multiversallogs | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Who: Martha Jones and Severus Snape (Jack Jones)
What: Running into the wife when she doesn't remember who he is. Yay angst.
Where: The inn.
When: TBD.
Notes: Martha's going to remember... eventually.
Warnings: Angst.

There were some things that a person got used to quicker than others, and given the travelling Martha'd done in time, adjusting to a new place was something that she'd had a leg up on. The fact that she'd found an organization like Torchwood (where she had been planning on going immediately after she resigned from UNIT) had helped with the adjustment without a doubt.

Being employed, being a doctor, was a brilliant thing and she was happy with having gainful employment. Her free time at the inn was coming and end, and despite the fact that Martha had been spending some time cottage hunting, she wasn't finding anything. Places just didn't seem proper, for reasons that she couldn't quite press her finger on. It was like there was a place she was picturing in her head and nothing else could hold up.

Carrying a box through the hallways, Martha had a pleased smile on her face. She'd find a place soon, and then she'd move and then she'd worry about going home. There was a large and person-shaped hole that she was assuming was Tom. After all, who else could it have been. Clothing shopping had been done, so she felt a bit odd in the black jacket, but at least the style was one that was familiar.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

As Martha was coming in, 'Jack' was going out with the intention of finally venturing into Baedal. It wasn't something which he particularly wanted to do, but if he was to find a way out, then he had to first see where he was. The past few days had been spent fighting a looming depression not unlike that which he had experienced one Halloween so many years ago.

This time, there was no Dumbledore to catch him when he fell. The only thought keeping him from drastic measures was that escape was not impossible - and Martha would find him, if she had to move heaven, hell, and the Doctor to do it.

And that was the thought circling his mind when he crossed paths with her. He walked right by her; it didn't seem possible that she would be happy, that she could be smiling and shopping and settling in. It certainly wasn't possible that she hadn't responded to him when he contacted the cohort. If anyone knew him, it would be her. Thus, he made it ten feet past and did a double-take.

"Martha." There was a plethora of emotions in that one word: anger, hurt, surprise, hope, relief, happiness - the full gamut. And for all of that, he was in a state of shock. Why didn't she contact me?

She'd inclined her head by way of greeting to the man when he'd walked past her. Martha had expected that he hadn't wanted to talk to anyone which as far as she was concerned was a normal reaction to someone removing you from your home. There was something familiar about the man, however, in an odd way. If Martha hadn't been such a cinephile then she probably wouldn't have thought about it.

Or she might have; there were all sorts of odd things afoot.

She had been thinking when there was the sound of her name, and Martha turned on her heel quickly and looked back to the man who had spoken it with so many conflicting sounds. Taking two steps towards him, she spoke in return. "I'm sorry, do I know you?" Her brows rose a bit when she asked the question, wondering if it was something was going to happen. Wibbly wobbly timey wimey. Martha thought she may have a future outside of here, that was nice.

"Well, it's possible I don't know you yet, I think."

Edited 2011-11-09 00:10 (UTC)

Of all the things he had expected - all the possible scenarios he had run through his mind - it had never occurred to him that she wouldn't recognize him if ever he saw her again. When there was no spark of recognition in her eyes, the shock gave way to a cold, gripping horror.

Perhaps it was the disguise, he told himself hastily. Perhaps she simply hadn't cottoned on to the clues, perhaps she hadn't seen his communique, perhaps, in spite of all her assurances that she would know him anywhere, he was disguised too well.

But why was she so cheerful? The idea that she might be happy here, happy to be shot of him, hurt more than the idea that he might never see her again. At least in the latter scenario, he had imagined she might show some regret before moving on. At least a few months, and not a few days.

He closed the distance between them and dropped the affected accent. Aggravated with her as much as the situation, he hissed, "It's me, Martha."

Martha just watched the man as he looked at her like this. She was starting to feel more than a little bit unsettled by this, and by the gnawing sense that something wasn't right here that was digging in her guts. There was something weird here, and she didn't like that she didn't know what it was.

Feeling like she'd wandered into a play and didn't quite no her lines, she just started at him when he closed the distance between them. There was a part of her brain that informed her (in a calm familiar tone of voice) that she shouldn't trust someone who was talking to her like this. The voice was the same one that berated her when she trusted too easily.

