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The first time Peter approached Tony holding out a razor, Tony was understandably concerned.
“Where did you get that?”
A pointless question, seeing as that was his razor from his bathroom cabinet. Something which he could have sworn he’d locked, but had evidently forgotten. That, or HYDRA had taught Peter some pretty impressive lockpicking skills, which was also probably true. They’d taught the kid far worse, after all.
Peter didn’t answer. Not that Tony hadn’t expected that. He’d been having one of his Not Talking days. Or, really, it was more like a Not Talking week by now.
“Give that to me please, Peter.”
Peter allowed Tony to gently pull the device out of his fingers. He didn’t meet his eyes—another thing they were trying to work on—but instead stared down at his sock feet, other hand fiddling with his ear.
“Peter.”
When the kid didn’t look up, Tony nudged his chin with a finger. Nothing. The billionaire resisted the urge to sigh—they’d been doing so good up until just a couple days ago.
“This needs to stay in the cabinet, kid. And you need to stay out of the cabinet, okay?”
Half a nod was all he got.
“I’m going to put this away, and then when I get back, how about we watch another documentary. Sound good?”
He headed back to the master bathroom, fighting with the electric cord in order to tuck his razor safely back into the medicine cabinet next to a bottle of shaving cream. Tony triple-checked that the door was locked, before hurrying back out to the living room. Peter wasn’t there, and this time Tony actually did sigh.
The second time Peter approached Tony with a razor, he was making lunch. He’d just finished putting cheese on a sandwich and turned around to fetch mustard out of the refrigerator, only to find that HYDRA’s “secret weapon” had somehow managed to sneak up behind him once again.
“Peter, I told you that had to stay in the cabinet.”
And obviously he was going to have to figure out some better Peter-proofing protocols because Hyrda had taught him how to pick locks.
The kid shook the razor in his direction, frowning and rubbing the side of his neck.
This time, as Tony went to take it from him, he resisted for a moment. His frown turned into an outright scowl when Tony freed the razor from his grasp and disappeared with it.
The third time Peter approached Tony with a razor, he wasn’t surprised. Sure, he’d hidden the device someplace other than the bathroom cabinet, but the kid was—as far as they could tell—an actual genius, and an actual genius being trained by HYDRA to be a supersoldier. It was the best he could do on short notice, but evidently the bottom of his dirty clothes hamper hadn’t been enough to deter the kid, because here he was.
Maybe it was time for a new tactic.
“Do you want something, Peter?”
When the kid abruptly shuddered, Tony realized his poor choice of words. He took a breath.
“What do you need?”
And as Peter got closer, he could tell there was something he needed. Because Peter was still scowling, but some feeling between frustration and overwhelmed was hiding in the eyes that refused to meet Tony’s. Peter had explained—or at least tried to on one of the days when he was feeling more chatty—how it was difficult going from a situation where he had no control over anything to one where he was suddenly expected to have his own thoughts and opinions and make all sorts of choices that didn’t have a right answer. Right now, the kid looked close to tears.
“Okay,” said Tony. He patted the couch next to him. “How about you sit down and we try to figure this out, alright?”
Peter perched on the very edge of the couch—like it might vanish if he sat down too hard—and held out the razor once again.
“I know that you know what that is. And I know you know you’re not supposed to touch it. So why do you keep bringing me a razor, Peter? You’re too young to shave, y’know, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Peter frowned and shook the thing insistently.
“Yes, I see it.” Tony ran a hand through his hair. “What are you trying to do with it?”
The razor tapped against Tony’s knee and he squinted. “I need to do something with it?” he guessed.
Peter nodded.
“I already shaved today, kiddo. I don’t need to do it twice, hair doesn’t grow that fast.”
And the frown was back. One step forward, two steps back.
Tony held a hand out to the kid. “Can you show me what you need?”
Peter tapped his knee again with the razor.
“Yup, I got that part,” said Tony. “You need me to do something with the razor.”
Gingerly, Peter then reached out to take the billionaire’s hand. Tony figured he was going to be led someplace, but instead Peter guided the hand to his own head. He moved it around.
Oh.
“You want me to shave your hair?” Tony guessed, a pit forming in his stomach.
It was finally, finally growing out from the truly horrendous buzz cut that his hair had been in when the Avengers rescued Peter from the HYDRA facility. It had been so short it was difficult to tell even what color it was. Now it was long enough that it was beginning to curl in little dark brown wisps around Peter’s ears and at the nape of his neck. It was, dare Tony say it, kind of cute. The kid looked like a kid and less like a lab experiment or a dying cancer patient. But if that’s what Peter wanted…
“That’s what you want, kiddo?”
