The King of the castle hated it when people knew he was behind the door. Of course, he forgave himself for being so obvious and accepted his punch with an air of deflated-balloon dignity. There was always next time.
Having done the answering for him, and the welcoming, and the wine-ing, he couldn't help but to equally feel thankful and a bit threatened by her generosity. Deep down he as well felt the swelling of a bit of pride. How... wifely of her. How nice (he shuddered inwardly.) When she was nice, it usually spelt an awful thing in a discreet, often indirect way which he'd learn the recipe of disaster for later on when alone. The brows softened by the spell of Bacchus chamfered in a brief haste to meet in the middle of his forehead for a huddle, a game plan -- do we trust the ripe peach from the wicked witch ... ? Or is it poisoned?
Woozily, he sloshed with pride over yonder to ye olde royal wall where he leaned himself gloriously. "Nah, Honey was just in the middle of acting very strangely. I believe people often refer to this as kindness. Please, Paul, bask in this lovely puzzle with me." He batted his lashes mockingly as the rest of him spilled over gracefully toward the drink table she was arranging for them, so very courteous and sweet. "Would you? Isn't she so pretty when she's nice? Really puts color in her cheeks."