At first, Taako thinks, he'll call him.
At least until he remembers that his only way of reaching him has just been turned into dust by a ghost. Which is all too bad, because he's sure the big guy would get a kick out of that, too.
"Get this," he would have told him, laughing, "I almost came to see you today. Twice. Changed my mind though, I thought it'd be pretty rude to just drop in unannounced. I didn't even bake a cake for you or anything."
How would he have reacted to the admission? With bemusement? With anger? For a reaper of the damned he doesn't seem to find much humour in the wizard joking about his own mortality. And indeed Taako is, shockingly and definitively, mortal. Today was a stark enough reminder of that, even before he willingly catapulted his essence from his own body. He kept up a good face, but circling the drain hurt, and all the smiling and wisecracks in the world couldn't have shaken away that familiar feeling of blood pooling inside the cavity of his chest, or the sting of open wounds.
It felt like shit.
He got better, though. And the inconsequentiality of that is fucking hilarious to him.
He wonders if Kravitz would think it funny, too.
He wants to talk to him, badly. He should be glad that he still has his companions beside him on this depressing little walkabout, but right now, they're as good as strangers. Untrustworthy undesirables, or so the voice of panic inside has convinced him. One glance at Magnus's face—or the sudden lack thereof—reaffirms the horrors they just escaped, and he feels the deep need to be alone.
No, not alone. Somewhere quiet, and warm. With someone there beside him. And as his mind can't seem to make the final grasp at who that someone should be, then hell, who could be warmer than an icy skeleton?
At that thought, a sick emptiness in the pit of his gut, for which he cannot place a name, tears at him. Well, for all he knows, some of his intestines simply never grew back. He's not really certain how that works, having one's vitality drained away.
Damn, he thinks, lips pursed, those liches knocked him out and stole his kidneys.
The laugh that tries to sneak out is stifled, but he still coughs. A spot of residual blood drips from his lip down to the tatters in his cloak.
He can laugh about this later. He will laugh about it, with Kravitz, no matter how uncomfortable it makes the other, because sometimes that's the only way to put the pain behind you. As soon as they inevitably crush this ill-thought mission, he'll find a way to contact him. If all else fails, he can probably transmute a stone, and craft a perfect, crystal mirror of his own.
Or maybe he could just die, that would get the job done either way.
He's not sure what expression just flickered on his face, but he pulls the brim of his hat down further all the same.
He'll talk to him soon, that he promises himself, and then he can move past this day, as he always does. So long as he makes it that far. Though Kravitz will certainly be there, even if he doesn't. After all, what's more permanent than death?
His shoulders finally relax. It's nice to have someone he never has to worry about, other than his own bad self. Someone he can count on.
There's no greater treasure than that.