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Taako stands for the Director’s debrief for as long as he can, which isn’t long.
He and Merle take turns mechanically answering rapid-fire questions about Wonderland and the Animus Bell, and Taako is thinking that he’s either going to fall asleep or set something on fire when they are interrupted by a knock at the Director’s office door.
“Yes,” the Director snaps. She is in rare form, all sparks and steel, which hasn’t made this any easier.
The door opens to reveal Johann, somehow looking more dejected than usual. When he sees Taako and Merle standing in front of the Director’s desk, he immediately begins to pull the door shut again.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice brittle. His eyes are puffy and red. “I can come back later.”
“What is it, Johann?” the Director asks, sharply enough to make Johann wince.
He closes his eyes and takes a breath.
“I just came to pick up the. The records,” Johann says. “You know, for the. For the, um.”
Something like nausea washes through Taako as he remembers watching Johann feed a stack of paper to the Voidfish at Boyland’s funeral; watching a whole world forget about someone in a dance of flickering lights.
“L-listen,” Taako blurts, turning to face the Director again. “I -- can we do this later? Like, no offense, but we just got back from this, like, fucked up game show torture gauntlet, and I dunno about you, Merle, but I’m barely fucking sentient.”
“Yeah, I’m beat,” Merle agrees, giving the Director half an apologetic smile. “We’d probably be of more use after some shut-eye. Whaddya say?”
The Director’s lips press into a firm line, and for a moment she looks as if she is about to refuse. After seeming to take stock of the situation, however, her eyes soften, and she exhales.
“I -- of course,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I apologize, this was… insensitive of me. Please, take all the time you need.”
Taako turns before the words are all the way out of her mouth and pushes past Johann without looking at him.
Taako doesn’t bother to remove his hat or his cloak once he makes it to his room. He doesn’t even take off his boots; he shuts the door behind him and drops himself into his bed, Umbra Staff and all.
It takes a few minutes for his muscles to relax, despite his bone-deep exhaustion. It takes a few minutes for his brain to stop whirring next move, next move, next move. The first couple times he closes his eyes they reopen almost immediately, unwilling to relinquish the security of sight. His heart rate is just beginning to slow when a familiar voice speaks from the corner of the room.
“Taako.”
Fight-or-flight jolts through Taako anew, an electric current that turns his veins to circuitry.
Kravitz sighs.
“I can come back if this is a bad time,” he says. “Well, I mean. Obviously it’s a bad time. I just. I wanted to apologize.”
Taako doesn’t answer. Doesn’t trust himself to answer.
“I wouldn’t have taken him if I’d had any other choice,” Kravitz continues. “Not that -- I mean, I’m not trying to make excuses or anything. I just…”
Taako squeezes his eyes shut. He wonders if Kravitz would follow him if he were to blink into the ethereal plane.
“I’m sorry,” Kravitz says.
Silence stretches between them, then, and something else, too; something that shimmers like a sheet of glass, thin and fragile.
“He’s okay, you know,” Kravitz says after a moment, breaking the silence. “He’s happy,” he adds, shattering the glass.
Taako launches himself out of his bed and into Kravitz’s face.
“I don’t give a gold-encrusted fuck!” he shouts. “I don’t give a fuck of any shape or size! Whoop-de-doo, Magnus is happy? The dead guy is happy? Well, guess who fucking isn’t?”
Kravitz reaches out to touch Taako’s shoulder and Taako recoils, fingers itching toward the Umbra Staff.
“Fuck off,” he snarls.
Kravitz’s jaw tightens, but that is all the reaction he allows Taako to see. He straightens his jacket. His posture becomes professional. His eyes go blank.
“I’ll leave you, then,” he says.
“N-no,” Taako stammers, remorse rising in his throat like bile. “Krav, listen --”
But Kravitz is already gone.
Taako stands where he is until his breathing is even; until his hands are steady. He is unable to quiet himself to the degree that he had before, but he stands where he is until his weariness fuzzes over everything else roiling inside him. Only then does he slump back into his bed, curl in on himself, and wait for sleep.