Visibly blinking when he spoke, Martha had to swallow hard, and the confusion moved into her face as well. There was something there, a flicker because the voice seemed very familiar, and her eyes searched his own for a moment before she decided to take some control in the situation.

"I'm sorry, I don't know who you are." Her voice wasn't unkind--far from it. "Sometimes things go a bit wibbly wobbly timey wimey on me, and this is probably one of those times." There was more than a little bit of apology in her voice and genuine regret on her face.

Once, in one of the many books which lined the shelves of Spinner's End, Severus had read the theory that hell was an eternity spent in the absence of grace. Looking up into the face of it, sensing its indifference. He had set the book aside dismissively, rejecting the very notion of heaven and hell. And then, one day on a ship very much like Purgatory, he met Martha and called her his paradise.

A thousand memories fought for notice, all of them of her, all of them tinted with the sort of happiness he had always regarded with suspicion. He hadn't deserved to be happy.

I'm in hell.

The minute the idea crossed his mind, he shoved it brutally aside. He needed to get control of himself. He searched her face, looking for some sign that she was lying - hoping she was lying though she was the worst liar -

I am a fire truck.

He glanced sharply at her hands, looking for the ring he'd made from a cast iron toy fire engine. And there it was - poorly transfigured so the red paint had tinged it like rust. He reached out to grab her elbow, fury, hurt and fear at odds in his expression. "Don't. Don't do this - don't lie to me."

As he searched her face, Martha just watched him with increasing levels of alarm. She was becoming uncomfortable with how he was watching her, and the intensity on his face. There was something wrong here, something that made her stomach start to flip over on itself.

This was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Martha's brain was working, spinning quickly and she was wondering who on earth would be this upset by her not recognizing them. She was starting to come up with a suggestion (or several.) Had the Doctor regenerated? Was that why he was so angry with her? Had he become a bigger git with this one than with the last?

The thoughts were stopped when she felt his hand gripping her about her elbow, and Martha scowled and frown. Her voice rose an octave in pitch on the first word. "Take your hands off of me. I don't know you, and I don't know what you're talking about."

She hadn't struck him, but she might as well have done; he released her and took a step back out of sheer surprise. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

No, he could - but he didn't want to believe it. Martha wouldn't really behave this way, would she? If she wanted to be done with him, would she lie like this? Would she still be wearing her ring? It didn't add up.

He needed to be alone with her, out of the hallway, where he could drop the disguise and find out just what in Merlin's name was wrong with her. Had someone tampered with her memory? He grasped on to that thin scrap of hope and advanced on her again as he drew his wand.

As soon as his hand was offer her elbow, Martha took several giant steps backwards, keeping her eyes on the man. There was fear there now, fear, and concern when he watched her like that.

Survival instinct, the one that had kept her alive during the year was fighting with fact that there was something familiar about him. Something that she couldn't quite place, but it didn't seem to matter when he started to advance upon her again.

The wand made her brows knit together, and her lip dropped. Her brain wasn't putting the term wand to it. However, it was a weapon, and at the moment, he didn't seem very friendly, so Martha just kept moving back. If she could get to her room, she could lock him out.

"Look, I'm sorry I don't know you, mate, but just stay back."

It was the flash of fear in her expression that stopped him. He faltered, looking from her to the wand and back again, then lowered it to his side.

She had never told him to stay away from her - and now she was afraid and trying to flee him as though she thought he would harm her. It struck him then that his wife - in spite of the ring on her finger - truly had no idea who he was.

He couldn't let go of that maybe, however. That one last flicker of hope that told him to talk to her alone, that she would remember, that he could use Legilimency on her (promises to the contrary be damned).

"Martha -"

She kept walking backwards, moving away from him even when he'd lowered the wand to his side. There was no guarantee that he wasn't going to attempt to grab her again.

Her eyes were locked on his, and she kept her hands up, ready to attempt to use some of the self-defense training that she'd had now that he was clearly aware that the contact between them wasn't something that she was wanting or inviting.

"I'm sorry, I don't know if you've regenerated or something, but right now you're worrying me." Her voice was calm, very much her doctor tone. "I honestly don't have any idea who you are."

