[ He doesn't answer her at first, because he simply isn't sure. It's hard to make sense of this through the low buzzing panic in his mind, which is not a familiar — nor welcome — sensation for him. Is it possible that the fate of everything — literally everything, all worlds and all universes and everything within them — might come down to a shitty fragile fairy wing?

Look, it's fine. Surely it's fine. He isn't even worried about her warning him that what she's about to do might hurt, is just staring down intently at the web in his hands. The wing within it. The—

Gray stops, and Amos gives a bark of surprise. His chest is visibly heaving. There is officially no more wing. He does not like this.

Eventually, he looks back up at her. Why does it feel like only his head is capable of moving, the rest of him stock still... ]

... I don't think this counts. I don't think this... I mean, there's gotta be a winner, right? So I don't think this. Counts.

[ But he doesn't sound certain; more like a man trying to convince himself. This does not count, this is not real, there is a way around this.

He stares into Gray's eyes, like he's telepathically imparting the message onto her, where she will surely agree. There is a way around this, right? ]