Coyote is happy to be compared to still warm leftovers, much less food so fancy it has an accent over it.
He doesn't bruise easy, but he knows the squeeze is just that—a warning—and he snickers to himself and lowers his voice accordingly, trying to smile around his tongue as he bites it to keep from laughing much louder. "I could stand on one of these exhibitions and announce it to all these nice people. It wouldn't make tonight any less of a smashing success. That's my promise to you." Her reasoning for why he shouldn't swoop off with her is faulty; he leans in to tell her so, calloused fingers brushing the hair away from her neck as his nose tickles her ear. "That makes you sound like a rare commodity, dream-eater. Not something I'm inclined to leave untouched."
It's back to business a second later, straightening up and leaving the heavy sweetness of his words to drip in place, molasses left out of the jar. He offers his arm for her to take, a true gentleman, and peers closely at the sword she nods at. Then, like a terminally bad history student, he says airily, "Oh, I like them all. The wavy one's nice. Which one is oldest?" His fingertip traces her collarbone mid-sentence, gone so suddenly it mightn't have been there at all. "Have you noticed how things go up in value the older they get? Why do you think that is?" The old god grins.
It's a grin that only gets wider as he goes to eyeball his opposition without turning his head, since she's asked for subtlety. He needs not really look to look, but what the eyes in the back of his head do settle upon makes him burst out in one of the laughs he's been so diligently restraining, loud and taken utterly by surprise. One hand smoothes his tie as he shakes his head in wonder, staring at a display when he'd rather be staring elsewhere. "Jesse Woodson James," he breathes out, and thinks this is fantastic. "Haven't seen the old boy since... Well, since his funeral. What a reunion this'll be.
"You're a bad, bad girl, Sato." And boy howdy, does he approve.