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Peter would go back and give Dr. Strange a piece of his mind if he could. He was in a different dimension or universe though, so instead of doing the impossible he moved unhappily on to the logical. Not only was he in a different dimension—in a city he’d never heard of before—Peter had been de-aged. He wasn't sure exactly how old he was, but he was tiny and after barely staying alive the past two-point-five weeks while living as an itty-bitty child on the streets, Peter was willing to admit he needed help.
Peter stopped ignoring the clue Dr. Strange had given him. He researched until he’d found the right address. He loitered outside until someone opened the front door and he could sneak in. He climbed and climbed in search of the right apartment.
Peter hesitated, counted to ten, and knocked. The wait passed like a millennium. Then the door creaked open and Peter looked up into the face of his father, who he hadn’t seen for ten years, and he burst into terrible, heaving sobs.
“Oh, fuck.” Richard Grayson (his brand new dimensional dad). “What’s wrong kid?”
It took forever to manage to stop crying. When he spoke his high baby voice wavered. “My name is Peter. I am your son.”
“Oh fuck.” Richard opened the door and yanked him inside. “How old are you? Who is your mom? Where—how—?”
“I don't know.” Peter accidentally wailed. “I'm sorry. I can go. I shouldn’t have—.”
Dad hugged him. In that moment it didn't matter that dad had been dead since he was seven. It didn’t matter that he’d never met this man before. The hug was the same. Exactly the same. This was dad and dad was safe and Peter was finally, absolutely, completely home.