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It happens at dinner.
Peter sits at a long table with the Waynes, as he does most nights. Not everybody is here, but the whole cast of Robins has deigned to show up, for once, and manage some sort of civil conversation.
He can hear Dick and Jason snarking at each other in that brotherly sort of way they seem to do when neither one of them-- and by neither of them, he, of course, means Jason-- is particularly pissed at the other.
Damian picks reluctantly at his food, glaring daggers at most of them. He's (kind of) warmed up to (almost) all of them, but he still has a bit of a grudge against Peter for whatever reason.
Peter himself is engaged in an enthusiastic conversation with Tim about some of the more interesting Stark inventions from his home universe.
"How did he--"
"It's not that hard--"
"He invented a new--?"
Overlapping and talking over each other in a shared excitement of the topic.
It's a normal night.
"Yeah, so, if you just--" Peter cuts himself off, teeth clacking loudly together as he snaps his jaw shut.
He knows this feeling. This burning, electric sort of feeling under his skin. He can feel it in his bones, in the way his spider sense immediately begins ringing off danger, danger, danger.
"Peter?"
His eyes snap over to Dick when the other man speaks. He can see the concern on everybody's faces-- even Damian, prickly as he can be, cares enough to worry about Peter now-- and he knows there's nothing he can do to reassure them.
"I-- sorry," he says finally. He feels like he can't breathe and he knows he sounds a bit breathless. "Sorry. I don't--"
It hurts. Did it hurt this bad last time? He can feel the dust eating up his legs, slow and steady and burning. It feels like he's being torn apart, atom-by-atom until there's nothing left.
Peter coughs, wet and more of a sob than anything else.
"I love you guys," he manages to say. He can't really hear what they're saying, blood pounding in his ears and body dusting away by the second, but he can hear the worried, angry tones when they speak.
"What's going on--"
"Get Bruce--"
"Peter? Peter!"
"Shit, shit, shit, shit--"
Peter's sure he says other things to them, the same way he's sure he said other things to Mr. Stark before he was killed in his own universe, but the words leaving his mouth are inaudible to him.
He wakes up on Titan.
Dr. Strange is there. Quill. Mantis.
Peter can't stop shaking but there's no time for a breakdown, because Strange starts opening up portals and ordering them through.
There's aliens out there, ones he recognizes from the first Chitauri invasion all those years ago, along with some new ones. If five years in Gotham taught him anything, it's that he can handle some insane shit.
Aliens, hopefully, included.
He finds Mr. Stark in the field, looking so much older than he remembers but, at the same time, just the same. The memories are fuzzy around the edges, but he clings onto the man with all he has before they're forced to go back to fighting.
("You look different," Mr. Stark says, eyes relieved but wary. Peter gets it.
"It's a long story." The lopsided grin on his face is one he picked up from Dick, Peter knows, because Jason could never stop teasing him about being Dick's mini-me. "I'll explain later, okay? I promise.")
Peter-- does what he can.
The aliens don't really compare to people like the Joker, but there's so many more of them that he finds himself getting worn out just the same. He'd give anything to have the bats fighting by his side now.
(And, is it wrong to miss them? How long did he spend wanting to go home, only to wish he never had once it happened?)
Tony dies, in the end.
Tony dies and Peter can't even explain himself now, explain the new height and muscle and hair and eyes.
"We won," he reassures. "It's over, Tony. You did it."
Nobody else aged, he comes to find out.
Everybody is at the funeral for Tony, and Peter can see that none of them look like he does. They look the same as he remembers them when they died.
It doesn't mean much, not really, because Peter's memory is faded after five years in Gotham, but he can remember enough for this. It's compounded by the odd looks they all give him.
("You've grown," May sobs when she sees him, dragging him into a tight hug that he doesn't hesitate to return. "What happened to your hair?"
"It's a long story," Peter repeats. "I'll tell you later.)
(He hopes, sometimes, that later never comes.)
Later, unfortunately, shows up. Sooner than he'd hoped.
They've taken the time to recover post-battle, to go home and lick their wounds or reunite with loved ones, but time marches on and they have to talk about what happens next.
"What about you, Pete?" It's Sam this time, a worried furrow to his brows and that same mother-henning sort of look Dick always gets when they're injured or sick. Why does it always come back to Dick Grayson? "You-- changed while you were in the stone. None of the rest of us did."
"I wasn't in the stone," Peter says. He wants to leave it at that, but he can't.
He can't.
So, Peter talks.
He talks and talks and talks, talks until his voice finally gives out and the weight on his chest feels like it's drowning him. He misses Gotham and Bruce and-- everybody.
And Tony's dead.
The only thing left for him here is May. Ned and MJ are still just kids here, still in high school. He knows they won't care, they'll still love him, but he's changed so much that he isn't sure he can handle seeing them and ruining whatever memories they have of his younger self.
"Well, we're glad to have you back, man." Sam claps a hand on Peter's shoulder and grins. Peter tries to smile back like it doesn't matter he just lost five years of his life and a whole family.
It was to save the universe.
It was worth it.
"Me too," he tells Sam. If he says it enough times, maybe it'll stop sounding like a lie. "It's good to be home."