"So like... This entire time..?" the question kind of dies on his lips as he cocks his head to the side, eyes intent on the smaller man before him.
Oswald smirks with a small hum as he brushes past the imposing figure of the questioning Victor Zsasz, who can't help but appreciate how the look accentuates the blood splatter on both the Penguin's face and clothes. He also can't help but to notice how his limp is more pronounced, no doubt due to the day's exploits.
Oswald waits to answer until he's deposited his drink on his desk and himself into the throne-like chair behind it. These kinds of things are all about timing, after all. He still waits a beat afterwards just for dramatic effect.
"...you could say that," he shrugs, a small grin breaking out on his face now which he tries to hide behind taking a sip of his drink.
Victor shakes his head, and then looks up at the ceiling. He had always had a soft spot for the bird-like man before him, and this is a clear and present reminder as to why. It was shit like this most recent stunt that kept him by the King of Gotham's side. Of course the pay was good too. It always was.
He sits down on the window's ledge just to the left of Oswald and lets his words feed the flames of his bosses' want to gloat. He deserves it. The pain hasn't hit him yet. Victor knows it will soon, when he leaves for the night. He's seen glimpses of it, he wonders how bad it gets. But now, in the present, he thinks about how you never know what's in store when you're with this little bird, and Victor wouldn't want it any other way.
"Please," she had begged. They always begged. After all, no one wanted to die at the hands of anyone but themselves. But she held it together well, as far as the circumstances allowed her to.
"Please," Oswald had begged. His voice chocked, tears fell, he hit the ground hard on his knees. He begged.
And when it was all said and done, when blood had been shed and Edward cackled with the high of a Victory with a capital V, Oswald let his eyes slowly trail up from the body of his friend and let the anger and sadness finally leave his eyes. He didn't really hear the Riddler's speech about how he had finally won. This was it. How does it feel? To loose someone you loved! How does it feel Oswald?
He waits for Ed to bring his attention back to Oswald's suffering, or lack there of. He meets his eyes hard before he pushes himself up and pushes down the rush of hot liquid fire that shoots from his ankle all the way up to his gut. He steels himself and waits to see the realization hit Ed's eyes.
"Oswald, what... What are you doing? Why aren't you..."
He waits. Because, again, it's all about timing isn't it?
Oswald smiles. Soft. Warm.
"Oh, why, yes. Old friend," he drawls. "I appreciate the favor, I really do. You see, she's been kind of a thorn in my side for a while now and I really, really, must thank you for taking care of her."
"No..." he's lost the power in his voice, in his stance, in himself. Oswald can see the way his mind is racing to pick up the pieces, to recreate any semblence of togetherness.
Oswald limps closer and isn't surprised when the taller man doesn't lurch back. That's what happens when you're so rapidly knocked off your pedestal, you just kind of lie prone for a while waiting to catch your breath. He would know, he'd been there.
"You see, Ed," he says with his voice going cold. His fingers faintly brush the length of the Riddler's black tie before in a flash he's grabbed it and jerked the taller man down to his level. He hardens his face, he snarls. If what Nygma needs is a heartless villain of a man he's more than happy to comply.
"I know you so well. You'll never win. No matter how smart or stupid you are, you will never beat me," and then he's limping away. The sound of sirens faint in the distance. By the time he hears Ed scream he's already out of the man's sight and he feels just a little too empty. There's a dull ache in his chest.
Sofia Falcone is pronounced dead at 9:45 pm on a Tuesday.
Oswald is not a suspect.