Work Text:
It wasn't real.
It wasn't his time yet.
Cope said it. It had to be true.
He moved without thinking, starting chest compressions.
"...Rex-"
"Shut up."
He ignored any protest, feeling the blood seep through his gloves as he continued.
"You said it wasn't his time. You said it, Cope. Don't you dare fucking lie to me."
He didn't care that he said it out loud.
He couldn't see anything but his bloody hands in front of him anyways.
Blurry. Clouded.
"Go get him."
"..."
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven-
"I don't care that you can't do it, DO IT ANYWAYS. WHAT ELSE ARE YOU FUCKING GOOD FOR?"
"..."
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two-
"Don't lie to me. Don't fucking lie to me. You said you'd have my back, no matter what. Don't lie to me, please-"
He felt someone trying to pull him away.
He didn't care who. They were shoved off.
Numbers.
More numbers.
Just more numbers.
He had to come back.
That was his curse, right?
The curse of Wings?
It had to work.
Immortality.
It had to.
He leaned down.
Air.
Lungs.
Blood.
He could taste blood.
Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three-
"...Kid."
He didn't listen.
"...He's leaving."
"SHUT UP! DON'T FUCKING LIE TO ME, GODDAMNIT-"
He could barely hear his own voice anymore. Strained, coming out barely coherent through sobs.
His hand slipped. Too much blood on the gloves. He ripped them off, and continued.
Why were his hands red already?
Fourty. Fourty-one. Fourty-two. Fourty-three. Fourty-four-
"...There's no point, kid. You can't bring back the dead."
"Shut up. Just-" He felt himself coughing, gasping as he could barely feel any air filling his own lungs.
Not good. Could cause an infection later through the open wounds.
"I brought you back. I can do it again, please. Please, please, please, please, please-"
His vision got darker. He couldn't breathe.
Fifty. Fifty-one. Fifty-two. Fifty-three. Fifty-four. Fifty-five-
Why were his hands so red?
...
Hands off Hope. He just had to hold on, just a bit further-
Sixty. Sixty-one. Sixty-two. Sixty-three-
His hands slipped again.
Just hold on.
Hold onto hope, and never let go.
Never.
Never, never, never, never, never-
Sixty-four. Sixty-five. Sixty-six.
Something else slipped from underneath.
"...huh."
He wasn't breathing.
He had forgotten to.
He felt someone catch him.
Who?
Who was it?
"Seventy. Seventy-one. Seventy-two. Seventy-three."
Someone, just continue. It had to work. It had to.
"Wait. That's impossible, I-!"
The voice was distant.
He saw nothing above. He felt nothing below.
All he knew was that his hand was red.
"I have a pulse-!"
And then he knew nothing.