Of course the hand on Oswald's shoulder is there to reassure him. It is also there so he could have the knife at his throat as quickly as possible, should Oswald attack him. Which at this point seems to be the foregone conclusion to draw, given his overall behaviour. Edward is already thinking past that, who was it that poisoned Oswald against him? What goal do they have in mind and what lies did they use? He isn't planning on killing Oswald, so he'll just have to convince him right after subduing him.
For now he smiles a tight smile, ready for whatever Oswald might attack him with. Hopefully. "Is there? Here I know so much already." He pauses for a moment, lips pressing together before he smiles again. "What is it?"
He meets Ed's gaze, eyes big and blue and helpless as he feels his chest begin to cave in on itself. His breath comes shorter, faster, mouth falling open, and it takes a few bobs of his throat - a few false starts - before he can get something out.
"In these few short weeks we have spent together, working harmoniously towards a common purpose, our friendship has deepened in a way I could have never foreseen. In a way I confess I have never known, before you. You were there when in my time of need, and you are, still, sharing in my triumphs and in my sorrows. You... you are the only one who cares about me..."
The thought puts a furrow between his brows like it doesn't make sense, like none of it does.
"...and, and I'm certain, moving forward, that it is through our respect and our unstinting loyalty to each other that we will continue to accomplish great things."
He pauses to swallow with a little click of muscles in his throat, suddenly straddling the narrow edge between fainting and throwing up. He grips the table's edge, managing to go a little pale.
"I suppose what I'm trying to tell you is that, I..."
A beat. Another fragile quirk of a smile, an apology.
"...I love you." He says, into the darkness.
It's no declaration owned with all the fierce pride and flourish people have come to expect from Oswald Cobblepot, a man so sure about everything else he had ever wanted. He barely hears himself over the roar of blood in his ears, searching Ed's face like a man desperate to cure a fever-sickness running down to the bones, the terrible ache of pure want, a wanting like he's never wanted anything in his life.
It is unmistakably obvious by now that Oswald isn't just a little nervous. He looks like he is about to pass out and while it is flattering to think that the thought of having to attack him has Oswald this distraught, Edward once more finds that things don't quite add up.
Oswald is a ruthless man, this whole demeanour doesn't fit the scenario that he has come up with, so it has to be something else. Anything else. He tries to brace himself for whatever is coming and when the final words leave Oswald's mouth, he immediately looked around, dropping his hand to let the knife slide into it, checking the room for any signs of an assailant and then settling back on Oswald when he doesn't register any movement.
It's only now that the words properly register, that he sees the desperate, no, hungry look on Oswald's face and it's entirely different from anything he has been expecting.
"What?" A dumb question for clarification's sake, because that certainly doesn't add up either. He raises his hand to put the knife back on the table, since whatever is going down here, it evidently isn't what he thought. "Why?"
Even unprepared for all this, having no frame of reference to guide him along, this isn't the way it was supposed to go, supposed to be. The idea of needing to justify himself and the strong, terrifying force pulling him open from the inside never figured into his rehearsal and all he can do is stare back, stricken, feeling a sharp swooping in his belly. Then he looks away from Ed to the spread of food over the table, to the food going to waste.
The thundering of his heart fills the room.
"Forgive me, I..." Oswald tries, a pained knit to his brow. He shakes his head as if to clear it, even laughs, a mirthless little hitch of air. But it's too late to pass it all off as nothing. "Clearly I've made a mistake. I don't know what has gotten into me."
It doesn't cross his mind that Ed's confusion could be rooted in a place of pain and unworthiness, the same demons he wrestled with and who beat him down, more often than not. But it doesn't matter, none of it matters, as he slowly pushes to his feet, the ache in his leg a distant thing, faraway. He feels for his cane and finds it.
For obvious reasons, it's not as if Edward is either prepared for something like this nor has any frame of reference himself. When he pursued Ms Kringle, it has been over months and with careful planning and awkward fumbling at times, until he finally found the right way to present himself to her. This is different. Very different. He can't even try to figure out how he feels about it - awareness of his own emotions not being a strong point in the first place - so instead all he does is reach out to grasp Oswald's wrist, to keep him from leaving.
"Stay." He knows enough to not want him to walk out like this. It's not often that Edward needs time to process something, the way his mind works everyone else seems almost painfully slow by comparison, but these are special circumstances. "I'm the one who should apologise. This wasn't what I was expecting."
