[It's not long before Ed has him grinning a little despite himself, briefly, even as he realizes how well Ed has masked his own trauma to the point where Oswald has all but forgotten just how fresh he is out of Arkham, too deep in his own misery to see around it.
In the silence between Ed's response and his own, though, he's struck by a sudden, sick dread and the overwhelming urge to tell him that he's afraid something will happen in his absence. That he won't just be grabbed and shaken by the collar and snickered at, and that the inmates who know him too well to let him talk his way out of their bruising grips would decide that favours or ramen weren't enough. They'd smell hope on him and corner him, hold him down, break him inside and out. He knows he can't trust the guards to be watching all the time, to keep others in line. He also knows there's little Ed can do here that he hasn't already, and that now isn't the time or the place to spill his guts to him. But it might not ever be.
He swallows, muscles clicking in his throat.
These are just fears, he reminds himself. Not unfounded, but not guaranteed to come to pass, either.]
Don't worry about me, old friend. [He says, after taking in a steadying breath. The smile he wills is a small, frail thing, a pale imitation of the usual smirking confidence he put forward.]
I've survived this long, haven't I?
[He bobs a shoulder with a feigned ease, reaching for the brace. He doesn't put it on and instead slowly moves to stand, chair legs scraping the floor. Ed is only a few feet away and he thinks about limping over and clasping a hand around his shoulder, squeezing, as if Ed is the one who needs reassuring. But Oswald stays where he is, clutching the brace instead in his fingers. It seems it never gets any easier, saying goodbye to someone he cares about. Even if this goodbye isn't forever.]
...What's another few days with the brightest man I know at my back?
[He throws in a wink. Then gives a little nod and turns to leave, pretending it doesn't feel like the hardest thing he's had to do in longer than he can remember.]
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In the silence between Ed's response and his own, though, he's struck by a sudden, sick dread and the overwhelming urge to tell him that he's afraid something will happen in his absence. That he won't just be grabbed and shaken by the collar and snickered at, and that the inmates who know him too well to let him talk his way out of their bruising grips would decide that favours or ramen weren't enough. They'd smell hope on him and corner him, hold him down, break him inside and out. He knows he can't trust the guards to be watching all the time, to keep others in line. He also knows there's little Ed can do here that he hasn't already, and that now isn't the time or the place to spill his guts to him. But it might not ever be.
He swallows, muscles clicking in his throat.
These are just fears, he reminds himself. Not unfounded, but not guaranteed to come to pass, either.]
Don't worry about me, old friend. [He says, after taking in a steadying breath. The smile he wills is a small, frail thing, a pale imitation of the usual smirking confidence he put forward.]
I've survived this long, haven't I?
[He bobs a shoulder with a feigned ease, reaching for the brace. He doesn't put it on and instead slowly moves to stand, chair legs scraping the floor. Ed is only a few feet away and he thinks about limping over and clasping a hand around his shoulder, squeezing, as if Ed is the one who needs reassuring. But Oswald stays where he is, clutching the brace instead in his fingers. It seems it never gets any easier, saying goodbye to someone he cares about. Even if this goodbye isn't forever.]
...What's another few days with the brightest man I know at my back?
[He throws in a wink. Then gives a little nod and turns to leave, pretending it doesn't feel like the hardest thing he's had to do in longer than he can remember.]