"No, it's not, er, I don't..." He fumbles, shrugs, picks at his chips with less enthusiasm. "I get it. Old habits." Sometimes that's all he is. Setting out clothes the night before, even if he's not going anywhere. Brewing an extra cup of coffee or four. Hiding bad things in basements. Yeah. Old habits.

"It's nice, anyway," he admits stiltedly, with a half-smile that falls into a flat line. "Talking to someone who isn't... a box. Not to be boxist." He holds up his hands defensively, on the off-chance the TARDIS is inexplicably witness to their conversation.