He supposes telling Oswald that he was more braced for an assassination attempt wouldn't do anything to improve the mood at this junction. "What is it you want from me?"
A muscle flexes in his cheek, jaw working in silence.
"Nothing," He answers, finally, staring dully ahead. His vision blurs and he blinks and blinks and sucks in a sharp breath, straightening up even as he feels what's left of his strength - the strength to bury his confession under hundreds of excuses and to try to sweep the whole mess under the rug - bleeding out of him. The walls are pressing in around them; he needs air, needs out. "Nothing at all."
His arm tenses, like he might snap his hand out of Ed's grip at any moment.
"I don't forget things," Edward pointed out, since that was sure to be incredibly relevant right now, "Eidetic memory. Everything's locked in." He touched the side of his head for a moment to underline what he meant, distinctly aware that this was not what he should be going on about right now.
What he noticed was Oswald trying to escape his grip and it made him tug on his arm, mostly just because he wasn't any more mature than Oswald when it came right down to it. "Was your entire plan here really just to drop the bomb, give me half a second and then duck for cover?"
Because that was an intensely stupid plan, in his professional opinion, and it didn't currently occur to him that criticising the way someone chose to confess their love to him wasn't exactly the best way to go about things.
now go to your room and think about what you did, young man
It stings more than it has any right to sting after this long, after learning how to press down all the hurt and disappointment crowding inside him to make room for more, and he hates it. Hates that Ed won't let him go quietly, ashamed; hates that Ed's carelessly cut him and refuses to be sorry for it, letting him bleed like everyone else.
"My plan," he spits the word at him, "was to tell you and to leave it at that, because when I made the choice to confide in something of a deeply personal nature, I assumed the great Ed Nygma wasn't so brainlessly obtuse --" --stabbing a finger at his own temple - -"as to demand an explanation!"
It hangs in the air like a threat, his eyes bright and fierce and wet.
"But obviously I misjudged you. So. Here we are. And here's what's going to happen."
He leans in, then, his voice low, seething cold.
"You are going to let go of me, and then you're going to walk away, because this conversation is over. Whatever you're just dying to tell me, I don't want to hear it. You've done enough."
Being called brainlessly obtuse has him grinding his teeth together, as does the entire rest of this conversation that somehow turned into a thinly veiled threat. Maybe he would have been better off with the assassination attempt. Edward does let go of Oswald, suddenly much less inclined to say anything that dives into his own emotional state. Largely since his own emotional state at the moment consists of hurt feelings buried under anger.
"Thanks for a lovely dinner." There isn't even a need for his voice to sound sarcastic, the situation does that for him. He rises to his feet and walks past Oswald without looking back, heading for his room. Of course he slams the door, it isn't as if he has any scruples about behaving like a petulant child when the situation calls for it.
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no subject
For now he smiles a tight smile, ready for whatever Oswald might attack him with. Hopefully. "Is there? Here I know so much already." He pauses for a moment, lips pressing together before he smiles again. "What is it?"
no subject
"In these few short weeks we have spent together, working harmoniously towards a common purpose, our friendship has deepened in a way I could have never foreseen. In a way I confess I have never known, before you. You were there when in my time of need, and you are, still, sharing in my triumphs and in my sorrows. You... you are the only one who cares about me..."
The thought puts a furrow between his brows like it doesn't make sense, like none of it does.
"...and, and I'm certain, moving forward, that it is through our respect and our unstinting loyalty to each other that we will continue to accomplish great things."
He pauses to swallow with a little click of muscles in his throat, suddenly straddling the narrow edge between fainting and throwing up. He grips the table's edge, managing to go a little pale.
"I suppose what I'm trying to tell you is that, I..."
A beat. Another fragile quirk of a smile, an apology.
"...I love you." He says, into the darkness.
It's no declaration owned with all the fierce pride and flourish people have come to expect from Oswald Cobblepot, a man so sure about everything else he had ever wanted. He barely hears himself over the roar of blood in his ears, searching Ed's face like a man desperate to cure a fever-sickness running down to the bones, the terrible ache of pure want, a wanting like he's never wanted anything in his life.
no subject
Oswald is a ruthless man, this whole demeanour doesn't fit the scenario that he has come up with, so it has to be something else. Anything else. He tries to brace himself for whatever is coming and when the final words leave Oswald's mouth, he immediately looked around, dropping his hand to let the knife slide into it, checking the room for any signs of an assailant and then settling back on Oswald when he doesn't register any movement.