Peter squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. His shoulders were apparently attempting to do their best turtle impression. He didn’t look like he wanted it.
“Are you sure, Peter?” Tony brushed his hand over the kid’s head again, and he flinched. Tony froze. Peter drew in a long, shuddery breath and didn’t move away. “Hey,” Tony made his voice go as soft as he could, “I need you to tell me what you want, kid, okay? Just this once. Do you want your hair long still or do you want it cut short? I don’t want to cut it, but I will if you tell me too.”
“I’m—” Peter’s voice was so tentative that Tony wasn’t sure he’d heard it at first. “I’m allowed to have it different?”
Ouch, his heart. This kid…
“Yeah, kiddo, you’re allowed to have it as long. Longer than Thor’s if you want to. Or short, it’s all up to you.”
Tony ran his hand over Peter’s hair again. Please don’t cut it, please don’t cut it, please…
“Oh.” A pause. “I don’t— I don’t l-like it short.”
“Then we won’t cut it.”
“But,” whispered Peter, “it itches.”
“That’s what hair does, Underoos. You just aren’t used to it because your hair’s been non-existent. Although…” Tony eyed how Peter fingered the hair around his ears. “Maybe it’d be good to do a little trim. It’s like a mini haircut,” he explained when the kid turned a questioning look on him. “You just cut off a little bit. Tidy up the edges, keep it from falling in your eyes, or cut the tickly parts so they don’t itch anymore.”
Hesitantly, Peter nodded.
“Yeah, you feel up to trying that?”
And so that was how they ended up here. Both in Tony’s bathroom this time, with Peter perched on a barstool snagged from the kitchen and Tony frowning down at the razor settings.
“I’ve, uh, never done hair before. The beard, obviously, yeah, but not the…” He waved a hand. “So it might look terrible, I don’t know.” Take a breath, Tony. You’re going to make the kid more nervous than he is. “Alright, I’m turning the razor on. Loud noise.”
Peter held himself stiffly and perfectly still as the buzzing filled the room.
Was it just him, or was the razor suddenly extra loud? Tony could’ve sworn it didn’t sound like this when he shaved that morning.
“Okay,” he said under his breath. Then a little bit louder, “Okay.” It was now or never, after all. “I’m going to start on your hair now, Peter. Right here.” Lightly, Tony brushed fingers just above Peter’s right ear.
Squeezing his eyes shut, the kid nodded.
“Do you want to see what I’m doing?”
He shook his head.
“Okay. I’m going to start now.”
Holding his breath, Tony reached out with the razor, but it had barely gotten close to Peter’s head before he was jerking away, so violently that he almost knocked himself off the barstool. Panting, the boy steadied himself with a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the vanity. The granite countertop creaked in protest.
Tony flicked the razor off again and the room filled with a suffocating silence.
“Sorry,” the billionaire said quietly. Why was his heart beating so hard? “Maybe I should get someone else to do this.”
“No, no,” whimpered Peter. “I’ll be good. I promise, I’ll be g-good.”
“Peter. Peter, no. Hey, it’s okay.” Tony had to restrain himself from putting a hand on the kid’s back. That would probably make this worse. It would definitely make this worse. “You’re fine, kid. You’re doing just fine. How about you turn around and look at me, kiddo? Think you can do that?”
Peter unlatched his fingers from the counter so that he could rotate gingerly on the stool around.
“Good job. You’re doing good. Can we open our eyes now? C’mon, you’re doing so good, Peter. There we go.”
His eyes were barely open before tears were starting down the kid’s face.
“Hi, there you are. It’s okay. You’re doing just fine, kiddo.”
“‘M sorry.”
“Hey, no… No apologies, remember?” Tony bent so that they were face to face. “We don’t have to do this today. It can wait until you’re ready. No rush.”
Sorry, sorry, please. I can be good. I need— I need—
His head was all rushing white noise and air twisting up in the back of his throat. In his lap, Peter’s shaky hands balled tightly into fists.
Fingernails digging, digging—
Warm palms over his knuckles. Tony. Tony’s safe. The Tower is safe. Peter let his curled fists be pried apart and held. Safe.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Safe.
“It itches,” he whimpered and one hand escaped Tony’s to tug on his hair.
“Okay, okay, kiddo. We want to push through and get it over with?”
A sniffling nod.
Contemplatively, Tony eyed the razor lying next to the bathroom sink. “I might have another idea. Reconvene in 10 minutes.”
The only scissors he could find were drying in the dish drain because Clint—like an absolute heathen—had used them to cut up a frozen pizza the night before.
“They’ve been washed, I promise,” said Tony when Peter wrinkled his nose at them. He’d born witness to Clint’s crimes and to the ensuing strong argument they’d produced. It had been almost as bad as the fight that had broken out the week before when Sam brought up something called the “Cube Rule of Food”.
