Would you look at them, though? Just look. What would any psychiatrist say about this? One moment they're both ready to pull their veins out from their arms and the next they're discussing marriage, all the while the world looked on and someone died below or above their heads, separated by the floors only. Hawkeye laughs.

He shrugs so his robe slides part way down a shoulder, leering and lecherous and channeling the worst showgirl flirt. He even bends his knees a tad, even leans back a fraction like there was a pleasant body there to melt into, so that if Colonel Flagg or Ferret Face had been there, they'd have threatened to burn him alive for degeneration.

"I'd get on my knees for an heir," he sighs.

And he runs a hand through his hair, and sighs again, and fixes himself up straight.

A dwarf prince. Huh. His mind's running with things to ask after their death, and Hawkeye realized that the thought of it shouldn't sit so nicely in his head as it did. Having spooked himself, he twitches- he catches himself and transforms the twitch into a suggestive wink. But really, his neck was hurting from looking down. But really-- they ought to move now before they further convinced themselves they were safe. "I think I should be going, darling," he offers, gently as he could, mischief still radiating off his expression. "People will only talk if they see us like this."