It's only now that the words properly register, that he sees the desperate, no, hungry look on Oswald's face and it's entirely different from anything he has been expecting.
"What?" A dumb question for clarification's sake, because that certainly doesn't add up either. He raises his hand to put the knife back on the table, since whatever is going down here, it evidently isn't what he thought. "Why?"
no subject
"What?" It's barely louder than a whisper.
Even unprepared for all this, having no frame of reference to guide him along, this isn't the way it was supposed to go, supposed to be. The idea of needing to justify himself and the strong, terrifying force pulling him open from the inside never figured into his rehearsal and all he can do is stare back, stricken, feeling a sharp swooping in his belly. Then he looks away from Ed to the spread of food over the table, to the food going to waste.
The thundering of his heart fills the room.
"Forgive me, I..." Oswald tries, a pained knit to his brow. He shakes his head as if to clear it, even laughs, a mirthless little hitch of air. But it's too late to pass it all off as nothing. "Clearly I've made a mistake. I don't know what has gotten into me."
It doesn't cross his mind that Ed's confusion could be rooted in a place of pain and unworthiness, the same demons he wrestled with and who beat him down, more often than not. But it doesn't matter, none of it matters, as he slowly pushes to his feet, the ache in his leg a distant thing, faraway. He feels for his cane and finds it.
"Excuse me."
no subject
"Stay." He knows enough to not want him to walk out like this. It's not often that Edward needs time to process something, the way his mind works everyone else seems almost painfully slow by comparison, but these are special circumstances. "I'm the one who should apologise. This wasn't what I was expecting."
He supposes telling Oswald that he was more braced for an assassination attempt wouldn't do anything to improve the mood at this junction. "What is it you want from me?"
Perhaps that was a good place to start.
no subject
"Nothing," He answers, finally, staring dully ahead. His vision blurs and he blinks and blinks and sucks in a sharp breath, straightening up even as he feels what's left of his strength - the strength to bury his confession under hundreds of excuses and to try to sweep the whole mess under the rug - bleeding out of him. The walls are pressing in around them; he needs air, needs out. "Nothing at all."
His arm tenses, like he might snap his hand out of Ed's grip at any moment.
"Forget it - okay?"
no subject
What he noticed was Oswald trying to escape his grip and it made him tug on his arm, mostly just because he wasn't any more mature than Oswald when it came right down to it. "Was your entire plan here really just to drop the bomb, give me half a second and then duck for cover?"
Because that was an intensely stupid plan, in his professional opinion, and it didn't currently occur to him that criticising the way someone chose to confess their love to him wasn't exactly the best way to go about things.
now go to your room and think about what you did, young man
It stings more than it has any right to sting after this long, after learning how to press down all the hurt and disappointment crowding inside him to make room for more, and he hates it. Hates that Ed won't let him go quietly, ashamed; hates that Ed's carelessly cut him and refuses to be sorry for it, letting him bleed like everyone else.
"My plan," he spits the word at him, "was to tell you and to leave it at that, because when I made the choice to confide in something of a deeply personal nature, I assumed the great Ed Nygma wasn't so brainlessly obtuse --" --stabbing a finger at his own temple - -"as to demand an explanation!"
It hangs in the air like a threat, his eyes bright and fierce and wet.
"But obviously I misjudged you. So. Here we are. And here's what's going to happen."
He leans in, then, his voice low, seething cold.
"You are going to let go of me, and then you're going to walk away, because this conversation is over. Whatever you're just dying to tell me, I don't want to hear it. You've done enough."
no subject
Being called brainlessly obtuse has him grinding his teeth together, as does the entire rest of this conversation that somehow turned into a thinly veiled threat. Maybe he would have been better off with the assassination attempt. Edward does let go of Oswald, suddenly much less inclined to say anything that dives into his own emotional state. Largely since his own emotional state at the moment consists of hurt feelings buried under anger.
"Thanks for a lovely dinner." There isn't even a need for his voice to sound sarcastic, the situation does that for him. He rises to his feet and walks past Oswald without looking back, heading for his room. Of course he slams the door, it isn't as if he has any scruples about behaving like a petulant child when the situation calls for it.