As soon as the doorbell rings, the door opens, and Guns comes forward. The arrival of the ladies is met with open arms, and while their outfits aren't as midriff-baring as he'd hoped, he can see their legs, and he is pleased. Onatah has done better by leagues, even if it's simpler; the other goddess' comes all the way to her knees, and Guns is almost embarrassed for her. Nonetheless, he moves towards them and embraces them both, which is several different flavors of awkward due to his state of undress and the general shambles of their relationships. "Good evening, nidobaskwas!" Minimal research has been done of various Native words, and his pronunciation and elocution might be lacking, but Guns is making an effort. "And you come bearing gifts!" He takes one from each of them, easily balancing one tray in each hand. He just seems so friendly and warm, like a pleasant summer day, and there is nothing cruel or conniving in his eyes or face. "Come in! Come in!" The door is left open behind them.
After they walk inside, he moves to the side of the room. There is no immediate place to set the dishes, and so Guns drags his hand through the air, and a granite counter appears in its wake. The two desserts are set there, and he briefly retreats to the kitchen to fetch the barbecue -- chicken, baby back ribs, steak, and other various meats that smelled and looked absolutely delicious. They serve as a quaint parody next to the Indian dishes, and he sets plates and a handful of silverware on the edge of the floating counter. "Feel free to help yourselves! And if you need anything, ask me." Guns is so gracious a host that one can almost forget that he was the methodical overseer of genocides.
And then, there's Coyote, and so much distaste creeps into Guns' face that it is certain to show up on some malice barometer. Without his shirt, the coil of his muscles can be fully observed, and he swoops forward to rescue the white box before it can be crushed. He shows Coyote his back as he sets the cake down, and it gives him a moment to hide the viciousness that blooms in his countenance; he corrects half of it before he turns around. "How should I know," he snaps, bristling at how his dress code has been rejected. On top of that, there is blood, and it makes Guns want to do horrible, very un-gentlemanly things. The tension is half due to the response it triggers, and he takes long, deep breaths, curling his hands into fists.