"I must confess, I'm not well-versed in beespeak, or their ways." He looks amused, and just a little charmed himself. There's the half-wild fae girl he first met. He accepts the honey with care, but there's no way not to get sticky, and despite making good use of the bread he, too, ends up having to lick his fingers clean.

"Bel? No, even now his hair's long. I'd harass him about looking like a hippie, but I think that fad's passed. No beard, except when he forgets to shave, and then it's all five o'clock shadow, and somehow he still pulls off looking... better than me." It's a slightly awkward way to end the sentence, something left unsaid. "...But I suppose we were always something of polar opposites. He was close to blonde, when we were younger, and blue eyes and fair skin, thinner and a little shorter than me..." Whether he's thinking of Bel as he is now, or as he was when they were young, is hard to say.

They've had dessert already, but he manages to eat well, settled in to sit on the ground. Where she flits around, he's very stationary, and even scrapes out the dishes a little from where he sits. They can be washed more thoroughly later, in the brook. Only when she's putting up the food does he try levering himself slowly and carefully to his feet, stretching a little. When she's settled in the tree, he makes a slow circuit of the camp, careful to include her perch, and sets some light wards. They won't stop her coming and going, but it will provide just enough warning and protection to let him feel safe removing the prosthetic to sleep.

"Oh? We've both told quite a few, for that matter, more than one each. No bedtime story, then?" He glances up at her with a smirk, stopping just under her branch.