Work Text:
The elevator dinged as Peter trudged into the workshop, hoodie sleeves bunched at his elbows, hair sticking up like he’d run his hands through it about twelve times too many.
Tony looked up from his holograms. “Well, well. Look who finally emerged from the Homework Dimension.”
Peter dropped into a rolling chair and spun halfway around, groaning. “I’ve been writing the same chemistry paragraph for the past forty minutes. I don’t think it even makes sense anymore. I’m not even sure I make sense anymore.”
Tony raised an eyebrow. “Do I need to go full Stark and edit it for you?”
Peter rested his head on the table. “No. I’ve accepted the loss. It’s over. May it rest in peace.”
Tony chuckled and went back to his projections.
A moment later, Peter mumbled into the table, “Can we get something to eat?”
Tony glanced at him again. “Didn’t you eat dinner?”
“Yeah, like, seven hours ago.”
Tony tilted his head. “What are you in the mood for? Protein smoothie? One of those weird plant-based snacks Steve keeps forcing on us?”
Peter lifted his head just enough to squint at him. “I want McDonald’s.”
Tony blinked. “You want McDonald’s?”
“Yes,” Peter said seriously. “Like—specifically. Greasy fries. Questionable chicken nuggets. One of those paper-thin cheeseburgers. And an Oreo McFlurry if the machine isn’t broken.”
Tony leaned back, folding his arms. “You do realize you live in a billion-dollar tower with a state-of-the-art kitchen, right?”
“And yet,” Peter said, sitting up fully now, “none of that hits like drive-thru trash food at midnight.”
Tony narrowed his eyes like he was deeply considering it. Then he sighed dramatically. “You’re lucky I’m weak to sad puppy eyes and fast food nostalgia.”
Peter grinned. “So that’s a yes?”
“That’s a ‘grab your shoes and meet me at the garage in five.’”
Five minutes later, Peter was curled up in the passenger seat of one of Tony’s more subtle cars—the “late-night errand car,” as he’d dubbed it—while Tony drove through the quiet New York streets with one hand on the wheel and the other scrolling through the car’s music system.
McDonald’s was quiet, the line blessedly short.
Peter bounced slightly in his seat as they rolled up to the speaker. “Okay, twenty nuggets, medium fries, and a Coke. No ice. The ice always waters it down.”
Tony leaned toward the speaker. “Yeah, can we get one heart attack in a box and a sugar bomb to go?”
Peter smacked his arm.
Tony just grinned.
Fifteen minutes later, they were parked just off the highway, city lights reflecting off the windshield, as Peter munched on fries and Tony stole a few under protest.
“Worth it?” Tony asked, biting into a nugget with mock suspicion.
Peter leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closed, mouth curved into a satisfied smile. “So worth it.”
Tony glanced over and found Peter looking content—soft, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy, cheeks full of fries.
He looked like a kid. His kid.
And Tony couldn’t help but smile too.
“Next time you want a midnight craving run,” he said, “you better be prepared to pay in lab hours.”
Peter nodded solemnly, licking salt off his thumb. “Deal.”
Tony looked ahead, out at the lights. “And for the record… I don’t hate the nugget run.”
Peter smirked, still chewing. “You love me.”
Tony rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t tell anyone. It’d ruin my reputation.”
Peter grinned and popped another fry into his mouth. “Too late, Dad.”