It had just about gotten impossible to breathe. She was everywhere, and France was gone, and the Time Vortex, and the thousands of years separating him from everything he knew were just gone and it was them and their connection and everything. Just them.

She had a lifetime of waiting for him. He had months of watching the door between them, knowing she slept and wishing he knew how to feel his emotions for her. So many things he couldn't share because, as always, he was the Doctor. Too much history with that name, too many memories to sleep a full night, even if he knew it would be in her arms.

The Doctor remembered being afraid of admitting there was something between them. He remembered being afraid of what was between them. He remembered being afraid of losing what was between them, of reducing what he'd come to admit he felt for her to bodies and a bed. It was more than that. Making love to her was more than that.

His hand raised, catching her hair. His fingers tangled in the undone curls, but the sensation of them, the silky, fluid-like sensation of her hair seemed to tingle across the nerves of his fingers.

Had I the way, I'd take away those years of waiting.