"Wouldn't blame you in the slightest," Anders responded easily. Nobody deserved that.
At the compliment, Anders shook his head and grunted noncommittally, still with some amount of good nature as he moved (somewhat stiffly) back to his booth. He grabbed the empty stew bowl and plate with cornbread crumbs, dumping them the next booth over to have them out of the way. There were plenty of clean, empty places for folk to sit; he had time to clean up after himself before it became a nuisance.
"Heroes," he said as he moved. It was easier when he kept moving but since he hadn't, he was working through the stiffness. That was fine. "Heroes are on the winning side, friend. And accordin' to Carm the battle and war I came in from didn't have a single one on our side." He chuckled anyway, finishing his work and setting the bottle down heavily, then fell into his side of the booth. He left the shrapnel leg up on the seat, so he could stretch it a bit more carefully, but first thing was first. The medical book, open to his familiar diagrams, was carefully closed and set down under the table, on top of the rest of his belongings in the sheet next to the large, futuristic rifle. Now it was just his previous empty bottle from the night before, and the picture of himself and his siblings and father, which he didn't look at but also didn't put away.
He patted the tabletop opposite him invitingly, with a chuckle.
"So, where are you from, then? Carm says this place takes people from all over the 'Verse. Ain't met many with a similar accent, though, so we might know the same place? And you don't sound like you're from a Central Planet." All of those were very good reasons to learn about this man, this Doctor. The admiration in his voice wouldn't leave any time soon.