She certainly looked personally affronted enough, but it wasn't an offense great enough to stall her from topping off her glass with rum any further. As she poured, she kept shooting him threatening glances, as though walking away while she was occupied would be much worse for his health and limbs. Finally, she rounded the counter for a proper confrontation, nog in hand and the other on her hip, giving Spider-man a thorough once-over. Well, as thorough as bleary glaring could support.
"This isn't a costume party," she eventually came up with. Seriously, these capes, some of them were fucking whack-jobs if they couldn't take the tights off for one goddamn afternoon. That shit had to be washed eventually. Even Dr. Doom was probably knocking back gingerbread; this guy could calm the fuck down and stop ruining it for everybody fucking else.