"I don't see how I'm supposed to figure that out unless I use them," Hawke mock-grouses, because he remains a one man drama machine. Machine jokes aside.

This is all still being lobbed into the atmosphere while flat on his back with his eyes closed, by the way. He heaves approximately a dozen persons worth of sigh, and at least sits all the way up, legs out in front of him with arms sprawled loose on his thighs, crossed over each other. Possibly he has more to say on the topic of whether or not it's possible for Anders to sit on him without residual enjoyment - were there ever actually paralysis glyphs involved on previous occasions? signs point to yes - but he's interrupted by his stomach proclaiming a serious of rumbles on the subject of whether or not he's hungry.

Hawke eyes his own torso with exaggerated slowness. "Well! That answers that question, I suppose."

He's also eyeing the amount of food Anders is putting together, which seems to be either enough for both of them, or a bunch of hungry orphans are about to filter through the door. That staves off, for the moment, querying how much Anders has, say, eaten or slept or cared for himself in any way while Hawke has been unconscious, but not for long.