BAD TASTE!

May’s text reads simply: Facial hair. 

Tony doesn’t understand it at first, but, between May and the kid, he’s received his fair share of strange texts from what remains of the Parker family. This is hardly the most concerning. 

He sends a singular question mark back in response and waits. When May’s next text just says, Peter, things start to make a little more sense. 

Rather than respond, he calls out to Friday and asks her to cancel his last meeting for the day. It’s unimportant, something he can do over the phone, and he’s supposed to pick the kid up in a couple of hours, anyway.

He figures there’s no harm in leaving early.

“May,” Tony says as the apartment door opens. He’s gotten used to this—this thing that they do: the pick-ups and drop offs at the end of the week. His weekend, Tony likes to call it, as if he and May are co-parents and he’s the not-quite-deadbeat-dad. May sighs every time he says it, but Tony’s pretty sure there’s a fondness to it, is pretty sure he’s starting to grow on her. 

It’s only taken a year.

“Bathroom,” May says, pointing over her shoulder toward a door, and Tony nods. Steps inside the apartment and makes his way to where Peter is. 

He’s got a shaving kit in his hand, brand new and expensive, the same type he likes to use. He’s had it locked away for a while now, ever since Peter had told him about the hormones. It’s been ready and waiting for this exact occasion. 

“Pete,” he calls out, pushing the bathroom door open. He finds the kid standing in front of the mirror, both hands touching his jaw, his cheek, a small grin on his face. 

He looks up at the sound of Tony’s voice, face lighting up the same way it always does. “Mr. Stark,” he says, and there’s a sweet, underlying excitement to it that warms Tony’s heart. 

Tony arches a brow, steps further inside the too-small room to take a closer look. The shaving kit is placed on the sink, the case balancing on the edge as he moves to take Peter’s face in hand, fingertips brushing over the light stubble that’s started to grow in odd patches across Peter’s face. It’s more than the fuzz that had been there the last time they’d seen each other, but it’s still not quite right, the scattered patches of hair far from flattering. Tony swipes his thumb across the stray hairs on Peter’s chin and grins.

“Hit puberty, huh?” he says, hands dropping back to his sides. “About time.” 

The look Peter gives him is somewhere between a smile and a groan. “Google says I should shave it,” he says, reaching for his phone. “That it’ll grow back thicker.”

Tony nods. “And you won’t look like a pre-pubescent Mr. Potato Head,” he adds, already waving away Peter’s offended glare. “No—no. It’s a good look. Very 1880.”

Peter actually does groan, now. “Mr. Stark,” he says, turning to inspect himself again. He’s only inches from the mirror, fingers rubbing over the fuzz on top of his upper lip while his expression twists to something far-too serious.

“He’s been like this all afternoon,” comes May’s voice. She’s standing in the doorway, shoulder leaning against the side and her arms folded across her chest. “I said I’d teach him how to shave but he doesn’t trust me.” She grins at Peter’s embarrassed expression. “He thinks I’ll leave him scarred and ugly.”

“I didn’t—That’s not what—I just mea—”

“Hey, hey,” Tony says, cutting him off before he can really start to ramble. He puts an arm around Peter’s shoulders, turns toward May. “Relax. You called the right man. This—” he motions toward his own face, tilts his chin to show off his goatee “—is a form of art. I got you covered.”

Peter and May share a look as Tony reaches to turn the tap on, a smile playing at both their mouths: May a little more hesitant than Peter seems to be. Tony pretends not to notice.

“You want warm water first,” he says, arm uncurling from Peter’s shoulders as he tests the temperature on one hand, the other reaching to remove the kit from the sink. “Go on,” he says, nudging Peter toward the sink. “Clean away the slime of adolescence.”

May laughs as Peter grimaces. “I’ll leave you to it,” she tells them, and Tony responds with a mock-salute.

He sits on the edge of the Parkers’ bath, the kit balancing on his knee as he reaches for the tub of gel. He still remembers being a little younger than Peter, still remembers standing in his own bathroom and being taught the same thing, Jarvis calm and nurturing as he helped a teenage-Tony navigate a razor. He’d tried to do it on his own at first, had thought it would be easy. A few shouted swear words was all it’d taken for Jarvis to come running.

Howard had never even been an option.

Tony clears his throat, shoving the memory back into the special Howard Stark-sized compartment that sits in the dark corner of his brain. This isn’t about him, he thinks, and even if it were, it wouldn’t be about his father. He has a chance to do things better, now; it’s not an opportunity he’s going to let pass him by.

“You wanna use a scentless cream,” Tony calls, getting to his feet.

He passes the bottle along to Peter, watching as the kid lathers the shaving gel in his hands before tentatively swiping it across his face. His eyebrows are furrowed, tongue poking out in concentration. Tony stifles a laugh and reaches to help.

“Here,” he says, guiding Peter’s hands to all the right places. He helps the kid rub it onto his jaw, his cheeks, his upper lip. Says, “Let it soak a bit. It’s easier on your skin.”

Peter nods, and Tony wipes his hands on a rag before turning back to the kit.

May has spoken to him before about being too familiar; about boundaries and family and things to be careful with. You’re not his father, she’d said, more than once, the sad glint in her eye enough to make Tony turn away from her. He’d brushed it off each time, hurt shielded by the expected frivolity, but the truth is, Tony knows that. In fact, he thinks it’s probably a good thing.

That doesn’t stop the paternal ache that tightens his chest whenever he’s in the kid’s presence.

“Woah, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, drawing Tony from his thoughts. He reaches past Tony to pick the straight razor from the shaving kit and flicks it open, tilting it under the bright bathroom light and watching as the silver metal glitters softly. “That’s so cool.” 

Tony hums, looks over just in time to see Peter touch the blade with his fingertip. It’s followed by a quiet hiss, by Peter quickly pulling his hand back with a grimace, the skin coloured by a single drop of blood. Tony sighs, if only to halt the laugh that tickles his throat.

“Second thought,” he says, reaching out to pluck a disposable razor from the coffee cup resting below the mirror, “let’s stick with one of these.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Tony says. “Basics are good, right? You gotta start somewhere... or something.” He steps toward the mirror, ruffles Peter’s hair to nudge him back towards the sink, and holds up the razor for the kid to take. “Now, you wanna do light strokes. Go with the gain. Yeah—like that.”

Peter’s face is scrunched in concentration once more, mouth closed this time as he carefully drags the razor over his cheeks. There’s a few times where Tony reaches over to help, teaching Peter how to hold the skin just the right way. “’s to prevent cuts,” he explains, watching their reflection in the mirror, that paternal ache heavy around his heart.

There’s some trial and error, but it’s not long before Peter is bent back over the sink, washing away the last of the shaving cream.

“Cold water, this time,” Tony says. “No one likes open pores.”

May returns to the doorway just as Peter’s drying his face, and Tony turns to her with a grin. “Not bad, huh?” He reaches over to clip Peter on the chin. “Smooth as a baby, and no more creepy ‘stache.”

Peter ducks away from him, laughing. May shakes her head. It’s then that Tony catches the little, glass bottle in her hand. 

“Aftershave,” May explains, half-offering. She looks past Tony, toward Peter. “It was your Uncle’s.”

Peter’s eyes light at that, sad and happy all in one. He looks to Tony as if to double check that he’s ready for it, and Tony flashes a grin, waving him forward without hesitation. This is what she means, Tony thinks. Boundaries. 

“Now,” May says. “You don’t want to use too much…”