He's being given a once-over, that calculating glance of one contestant assessing another. It makes him shift and run an unconscious hand through his hair--his hair, which is a solid indicator of the fact that he's not on chemo, something setting him apart from pretty much everyone else on the floor. Or it would be, if his hair actually meant what the man assessing him thought it meant. He's aware that if he had followed the nurses' advice and shaved his head this morning, this conversation might be going very differently.

The judgment that's being passed on him, excluding him from the chemotherapy patients' community of martyrdom and slotting him into a more able category than most people on this floor, combined with the smile he's being given, a cajoling smirk that looks eerily out of place on the other man's haggard, bony face, almost makes him relent and vacate the chair. But then the man starts going on about the view again, his tone more that of a salesperson than a martyr, and the Doctor changes his mind.

"Mhm," he says, nodding. "I think I do. I think I'll keep it. If you don't mind." He looks up at the other man, giving him a friendly smile. Friends? They don't have to hate each other just because he took your chair. Not that he's entirely sure this is your chair, considering he hasn't seen you around before. "Could stay and chat, though. Wouldn't say no to some company. View or not, the place isn't exactly the height of excitement."