[muse_shuffle] - Save me

[shatteredqueen]

'Why do you think you can save me?'

'Because I have to try.'

'What makes you think I want you to?'

'Does it really matter?

*****
She sets the book down, tapping a red enamelled nail against the thick leather binding, staring absently at her bedroom door. On the other side are endless corridors and a means to see the stars, but it is not of these halls she thinks. Not exactly. Sister halls, mirrored halls, replicas or dduupplliiccaatteess of parallel ones, perhaps, but not the ones outside her door. The halls she thinks of, a different man than hers walks.

As it is wont to do, her mind wanders, fragments drifting here and there with no rhyme nor reason. They've been so long scattered she can't imagine being whole, even though she denies ever being broken.

Denies to all but him, at least.

*****

'You made me this way.'

'I know.'

'And you think you can make me better?'

'I don't know. But I have to try.'

'I don't want you to.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I hate you.'

'Doesn't matter! I won't give up on you.'

*****
The book smashes into the door with a satisfying thunk, clattering to the floor where it lies in a twisted heap. A stray page drifts to the ground, torn and frayed along the edges from where it ripped off the binding. The rules of dancing are scrawled along its surface in neat script -- one hand on the hip, another to the back of the neck.

R
               i
                           v
                                         a
                                                    l
                                                               s.

She remembers the feel of his hair beneath her fingers, the prickly stubble at the base of his skull, hidden beneath an unkempt mess of dark strands. She'd been gentle, then, terribly, uncharacteristically gentle, running a finger along the back of his neck in idle conversation. He hadn't pushed her away and she hadn't wanted him to. Their positions were designated for enemies but she felt nothing of the sort as they swayed across the room.

The book is his, as is the errant page, and she rips it apart angrily, letting the torn sheaf litter the floor at her feet.

*****
'This isn't for you. It's never for you.'

'I know. It doesn't have to be.'

'It's for him, you know.'

'Yeah, I do.'

'Why won't you let that bother you?'

'Told you. I just want you to have a chance to be you.'

'This isn't me.'

'Maybe.'

*****
The hallway stretches out of sight as she yanks the door open, kicking the book into the corridor and watching as another page rips itself free, the remnants of a once-lovely gown wrinkled and smudged on the torn paper. It looks blue and satin and nothing she'd ever wear, but she stoops to examine it anyway, turning it over in her hands. On the reverse side is another gown, this one amber, and she draws a short breath before clenching her jaw and shoving the page back in the book.

She reminds herself to tidy it up and return it with ribbon. He'll appreciate the neatly wrapped and broken package, she's sure. He seems to like that sort of thing.

Standing, she looks back to her room, but it's down the corridor she walks, her bare feet shuffling against the floor. Her steps are even and leisurely in the beginning, increasing in pace with each empty room she passes. None of the doors are correct; none of them hide butterflies, or open ballrooms.

By the time she reaches the console room, she's running, but she cannot tell even herself why.

There's no one at the controls and she freezes, looking over the empty room. Her breathing echoes against the coral, harsh and abrasive in the silence, and it's all she can do to reign it in, to regain what control she can after her mad dash for something she absolutely does not -- cannot -- want.

Dancing is best left for fools and the stars can be obtained in time. She has no need of him. She only needs one man and he certainly never lent her books on proper etiquette.

She tells herself these things as she walks back toward her room, but her eyes still scan the hallway for a door behind which butterflies play while her ears strain to hear the ghost of music.

*****
'Let me help you.'

'I don't need your help.'

'Please. Just take my hand.'

'This doesn't mean anything.'

'That's fine, it doesn't have to. I just want to give you a chance to be Lucy.'

'I'm always Lucy. I wish you'd accept that.'

'We'll see. So. Will you take it?'

'...only this once. You'll see, Doctor. I don't need saving. Especially not by you.'
Muse: Lucy Saxon
Fandom: Doctor Who
Prompt: you're so sure you can save // every hair on my chest (Tori Amos - 'iieee')
Word Count: 697
Based on RP with rude_not_ginger at realityshifted