That was insult to injury. Not only did his wife - his wife - not remember him (so she claimed), but she thought he was the Doctor. The injustice of it hit him hard enough to draw and enraged snarl from him.

When he advanced on her this time, it was without concern for whatever fear she might feel. Someone was playing silly buggers with him and his, and he wasn't going to stand for it - or being mistaken for the very person she'd loved before there was even the hint of an idea of Martha Snape.

He was fast - reflexes he had forgotten were employed when he shot his hand out to grab her now, violent and brutal in the way he clutched her arm. He started to bring up his wand, trying to clear the haze of fury and concentrate on the library where Xenophilius had taken him when he first arrived.

He was snarling at her? Really? Martha was shocked at that, and her expression had gone wide with it. Someone whom claimed that they knew her and now he was snarling at her like he was some sort of wild animal?

That was not on. It was not on at all. At the moment she was doubting that he was the Doctor, and that left her with some options that she didn't like.

The grab caught her by surprise this time, even though he'd already done it, and she yelped in pain when he clutched her. "Let go of me!" The words were screeched in a tone that he'd only her two or three times during the time they'd been married. Without even thinking about it, she brought her foot down on his insole.

Just as her foot came down on his - Merlin's beard, his bad foot, right on the poorly-healed wound that ached in the cold and made him limp even on the best days - the spell yanked the pair of them from the hallway. His concentration was broken, and though they came to a crashing halt in the private library, all was not as well as it ought to have been. His foot gave beneath his weight and he sank to his knees, but the more pressing problem was a searing pain in his right arm.

His wand clattered to the floor. With a hiss of pain, he clamped a hand to the wound. He'd splinched himself. Stupid, bloody stupid to Apparate that way. To think she wouldn't fight back.

He shot a look back at her over his shoulder, concern overriding the anger and fear. Was she hurt?

That wasn't at all what she had expected to happen. One moment to be there and then the next to be gone with nothing but a rush of air and pop? No, Martha Jones was not at all used to that. Her head spun as they landed and for a moment all she could do was blink and try and put the pieces together.

Martha Jones knew that she'd just been teleported to a place quite against her will, and she'd been teleported by someone who had a magic wand. The Harry Potter series had been tattooed on her brain for quite a long time really, so that filled some of the void, but she still didn't have any idea of who it was that was acting like this.

Scrambling to her feet, Martha looked for him trying to see if he was still dangerous. He was, and she watched him warily for a moment before she noticed the way he was holding his arm and she could see the blood around it. Stupid Martha her brain chanted at her, and she could practically hear a sigh as she moved closer to the man. Not being entirely fool-hardly, she kicked the wand away from him before she moved to see what happened to his arm.

"You're a git." She announced, her eyes narrowing a bit. "Let me see it."

As she moved toward him, he shot out his uninjured hand in an mad grab for the wand, exposing the wound in the process. A chunk of skin was missing. All in all, not as bad as it might be, but it would leave a nasty scar. He doubted very seriously that Xenophilius had essence of dittany at hand. And all of that paled next to the fact that his wife was keeping his wand well out of reach, and he was stuck as Jack Jones.

He clamped his hand back on the wound, giving her a rather sour look at the accusation. Git. She only called him that in jest.

"There is nothing you can do," he seethed. "I hardly think this is a case easily solved with stitches."

He gave a jerk of his head toward the wand. "I need that."

The temptation to test her wasn't easy to ignore; he suspected if he made a move toward the wand, his injury would prevent her from attacking him. Then again, this was the same Do No Harm doctor who had just jammed her foot down on her husband's old injury.

Well, if there was one thing that convinced her that he was going to continue to be untrustworthy, it was the way that he'd grabbed for the wand again. So far he'd grabbed her, bruised her arm and now he'd kidnapped her. Kidnapped her. She was angry, and she didn't trust him as far as she could throw him.

The sour look was met with one of anger and of immense distrust; Martha was worried about what he was going to do next if he got his hand on that wand.

While he seethed at her, Martha just looked impassively at the wound that he'd covered with his hand once more, trying to decide what to do. The demand for the wand wasn't one she wanted to deal with, and she shook her head.