That one had ended with several hot dog buns and a tortilla flying through the air.
“Pop a squat.” Tony patted the closest bar stool and then dramatically swirled a towel cape over Peter’s shoulders as he situated himself. “Your hammer, Thor,” he added as he passed the kid a hand mirror. Peter used it to make a face at him. No more words, but facial expressions. Was that a step forward or a step backward?
“Alright, last chance to back out, Pete. I have never cut anybody’s hair before, much less with scissors, and I waive all responsibility for the end result. You’re not allowed to sue me if you wind up accidentally looking like a smurf or something. Wait, no, I can promise you will not turn blue. It’s those troll dolls that have the weird spikey—”
A pat on the arm interrupted him.
“Stop rambling and get to work, Tony,” agreed the billionaire. “Okay, kiddo. I’m going to comb it all out again first and then start cutting. And I swear I won’t cut you or… accidentally lop off an ear or something. Or do you have a weird spider power for that? You have super-healing. Can it replace a missing limb?”
“Two,” Peter whispered and Tony paused in his combing to stare at him.
“Two?”
“HYDRA,” added the teenager.
HYDRA…
“Oh, what, you cut off one limb and two more shall take its place? That?”
With a smirk, Peter spread out his fingers as if to say, How did you think I got all of these?
“You’re a little stinker, you know that?”
Peter nodded, looking pleased with himself.
Tony steadied his head with both hands. “Alright, you, no more moving. I’m snipping now.” The head snapped into place as Peter’s entire body stiffened under Tony’s fingers. His voice immediately lost its teasing tone. “You’re okay, Pete, I’m just trimming your hair. Nobody’s going to hurt you, I promise. Is it okay if I keep going?”
“Trust you.”
Time glitched for a moment before the words could sink in, but when they did, Tony swallowed hard and squeezed him in a brief backwards hug. “Thanks, kiddo. I’m glad. You’re being really brave.”
Peter patted the billionaire on the arm, face pink but pleased.
I trust you.
Clearing his throat, Tony said, “Alright, enough with the mushy stuff. Back to business now. I’m going to start trimming. You hold that—” He reached over Peter’s shoulder to re-position the hand mirror. “—there with your magical re-grown hands and tell me if I mess up.” He grabbed a lock of hair over Peter’s ear, combed it out from his head and started snipping at the tip. “Next thing you’re going to tell me is that your spidey powers duplicated your toes too. How many of those do you have? Three? Four? ”
In response, Peter lifted both of his sock feet out in front of him.
“Oh, just the two? That’s a relief. I thought we might have to buy you some of those weird toe-shoes so you could go outside. Seriously, though, have you seen those? Weird. They're supposed to be good for hiking or something like that, but it’s like a glove for your feet. A glove, I mean—”
Peter switched the mirror from hand to hand as Tony rotated around his head, but he didn’t seem to be using it to inspect the progress of his haircut so much as to watch the billionaire’s face as he rambled on.
“—A glove on your hand makes sense. Even when it’s cold, your fingers all have their own jobs to do, don’t they? Toes don’t. I don’t know about you, but my toes are not individualists. They prefer communal living. Splitting costs, sharing benefits. Not that, y’know, there’s much benefit to being a toe. You get stood on all day. And I can see you laughing at me, Peter, don’t think I can’t.”
The mirror dropped face down on the teen’s sweatpants. Tony took the moment to waggle a finger at him.
“You’re not being as sneaky as you think you are, mister. And pick that mirror back up, because I need you to tell me if I missed a spot. Did I miss a spot? Is anything still tickly?”
He ran his hands through Peter’s hair as he spoke, fluffing the curls up as high as they would go. Peter swatted at his hand (actually swatted him!) and smoothed them back down.
“Here, let’s go back to the bathroom so you can see better. There. What d’you think? You like it alright?”
Peter stared at himself in the mirror, running his fingers over and over through his hair. He looked… almost normal. Almost like a real person. Certainly a long way from the near-bald and frighteningly skinny boy the team had first come across in the depths of an underground HYDRA lab. He was…
Tony’s hands settled on his shoulders, warm and solid and real. “Is it okay, Peter?”
Biting his lips together, the boy was quick to nod.
“And it doesn’t itch, right? It’s not too short?”
Peter twisted away from Tony’s arms and launched himself into the billionaire’s chest instead. Tony’s hand drifted up to cradle the back of his shaking head.
“Uh, good tears, right?”
“I like it,” came Peter’s muffled response from the front of his t-shirt.
“That’s good, kiddo. That’s really, really good.”
El fin.