After everything that's happened, all that Oswald thinks he knows about his and Ed's broken tatters of a friendship and the glacial sculpture that Oswald had that broken, sad fantasy memorialised in, he has absolutely no frame of reference for how to deal with this.
Something spider creeps up the back of his neck, hot prickles of fear and something else he wants to choke the life out of almost as much as he wants for Ed himself before it turns cold and icy, a different brand of terror that he doesn't understand the shape or size of that makes his throat tighten and his mouth go dry. None of this is what he knows, but unknowingness has never stopped him before.
The temptation is there to square up to Ed further, hiss at him that he'll take his chances alone, because that is what he should do rather than willingly act the lamb taking the wolf by the outstretched paw, but the vivid image Ed paints is notably more terrifying than anything he could imagine from any one of his enemies. Fear, pain, betrayal, death, that is all familiar territory. Public degradation of a sexual nature? That is a level even Gotham doesn't stoop to.
His cool glare has slipped, replaced instead with that kind of fearful expression that he finds hard to mask, lips slightly parted and caught between various possible retorts, eyes slightly wide. Not the most befitting look for a crime lord who has seen a city tremble before him and all because Edward Nygma's darker self has spun the nightmare image of the dream.
Oswald swallows, then pulls himself together.
"Fine," he hisses, snatching a hand forward and letting his fingers fist in the green shimmer of the coat.
"Lead the way to this Barbie Dream House of yours."
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Something spider creeps up the back of his neck, hot prickles of fear and something else he wants to choke the life out of almost as much as he wants for Ed himself before it turns cold and icy, a different brand of terror that he doesn't understand the shape or size of that makes his throat tighten and his mouth go dry. None of this is what he knows, but unknowingness has never stopped him before.
The temptation is there to square up to Ed further, hiss at him that he'll take his chances alone, because that is what he should do rather than willingly act the lamb taking the wolf by the outstretched paw, but the vivid image Ed paints is notably more terrifying than anything he could imagine from any one of his enemies. Fear, pain, betrayal, death, that is all familiar territory. Public degradation of a sexual nature? That is a level even Gotham doesn't stoop to.
His cool glare has slipped, replaced instead with that kind of fearful expression that he finds hard to mask, lips slightly parted and caught between various possible retorts, eyes slightly wide. Not the most befitting look for a crime lord who has seen a city tremble before him and all because Edward Nygma's darker self has spun the nightmare image of the dream.
Oswald swallows, then pulls himself together.
"Fine," he hisses, snatching a hand forward and letting his fingers fist in the green shimmer of the coat.
"Lead the way to this Barbie Dream House of yours."