"Hey, you'd be surprised."

He taps the frame with a finger.

"I might not know all the names for every little spring and pin, but I know when somebody knows what they're doing."

A grin.

"And I know when a gun feels happy."

He shrugs.

"Spent enough years around 'em."

His expression softens again as Nico speaks about Nell.

"I get it."

It's simple. Honest.

"My old man left behind one hell of a shadow."

His thumb idly traces the engraving on the revolver.

"Never felt like I had to be him."

A glance toward Nico.

"Just had to make sure nobody forgot who he was."

His smile returns, not melancholic, but warm.

"Sounds to me like you're doing the same thing."

He nudges one of the revolvers back toward her.

"And judging by these?"

"I'd say she'd be pretty damn proud."

...

The instant Nico says it's yours, his head snaps toward the hat with all the restraint of a dog hearing someone say treat.

"...Really?"

His eyebrows shoot up.

"I was prepared to spend the next twenty minutes pretending I didn't want it."

He reaches for it, carefully.

"Oh, right."

His hand pauses halfway there before shifting to the brim exactly as instructed.

"See? Following directions already."

With surprising reverence, he settles the hat atop his head.

Silence.

His fingertips adjust the brim.

Once.

Twice.

His grin slowly spreads until it's impossible to hide anymore.

"...Oh."

He turns toward the crooked mirror hanging near the office door.

"...Oh, this is real nice."

Another tilt of the brim.

"...This..."

He points at his reflection.

"...This is dangerous."

Then, without warning.

He slides backward across the floor in one impossibly smooth motion, heels gliding with practiced ease. A sharp pivot follows, his coat whipping around him as one hand flicks the brim of the hat low over his eyes.

"Heh."

Another step.

Another effortless glide.

His boots drum out a rhythm against the floorboards as he spins cleanly on one heel before breaking into an exaggerated series of shuffles that have absolutely no business looking that smooth for someone his age.

One hand sweeps dramatically through the air.

The other never leaves the brim.

He punctuates the routine with a theatrical finger gun toward absolutely nobody.

"Bang."

A quick sidestep.

A flourish.

A half-turn.

Then, with perfect timing, he moonwalks the length of the office before snapping to a stop in front of Nico, one knee bent, one hand over his chest, the other tipping the hat just enough for a smug blue eye to peek beneath the brim.

"...How's that?"

Beat.

"Scale of one to ten."

Another beat.

"...Be honest."

He waits exactly half a second before pointing at her.

"Wrong answer and I'm keeping the hat anyway."

The grin finally breaks into laughter.

He straightens, still unable to stop smiling.

"...God, I love this thing."

Only then does he fish around in his pocket, producing a crumpled wad of bills and dropping it onto the desk.

"I know you said free."

He nudges the money toward her.

"But your grandma would've haunted me if I walked outta here with custom revolvers and the coolest hat I've ever owned without paying you something."

He gives the brim another satisfied little tip.

Ignoring the fact that the praise makes her perk right back up, Nico can say she's quite satisfied with herself for the day, hell maybe even the week depending on just how much he intends to stroke her ego. At the very least, she can't help but to feel appreciative of the fact he understood her want to fill the shoes of the legendary Nell Goldstein.

Guns had been something important to her since childhood, a big bonding thing for her and her old man since he ran his own shop just the same, it really had become something of a family business and she supposes there's something funny about that fact. “ M'real glad to hear that but uh... Make sure you treat these ladies real nice 'cause they are still antiques, don't matter none how modern and well loved they was before hand the frame is still all oh-rigi-nal. ”

That and the fact it would be horribly embarrassing for a gun let alone two that she'd modified to bust apart the first time they're used, that just reflects poorly on her and in turn, makes the prior praise she'd just basked in kind of moot.

She looks like she has more she wants to add on, maybe some history of the revolvers because at least she'd gotten that much out of her tight lipped donor but the man locked onto that damn hat and she doesn't have it in her to try and snap his focus back. “ Honestly I think it's better we don't play the game of coyness tryin' to convince me you ain't swooning over a hat that'd be older than my granny if she was still 'round today. ”

Because his ability to act is downright atrocious and if she had to argue with him to just take the damn thing ( as much as she REALLY wants to keep it ) she might just lose her shit and hit him with one of the gloves hanging from her waistband. Though truthfully she wants to do as much anyways the moment he starts up his spiel, having barely the mind to try and hide the grin growing on her face behind calloused fingertips.

It doesn't silence the loud laughter, not one bit while honeyed hues follow his little journey around the office. “ Man whatever, I'll pass that gal your compliments next time I see her, hell I'll even ask if she's got more hats for your collection, how 'bout that? ” A wave of her hand, hair bouncing while she shakes her head and tries to keep the grin from growing larger.

