Everything moves by degrees right up until it tips. This sort of work is a game of balance that, for Oswald, is reflected in much of what he does even in the minute moments and is already at play.

Oswald's eyes move from Silco to the chair as the offer to sit is made, assessing where things are at in terms of severity, but the fact he's showing up to chat at all sets this more in the amber than the red. So, after a beat of consideration and a slight shake of his head, Oswald does sit. It's a display that's aiming to accept the hospitality rather than belabour the reality that Oswald will always stand and endure the pain of his leg, but if there is an opportunity to sit he is internally grateful.

The cane settles in the space between his legs and both hands come to lay across the curved silver head as the one on top lifts his fingers slightly in a polite decline of the offer to wet his whistle.

"Another time, but I thank you."

The specifics feel like high stakes enough that Oswald wants all his wits about him for this conversation as he reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, always a gesture with risk of pulling out a concealed weapon, but as far as Oswald is concerned shooting someone once you're seated is for very specific conditions.

So, it's not a gun that he withdraws, at least not a literal one, but in some regards it is an item that may well be smoking as he lays it down on the desk and, with two fingers, slides it forward under Silco's nose.

It's a crude greeting card, the stationary probably torn from packing materials found in the trash, the base colour a sprawl of black ink or paint as a canvas for an array of brightly coloured scribbles in pinks, blues, and turquoise with Thanks Ozzy! xx plastered across the fold.

Settling both his hands back on the cane, Oswald once again waits, head slightly cocked to the side as he watches for Silco's reaction.