Just look at these wings, so perfect to hold you.
It is a physical ache, watching him walk away and knowing that she will never again be able to reach out and embrace him.
She remembers the first time he held her in his arms, and smiles in spite of her broken hearts at the memory. Her first night in Stormcage, he'd come for her. Oh, she'd seen him between the day she'd tried to kill him-and Hitler-and then, but he'd kept his distance. A hand on her arm, pulling her up after an explosion; his lips whispering instructions in her ear as they hid from an adversary; his chest pressed briefly against hers as they had passed one another in a narrow corridor. She'd come to the pyramid in Giza prepared for more of the same, and found herself abruptly (but not at all unwelcomely) married to the man she should have killed twice over.
No sooner had the guards deposited her in Cell 46-a dismal, dank number-than she'd felt his arms wrap around her. She'd been looking out the lone window, wondering just how long it would be until she saw sunlight again, and then there he was. Turning around within his embrace, she'd seen such warmth, such understanding in his eyes, and there had been no awkwardness as he'd leaned down to kiss her for (in her timestream) the first time. The other two had been under false pretenses or duress-they didn't count. This time, well, no one was going to die today because their lips were finally meeting on equal terms.
As they stumbled into the TARDIS, too giddy and filled with the novelty of their relationship (all on her side, of course, as she later realized that as far as he was concerned they had been married for decades) to take notice of such things as doorjambs and steps, she realized something: this was perfection.
It had lasted forever. It had ended too soon. And now her arms were empty.
Just let me repeat what I've already told you
Love and family.
I want to be your personal penguin. Imagine me, your personal penguin. I want to be your personal penguin from now on. Please?