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Of all the things Edward was expecting to see upon entering the otherwise empty Iceberg Lounge, Oswald Cobblepot cocooned in multicolored streamers was not one of them. Ed had barely opened his mouth before he was cut off by Oswald.
“Not a word, Nygma, not a bloody word.” Oswald scowled when Ed mimed locking his mouth shut and pocketing the key. “Oh, hilarious. A performance worthy of Shakespeare.”
Edward raised his eyebrows in mock-offense, his hand over his heart, and made as though to leave the Lounge. A moment later, he had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing when Oswald squawked,
“Don’t you dare, Nygma! Not after I helped you escape from that police car last week!”
At that Edward turned back to face Oswald, and, with a roll of his eyes, unlocked his mouth so as to speak. “No need to bring favors into this, my friend. I would never leave you in such a puerile predicament.” He paused. “Though I must ask: how did you end up in such a position, Oswald?”
A sigh. “Given that the Lounge is a bit short-staffed at the moment, I took it upon myself to do some decorating for tonight’s event. Before I knew it, this had happened.”
“I see,” said Edward. “And why have you not simply torn the streamers?”
“...They are vintage.”
“Ah.”
Fifteen minutes later, Ed had unwound the final streamer from around Oswald. He helped the other man to his feet, careful of the pile of party decorations, and patted him on the back. “Next time, do consider calling me if you need assistance adorning the Lounge.”
“I will,” Oswald grumbled. “Thank you, Edward. And for the love of all that is holy, do not speak of this day ever again.”
Edward winked and locked his lips.