"You should have thought about that before you attempted to kidnap me. Before you did kidnap me. You're supposed to know me, then you had to know that I wouldn't take very kindly to someone deciding to grab me like that!"

"I know you would never have mistaken me for him," he snarled, accusatory and angry and trying to ignore the painful throb of his arm and foot. "I'm supposed to know you? You are supposed to know me!"

The words came tumbling out unchecked; the outrage in his expression didn't fade when he turned away to shrug out of his coat, wincing when the sleeve dragged over the wound, then pulled back the shirtsleeve to inspect it. Let her sit there and stew about what he'd said. He didn't think he could bear it if she tried to see to his injury, herself.

"Kidnapping. I shouldn't have to kidnap you. You've never -" He shot her an ugly scowl. "Never. Denied me. I could accept being dismissed so easily from your mind if you weren't wearing a ring I put on your finger."

The way this man was just flinging accusations at her face wasn't something that she wanted to deal with. She was very angry herself, and the last thing that she wanted was to watch him playing the victim as though this was her fault. "I've already told you that I don't have the slightest idea who the hell you are!"

When he turned away to shrug out of the coat, Martha considered just leaving him there with his anger and his bitterness. This wasn't her fault and she was feeling entirely overwhelmed by him and by what he was saying to her. While he fussed with the wound he wouldn't let her see, Martha bent down and picked up the birch wand, just looking at it for a moment.

However, her examination of the wand stopped when he said that he shouldn't have had to kidnap her. "You'd thought that I would just come with you when I told you I didn't know who you were?!" Her voice was raising again and she looked to the red ring on her finger. "No you didn't. Not unless your name is Thomas Milligan."

Severus shot her a look over his shoulder at the name, but fell very still when he saw her handling his wand. If she snapped it in half, he had no way to replace it. No Ollivander. No (somewhat) benevolent Admiral. No wand.

Slowly, he clambered to his feet and turned to face her, eyeing her warily and putting pressure on the wound. His right sleeve was bloodsoaked nonetheless. The anger and frustration was still there in his expression, a turmoil underneath the surface, but as much as he wanted to shout her down for the conclusions she had drawn (Milligan? Really?), he needed that wand intact.

"Martha," he started evenly, trying to be soothing without seemed patronizing. "You're a doctor. You won't stand by while I bleed, no matter how dangerous I seem. You would do it to no man. Not even Saxon. If you wish to help me, let me have that wand. If I wanted to harm you - truly harm you - I had ample opportunity in the hall."

The wand was safe in her hands; she'd never do any harm to it. She didn't know enough about it, or him to do something to it and the last thing she wanted to do was strand someone whom she allegedly knew in a dangerous place without something so important.

Soothing wasn't his strong suit, especially not with her like this, and Martha crossed her arms, keeping the wand between her fingers carefully. However, she couldn't stop her eyes from going wide at the mention of Saxon, and her spine snapped rigidly straight.

"I'll let you have it, and then I'm leaving. I'm going to walk out of of this room and away from you, and you're going to let me." Her chin was raised and her voice was flat and determined. She would give it to him, of course, because she wouldn't let anyone bleed to death--he was right about that. But she wasn't going to let him do this with her anymore.

He looked stricken at her words, and instead of a response, he simply stared at her. Of all the fears he had felt since that first day in his room when he had passed a mirror to her and told her he would come to her when she called, all the nightmare scenarios he had dreamed up, not one came close to this.

It took him a long time to make a decision - or, at least, it seemed like an eternity to him. How long would it take to remove the charms on himself? Would it matter? How quickly would she make for the door? And what would it accomplish, anyhow? If she didn't recognize his voice, his wand, the ring on his finger, what made him think she would know him by look alone? When he spoke, it was with the same level tone, but there was very real panic in his eyes. "I know you walked the Earth. I know you loved the Doctor and he didn't see you. I know you have a scar on your hip, that you sleep with your shoes on, that your nightmares are of Japan. You are William Shakespeare's Dark Lady. You gave your last breath on the moon to save the Doctor's. You hum when you brush your teeth and leave towels on the floor and when you're homesick, you want Francine's beef stew."

