’m going to write a very strongly worded review on Yelp. 'Zero stars, the local demon is a bully who hates public transit.'"
"Write whatever you want," Daredevil said, his voice fading slightly as he took a step back into the shadow of the brick wall, seemingly preparing to vanish back into the skyline. "Just do it on the east side of 8th Avenue."
With a final, warning tilt of his head, the vigilante leaped backward. He caught the bottom rung of the fire escape with effortless grace, swinging himself upward and disappearing into the dark, rainy mist of the rooftops before Peter could even blink.
Peter stood alone on the corner, the wet wind blowing a stray piece of trash past his sneakers. He looked down at the plastic bag in his hand, then back toward the dark, quiet streets of Hell's Kitchen.
"I literally fought blue aliens," Peter whispered to the empty street, his chest swelling with a sudden, deeply petty wave of stubbornness. "I have a vibranium-enhanced suit. I am an Avenger."
He turned on his heel and began the long, humiliating walk back to the subway station.
He was going to get that dollar-slice pizza. And he was going to get those hardware parts. If the Devil of Hell's Kitchen thought a silly little self-imposed curfew was going to stop Spider-Man—even a civilian, jacket-wearing Spider-Man—he had another thing coming.