[Mickey's had a little more time to recuperate than Stephen has, enough that it's not immediately obvious how fraught the day has been. He's calmed down, washed the sweat and tears from his face. He mostly just looks tired now, older than his 19 years, skin even whiter than usual and grey beneath his eyes. Glum might be a good word for it, or blue.
He brightens up a little, though, when he sees the revolver, eyes narrowing keenly.]
Shit, man. This an S&W? Model 3?
[Mickey Milkovich doesn't know a lot, but he definitely knows guns. He shoves his own handgun -- nothing special in comparison, just a Ruger he's particularly fond of -- into his waistband, takes the revolver out of the case, and raises it, squinting along the barrel.]
yes I actually looked this shit up
He brightens up a little, though, when he sees the revolver, eyes narrowing keenly.]
Shit, man. This an S&W? Model 3?
[Mickey Milkovich doesn't know a lot, but he definitely knows guns. He shoves his own handgun -- nothing special in comparison, just a Ruger he's particularly fond of -- into his waistband, takes the revolver out of the case, and raises it, squinting along the barrel.]
The fuck did you get a piece like this, Hart?