He’s starting to feel heavy again.
Repairs were done, sonic tucked away, and he was was still lying on the TARDIS floor grinning at the lights blinking star-like in the ceiling. They were calling his name. The metal grating had started to cling to him, fusing with the leather of his jacket and shoes — not real, not any of it, that much was obvious now.
This — when he felt the pull of gravity too acutely, even as fabricated and easily-controlled as it was inside the TARDIS — was usually when he got up and headed for the Zero Room; to reset his reactions to impulses, to celebrate his life. Levitating, negating his own weight, seemingly never sure if his new limbs would obey him. Shut off from every impulse, even his own thoughts.
But... he’s good where he is, now. He’s... happy. Rose was somewhere nearby, as the scent of her too-diluted-to-be-called-perfume made clear. She’d wonder where he’d gone. Oh, and Mickey was stumbling his way through the corridors... there was him too.
The Doctor steels himself and decides to try to get to his feet in one go — and he does. Not even a nip from the grating. “In here!” he calls.
Mickey stops right in the middle of the doorway, still in his winter jacket. He squares his shoulders and glances around like he expects something to pop out of the walls. Just because it happened once... “I’m supposed to tell you we’ve made food. Cos Rose always thinks you’re hungry? It’s just toasties.”
“Of course I’m hungry, Ricky... You cold, you big zero?”
Mickey’s face falls and he storms off, balling his fists and grinding his teeth.
It was just so easy saying it like that. The Doctor sticks his hands in his pockets and follows the rustle of Mickey’s jacket. Maybe he’d feel light enough to actually apologise when they’d eaten.