Rodeo is hardly offended by the joke at his man's expense, and it shows in the smirk that tugs at his mouth. He pats Wheeler on the stomach, as if proud of the girth the guy has attained. Means he feeds his family well, at least.
Rodeo catches the bottle she tosses his way, and he holds it up and studies it with lifted brows as if he's never seen anything of the sort before. He purses his lips and flicks open the cap, and he's about to get started doing as she instructs when she takes out her gun and sets it on the bar. He eyes the gun, not worried that she might turn it on him but certainly concerned that she might expect him to use it.
"Listen, sweetheart," he says, looking back to her and shaking his head, "I got my own piece. Comin' here unarmed, that ain't trustworthy. That's just dumb." He squeezes the hand sanitizer out of the bottle and does as she did, rubbing it over his hands and up his arms. "If shit does down, you'll get to see my area of expertise. Let's just hope we'll be stickin' to yours."
Rodeo puts on the gloves, brow furrowing as he struggles to squeeze his broad hands into the tight latex. He holds them up once they're gloved, frowning and flexing his fingers, not liking the feeling of the gloves covering his callused hands one bit. He looks up when she speaks to him again, and he nods and rests his hands against the table, leaning in to eye the gangrenous wound just below his buddy's collarbone. "It's Rodeo, but you can call me whatever you like, Doc," he says. "We gonna be on first-name basis here, or is this only goin' one way?"