He's not sure what to make of that comment about a bed, isn't sure if he should even try to decipher it. He gets a hold of her ankle and scoots closer still, so it takes less effort on his part to move it. It'd be criminal to hold back the scoff that had built up, so he doesn't, and the examination begins. "I'm not a psychiatrist. If you ever want me to look at your head, though, the most I can do is recommend something for lice." But the revelation came easy and calmly, thought Hawkeye could swear the air inside the makeshift shelter was heavier than what was outside. "Like hoop skirts or dress ties. It's very effective, but not for getting them off your scalp. But if you ever need to talk, I've got two ears and last I checked, they worked fine. Just don't ask when was the last time I checked."

Maybe someday he'll give in to the curiosity gnawing him now about what 'infected' meant. First he'd have to stop questioning the idea of different worlds and times congregated as they were. Confused as he was already, it didn't seem wise to pry just yet. On the other hand, he wouldn't just bar information.

"So. Adjusted for adolescent inflation and exaggeration, it's a solid two." He let her foot down gently, only to offer a rough pat on her shin and a winning smile. "Just seems sprained. Keep off of it. That diagnosis will set you back four dollars. Pay up now, or later?"