Instinctively, Oswald's eyes flicker down, his right hand coming up to press his palm against the outside of the pocket and, sure enough, he can feel the shape of a switchblade.
For most people--most normal people--this would be rather unsettling. For Oswald, it catches something awkwardly inside him, like the string of instrument that hums and vibrates long after contact has left. He continues to stare in the general direction of the blade as they walk, listening to Ed speak in a way he hasn't heard for a long time. It's suddenly very hard to swallow.
This shouldn't be cause for such emotional whiplash, but Ed didn't have to tell Oswald that he had access to a blade right there and instead effectively offered Oswald a means to end him at any second. Part of him wants to just get this over with, drive the blade into the side of Ed's neck, or up through his ribs, or any other number of squishy fatal places. Another part of him wants to indulge in this moment, just for a little longer.
He moves his hand away from the pocket, returning his grip to the front of Ed's coat instead. He's quiet for a few moments, his lips pursed as he tries to refind the steely crime lord he is and not the blubbering, over-emotional idiot he had been half a year ago.
"Car parts," he says finally, before turning his head slightly to look up and sidelong at Ed, "Goodness. Have you found yourself in need of bullets since arriving here?"
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For most people--most normal people--this would be rather unsettling. For Oswald, it catches something awkwardly inside him, like the string of instrument that hums and vibrates long after contact has left. He continues to stare in the general direction of the blade as they walk, listening to Ed speak in a way he hasn't heard for a long time. It's suddenly very hard to swallow.
This shouldn't be cause for such emotional whiplash, but Ed didn't have to tell Oswald that he had access to a blade right there and instead effectively offered Oswald a means to end him at any second. Part of him wants to just get this over with, drive the blade into the side of Ed's neck, or up through his ribs, or any other number of squishy fatal places. Another part of him wants to indulge in this moment, just for a little longer.
He moves his hand away from the pocket, returning his grip to the front of Ed's coat instead. He's quiet for a few moments, his lips pursed as he tries to refind the steely crime lord he is and not the blubbering, over-emotional idiot he had been half a year ago.
"Car parts," he says finally, before turning his head slightly to look up and sidelong at Ed, "Goodness. Have you found yourself in need of bullets since arriving here?"