Everything could be a weapon. Oswald has known that for as long as he's moved in proximity to the mafia. And of course, that includes food. With his distrust as high as it is, Oswald is reticent to dig in, instead watching what Ed does with his hands, what he brings to his lips and what he does not.
Even with the realisation that he is, in fact, famished, he holds back. Ed is a poor liar, but Riddler? Well. That's another story entirely.
"Baby steps!" he leans forward briefly as he speaks, all smiling and low, throaty chuckles before settling back once more, his fingers on one hand rolling and flexing in slow waves, the pads of each one brushing the one on his thumb with each wave. He's quiet and thoughtful, assessing, weighing the situation and what he does and doesn't know.
It's an awkward kind of silence, a little tense and the type that could easily contain a lunge across the table and a knife coming down at any moment. It doesn't happen though, not right now at least. And after a moment his lips part. He holds it for a moment, hesitating briefly before breaking the silence.
"I confess, I remains... unwilling to truly believe this is real. There is more evidence for me to believe this is some kind of experiment of Indian Hill, or some method of elaborate mental torture from Arkham."
He forces his fingers still.
"What I cannot yet decide is whether this is all in my head, or if it is a false reality that is being forced upon each of us as separate subjects. It is, as I'm sure you can appreciate, quite the conundrum, being unable to trust one's own mind."
no subject
Even with the realisation that he is, in fact, famished, he holds back. Ed is a poor liar, but Riddler? Well. That's another story entirely.
"Baby steps!" he leans forward briefly as he speaks, all smiling and low, throaty chuckles before settling back once more, his fingers on one hand rolling and flexing in slow waves, the pads of each one brushing the one on his thumb with each wave. He's quiet and thoughtful, assessing, weighing the situation and what he does and doesn't know.
It's an awkward kind of silence, a little tense and the type that could easily contain a lunge across the table and a knife coming down at any moment. It doesn't happen though, not right now at least. And after a moment his lips part. He holds it for a moment, hesitating briefly before breaking the silence.
"I confess, I remains... unwilling to truly believe this is real. There is more evidence for me to believe this is some kind of experiment of Indian Hill, or some method of elaborate mental torture from Arkham."
He forces his fingers still.
"What I cannot yet decide is whether this is all in my head, or if it is a false reality that is being forced upon each of us as separate subjects. It is, as I'm sure you can appreciate, quite the conundrum, being unable to trust one's own mind."