He didn't want to move away. He could've easily considered it part of their lingering connection, of being so utterly connected to her for so many moments, but it was more than that. He desired her, he was becoming quite used to this emotion. And he was fairly certain that his own desire was stranger than her own. After all, he was still fresh in his knowledge of her, all of her wits and abilities and his love was new. She had to have grown tired of him after having him pop in and out for so many years.

"Yeah," he admitted, "Weak, mostly. But I'm not dead, at least."

His thumb slid along her cheekbone, then traced along her jaw. She was so fragile, he knew, and yet she could hold him up. Him. A 900-year-old Timelord who had brought down empires.