There's a sort of warmth that fills him at the sight of that smile, and he's not sure what it is or why. He's made her happy in some way, and that's something he thinks he wants to do, but he's never felt any sort of connection to the other medical staff before and still can't place why she's different. His heart loses the soothed rhythm she put it in, and he reaches out his other hand, slowly, perhaps in fear of the shocks that sometime follow a patient's quick actions, settling it back over her heart and re-balancing the beats.

His eyes track her finger, and though the path is slow, there's a steadiness to it. This he knows how to do, he knows the answers they're looking for.

"Yes ma'am," he agrees, as per protocol, and settles himself still. There will be needles, soon and vials of blood she has to collect. His blood pressure taken and monitored and more medicine, always more medicine, entered into his body. And he's learned, through trial and error and mistakes made time and time again, that there's no point in fighting any of it, because all it ends in is a swarm of guards and enough sedative to knock him on his ass for days, when he can do nothing but try not to choke on his own spit.

Or at least, he'd learned that at one point, knew it was true, but now? With the amount of drugs he'd been ingesting, he couldn't remotely entertain the idea of fighting. Besides, she'd been kind. She obviously wasn't here to hurt him.