I haven't ever seen his eyes highlighted with such vibrant green, contrasting so sharply against the subtle gray of his irises as I am seeing them now, shimmering and pained in the paleness of his face as he stands before me. The color has changed many times over these long years, of course, but the curiosity, the compassion, the eternal lust for adventure has always remained, continuously amazing me with how easily my Thief can steal my heart time and again with any number of looks he casts about with no thought as to how he affects me.
And affect me he does; always has, ever since he first laid those eyes on me, ever since he gently placed his hands on my console and whispered with such wondering reverence that I was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. We were both so much younger then, not quite grasping the enormity of the journey we were about to take, not quite understanding how much we would come to rely on each other, how much others would come to rely on us both, through trial and triumph alike.
But those experiences, as painful and frightening as they sometimes were, are far too dear to me to ever wish that they had happened differently. I know my Doctor feels the same, choosing to bear the hurt and grief of those events that cannot be changed, and cherishing and rejoicing in the ones that seem to be so much like happy accidents. For that and many, many other reasons I feel, have always felt, a deep, welling love for my Doctor.
And now, when I have the opportunity to tell him, when he is close enough for me to reach out and touch him, knowing even now that the weakly lingering image of my dying body would pass unfeelingly through the cheek I so desperately want to brush with my fingertips, I still can't seem to come up with the right word; that sad, complicated word that I've been grasping for since being thrust into this form.
The regret I feel at this realization, that after all this time, when I am finally able to produce such big, important ideas with my wonderful new mouth and I still can't find that most perfect word, very nearly devastates me beyond repair.
But as I gaze down at my Doctor, my Thief, looking so expectantly hopeful and broken at the same time, a look he has held for each and every companion we have traveled with, I am suddenly struck with it.
"I've been looking for a word," I begin, feeling what must be tears welling in my eyes. "A big, complicated word, but it was so sad. I've found it now."
I know I don't have much time to say what needs to be said; I can already feel the pulling tug on my spirit, but I will myself to stay for just a few moments longer.
The Doctor looks at me solemnly. "What word?" he asks softly.
"Alive," I reply, a small smile creasing my lips. "I'm alive."
He shakes his head minutely, the subtle movement softly feathering the beautiful and ridiculous wisps of hair at his forehead. "Alive isn't sad."
"It's sad when it's over," I say simply, finding it hard to swallow around the hot lump in my throat. "I'll always be here, but this is when we talked." I can see that the Doctor is trying to blink back tears, just as I am. "And now even that has come to an end," I finish quietly.
I suddenly realize that in my struggle to find the perfect word, I had almost forgotten there was more I needed to express. "There is something I didn't get to say to you."
He swallows hard and pulls his gaze from mine to look at the floor. "Goodbye," he says, voice quivering.
I want to reach my hand out and lift his chin to bring his eyes back to me, but I know I can't, no matter how much I wish it, so I must use my words. "No." He draws his head up and looks at me, doubt cast in his tear-filled gaze. "I just wanted to say, 'Hello.'" The tears I have been trying so hard to hold back spring forward and track warmly down my cheeks. "Hello, Doctor. It is so very, very nice to meet you."
My strength is weakening rapidly now, being drawn back into the heart of my home, but I have said what I've been waiting centuries to say and I take solace in the fact that while I may never have another opportunity to talk with my Doctor again, he will at least know what I feel, what I've always felt, and when we're alone he can speak to me and know that I'm listening.
He reaches out for me suddenly as I slip away, lip trembling, eyes glittering with tears, breaking my heart as he speaks. "Please, I don't want you to," he pleads.
And all at once, I realize that I don't want to either; I want to stay and know him as his companions have known him. I want to feel the warmth and safety of his embrace, feel the lingering bliss of his lips on mine, feel all that I have longed for.
But it is too late and I know the time has come for me to return home. A last burst of energy rushes through me, shocking me to my core, giving off a blinding light that illuminates every last inch of the control room where my Doctor and I were first acquainted and where we last talked.
As the surging sensation subsides and I settle into the familiar and comfortable spaces within and throughout the TARDIS, I stumble upon an unexpected but contented understanding: I have come to love the Doctor's companions as wholly as he has himself, and have myself ached just as fiercely at their departures as he has, but through it all, through every loss and every gain, we were there for one another. I have always taken him where he needs to go, and he has shown me more of the universe than I had ever hoped to even dream was possible. And for me, that will always be so much more than enough.