A low whistle escapes him.

"Modernized the hardware, huh?" He gives the hammer a tentative pull, feeling the crisp break of the trigger. "Heh...yeah. That's definitely got your fingerprints all over it."

He looks up at her with an approving grin.

"You've got good instincts. Lotta people try to preserve antiques so hard they forget they're supposed to work."

The revolver spins once around his finger before landing neatly back in his palm.

"If your grandma built legends..."

His smile softens.

"...you're buildin' the next generation."

The compliment comes easily, almost absentmindedly. Matter-of-fact. Like it wasn't even something worth debating.

"And for the record?" He points the barrel harmlessly toward the ceiling. "Nobody's competing with Nell."

A beat.

"You're just making sure the family name keeps embarrassing the rest of us gunsmiths."

He chuckles to himself before carefully setting the revolver back in the bag.

Then, his eyes drift.

Again.

To the hat.

"..."

"...I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

Another beat.

"I'm looking at the hat with a perfectly normal amount of interest."

Another.

"...It's a nice hat."

He clears his throat, trying very hard to sound casual.

"So...hypothetically..."

A finger points toward it.

"...if someone were to try it on..."

He pauses.

"...purely for quality assurance."

Another pause.

"...that'd be reasonable, right?"

He doesn't even wait for an answer.

One hand is already reaching into the bag.

"I mean, if there's care instructions, somebody's gotta make sure they're accurate."

His fingers stop just short of the brim.

"...Unless..."

A glance toward Nico.

"...the hat's got an owner already?"

His expression is almost disappointingly hopeful.

"If not..."

A grin slowly spreads across his face.

Nico knows she's easily excitable over her work, but there's nothing wrong with taking pride in your craftsmanship and by God was she proud of the very gun spinning in Dante's grasp. Not a whole lot could make her mood shift to something more serious but he's so casual in his compliment that she can't help the change from cheeky and smug into something a lot more earnest, grateful even.

“ Well, s'pose I'll take it if it's comin' from you. Glad you get how it is, I hate sounding like I'm tryin' to be better than her, I just wanna make sure her memory lives on in my work, ya dig? ” Granted she wouldn't exactly be opposed to surpassing Nell's work but that's a dream far in the distance, she knows she needs more experience before she can even come close to saying she matches her grandmother's workmanship.

The seriousness fades though, a soft ‘tsk’ing noise breaking her brief stoic expression. “ Oh for the love of— if ya like the damn thing put it on n'see if it fits! ” It isn't impatience, far from it she's moreso curious about the fascination with an old ( albeit well cared for ) accessory that she got for free. “ She said the care instructions're for if you have a greasy head or somethin', also made it a point to say to not grab it by anywhere but the brim or inside 'cause your fingers are oily and it messes with the felt. ”

Her hand makes an odd gesture, insistent if not outright demanding.

Not because of the sound.

Because something finally interesting happened in this office.

A slow grin spreads across his face as he leans back in his chair, hands folding behind his head. The sight of Nico standing there with that familiar enthusiasm brings back a strange sort of nostalgia, the kind that still catches him off guard sometimes.

Nell Goldstein's granddaughter.

That was still a little wild to think about.

The woman who'd put Ebony and Ivory into his hands, who'd somehow managed to make weapons that had survived more ridiculous situations than most people ever would. And now here was Nico, carrying on the tradition in her own wonderfully chaotic way.

"Well, well, well," he says, looking down at the bag. "When someone walks into my office carrying mysterious weapons, there's usually a fifty-fifty chance they're either trying to kill me or trying to sell me something."

A beat.

"...with you, I'm guessing it's somehow both."

He reaches forward, pulling the bag closer and peeking inside. His eyebrows lift slightly.

"Okay. I'll admit it. These are pretty damn cool."

He pulls one of the revolvers free, giving it an experimental spin before looking back at her.

"Though I gotta say, coming from the granddaughter of Nell Goldstein, that's a pretty high bar to clear. Your grandma made the kind of stuff people write songs about."

He sets the revolver down carefully, then his gaze drifts.

Just for a second.

To the hat.

Then back to Nico.

Then to the hat again.

"...So."

A pause.

"Interesting choice of accessories."

His tone is deliberately casual. Too casual.

"You always go for the whole cowboy aesthetic, or is this a special occasion?"

Another pause.

"Because, y'know, I gotta say, it works. Very classic. Very timeless."

His fingers tap against the desk.

"So where'd you get it?"

Another pause.

