It's been a long time since Coyote has felt his role as creator, but he feels it now. As Guns starts to march him forwards, he shuts his eyes against the linked memory of being marched onto a reservation, ignoring Onatah's playful grin with as much grace as a normally chaotic god can muster. He bows his head, too, and it's not subservience, but the bearing of the brunt of this—this thing that they have never put a name to because it is older than names. Happy for the girls' inane chatter as proof that they don't understand what's happening, or what ugly, malignant machinations have drawn them all together under the pretence of fun and games and good food, Coyote tips his chin towards his chest and lets the sunglasses slide down his nose, winking at them from his one good eye. It takes a second for it to click amid the doom and gloom, but when he sees the strange girl is Raven's, she gets a stare that's neither friendly nor unfriendly, but a mix of fox and hound. Wanting, but too hunted at present to parse it.
Then Guns is growling in his ear, and it's all he can do not to break pace and bolt.
"Sex in a sandstorm," he says simply and quietly, because he likes the sound of it, and it's true. The heist isn't mentioned because it's too early to tell whether it was a success, particularly if he goes blabbing about it to any healthy number of gods who aren't his friends, not really. He doesn't care about impressing Guns, until they're around the corner and out of everyone's line of vision, and Guns makes him care, cracking Coyote's head into the wall, which feels solid enough not to fracture before his skull does. "Sorry," he mutters, and goes staggering through the bathroom door, his black eye dripping new blood. The door is shut and Guns is gone before he can put himself together enough to say more, for which he's grateful, his silly swell of courage running back into the deep, dark parts of his veins like something visceral down a drain.
The bathtub is brimming with steaming hot water when it's probably ice he should be soaking in, but soak he does, losing his problematic clothes and sinking into it with a wince, because he's waiting for it to turn to lemon juice. But it doesn't, and it's nice, a literal godsend to his traumatised muscles, and he uses what little strength he has left to materialise a bottle of excellent bourbon from Guns' liquor cabinet, and the strain of it makes the blood gush and the pain begin anew from the bullet wounds festering in his gut. The water is pink, then red, and Coyote toasts Guns silently.
Sixteen minutes later, he emerges from his host's imposed isolation, certain he hasn't been missed, but worried about taking that extra minute too long. His headband has added a few feathers to itself, but other than that he wears the costume set out for him, and picks up the first jar of paint he comes across, bringing it to his nose. Acrylic. It should be ochre in bowls, but rather than say anything, he just wiggles the jar at Onatah like he's wiggling temptation. "No need for a brush. Just use your hands."