"Not that I'm interested."

A beat.

"I mean, I am interested. Obviously. In the history. Of the hat."

He picks up one of the revolvers again, suddenly fascinated by it.

"Anyway! Guns. Right. The guns are the important thing here."

He gestures toward them.

"Definitely not the hat."

A moment passes.

Nico makes it a point to gesture at the bag, palms quickly settling onto his desk while she leans over it invasively, deep browns fixating on the expression he offers when he looks at the guns. “ Ain't they? I think the gal I got em from said they was originally from the eighteen hunnerds or sumthin. Took real good care of em too all things considered, I hardly had to do much with it 'cept overhaul the hammer and trigger since I know you like t'shoot fast. Oh and modernize the hardware a bit more too, can't go havin' it blow yer fingers off. ”

She raises one hand, making a finger gun at the man playfully. “ But thanks, ain't light work getting compliments from Granny's favorite customer! But uh... Er... Well, just lemme know how they feel when ya get to shootin' em, not that I'm competing with her anything but I wanna make sure I got some of her quality y'know? ” Yet again she feels like she's floundering a bit, a fish out of water which in a way she was. Nico didn't do all the talking for a reason, after all.

*sketch requested by patron

Miriam //  Bloodstained: Ritual of the night

"...A hamster?"

He pointed at himself.

"A hamster?"

He scoffed.

"You spend one afternoon watching me run around inside a giant demonic tower and suddenly I'm a rodent?"

A beat.

"...Actually don't answer that."

He folded his arms.

"I'd make a terrible hamster."

Another beat.

"...Too handsome."

Dante nodded as if that settled the matter before immediately latching onto something else.

"...Hold on."

He pointed at Vergil.

"You just said you would've come get me."

A grin spread across his face.

"Past tense."

"Which means there was a version of this conversation where you were actually planning to rescue me."

He jabbed a finger toward his brother.

"See? You care."

Dante ignored the inevitable glare.

"Deep down beneath all the brooding and unresolved emotional constipation..."

He quickly held up a hand.

"Don't interrupt me."

"...you were gonna cut your way into the Backrooms and come save your incredibly handsome, much stronger, vastly funnier twin brother."

He beamed.

"...That's touching."

Then he frowned.

"...Wait."

"Did you just say Jerry has a house?"

Dante's expression slowly drained of color.

"...Vergil."

He pointed emphatically at the television.

"Do you hear what you're saying?"

"You didn't even question whether Jerry existed!"

He threw both hands into the air.

"You accepted Jerry immediately!"

Dante looked utterly vindicated.

"You're infected."

He took a cautious step back.

"First it's 'the lighting is wrong.'"

"Then it's 'the insects probably explain the smell.'"

"Now you're discussing Jerry's real estate."

He shook his head solemnly.

"...The Backrooms already got you."

A beat.

"...Psychologically."

Then Vergil's final threat registered.

Dante blinked.

"...You know what?"

He grinned.

"Go ahead."

He spread his arms dramatically.

"Make a clone."

"If it turns out anything like the fake Vergils in the Backrooms, I'll have it apologizing to me by dinner."

Another beat.

"...Actually..."

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Can you make it slightly friendlier?"

He looked Vergil up and down.

Especially with the sorts of situations they constantly find themselves involved in.

He pauses though, mind buffering to catch up a bit only to huff softly. “ No, you shut up and you listen because you will not hear me say this a second time. You are my younger brother, of course I care about you even if that care makes me want to rip you to shreds because of how horrifically annoying you often tend to be. Regardless of my feelings about you and your abhorrent chatter, it is and always will be my duty as the eldest to keep your idiotic life safe. ”

A huff, eyes narrowing yet again.

“ That is to say, yes Dante I would come and get your irritatingly unfunny ass out of the backrooms just so that I can hit you over the head with a rock when we return home. ”

He doesn't even care about the Jerry situation at the moment, far too lost and aware of the fact that yet again he's given his brother ammunition for the dumpster fire that tends to be his little gossip circle. Fine enough, he'll have to find himself a friend to gossip with about Dante.

“ Actually I said the lighting explains the smell, the insects just happen to be there to irritate those of us who cannot stand gnats. ” Cherry picking as ever, but he will not have his theory incorrectly repeated lest it somehow also end up on the internet. “ You've said everybody continues to add to the storyline of the backrooms therefore Jerry's existence is not exactly out of the question per se. His home naturally would be within those yellow walls and I'm sure he would just love to meet you face to face. ”

He is most certainly invested in whatever ridiculous horror the online communities have concocted but he's not going to say that out loud, the less time held hostage by his brother and a television, the better.