"Martha, I know you. I obviously know you. That must stand for something. If it means anything at all, if you have so much as a spark of recognition when you look at me, if you are willing to entertain the possibility, then you'll give me two minutes. I won't say a word to you, I won't harm you. I won't come near you. You need only wait and watch. If you still wish to walk out, I won't -"

He faltered, swallowing a very ugly emotion which threatened to rise like bile. One he had been fighting since the day he lost Lily. "I will never again trouble you. Two minutes of a lifetime and nothing more. Please."

In general, Martha Jones wasn't a person to walk away from someone who was hurting. She has often gotten reprimanded by Dr. Stoker for staying too long with patients, and the concern had been one that the Doctor had shared, and had yelled at her for as well. Now that she was standing here with this man looking at her like this, it happened again and Martha didn't couldn't just take off running away from him as fast as her legs would sprint.

But she didn't leave, and she didn't look away as he looked at her like that. Without even realizing she was doing it, Martha's thumb moved the crimson ring around her finger, a nervous gesture she'd been doing since it was placed there. As her finger traced the metal, the realization was growing that there weren't any diamonds on it.

Tom's ring would have them.

His breaking the silence drew her attention back to him, and Martha blinked to see the panic in his eyes, and how desperate he looked despite the way in which his voice was level. Alright, she would listen. Her eyes focused on his as he continued, but then they went wide with shock, confusion and concern. There were things that some people would know, obviously. People aboard the Valiant would know about her walking the Earth, but the way he said 'see her' was so like the way that Martha herself had said it.

And the only person who should have remembered her saying it like that was Tish. Her eyes went wider when he mentioned her scar, and Martha pressed her palm to it, people didn't know about it, not really. The thing that threw her the most, however, out of anything this man said was about her shoes. No one knew that, no one but Tom and even then he didn't realize how bad it had been.

He knew her. She couldn't deny that. He knew her and he was bleeding and he was asking for time. If you want time just ask me for it! Hearing her own voice from a memory she didn't recall was nothing in the overview of what was happening. There was something familiar about him, and he knew her and he looked like she was killing him. Maybe she was. Two steps forward were taken, and Martha held out the wand to him slowly, releasing it with a breath.

"Alright, I'll stay. You know me. But fix your arm first, I don't want you to be in anymore pain because of me than this." She took another step forward then, and placed a hand on his sleeve, wanting to see how badly he was damaged.

It was a stupid thing to hope for - that she would somehow miraculously recognize him in spite of everything - but so long with her had made him optimistic. It was disgusting, really, to hope for the improbable. But she was rubbing her ring and responding to his words (things only he knew, things only he could know, particularly the shoes, and how she wore them on the worst nights, when the Barge terrified her). So maybe.

He reached out with his left hand to take the wand, cradling the injured arm against his stomach. The pain of it was negligible in comparison to the knowledge that she would at least give him the opportunity to test his theory.

"I can't heal myself," he admitted. Not because he had never learned those sort of spells - but because he was right-handed and the injury was in an awkward relative location. "I'll need this to reach someone who can. Another assurance that I won't keep you."

With that, he painstakingly gripped the wand with his right hand and, charm by charm, removed the disguise. John Hix's nose became Severus Snape's, his hair lengthened, his eyes darkened. The beard vanished. All told - thirty seconds of effort, and he spent them trying very hard not to look at her.

"Then you should at least let me wrap it for you so you stop bleeding!" Being a doctor was easier than to deal with whatever else was going on (and there was a lot of it). Martha had always slipped into the doctoring mode when things were stressful for her, and now wasn't any different than that. If he couldn't heal himself, then she wanted to at least make certain that he didn't bleed out or get infected because of the way in which she'd... Well, the way that she had responded to his kidnapping of her.

Despite knowing that the bit of wood had been magic, and that they had both been apparated to being here, watching this man remove the charms on his face was both weird and intriguing. The way his nose and hair lengthened, and the manner his eyes darkened were just so weird, even for someone who had seen loads of weird things. Each knew bit of face that he revealed bought with it a new familiarity and Martha couldn't help staring at him.

I know this man.

Her eyes went wide, and her lower lip dropped for a moment, after he was revealed, and then Martha groaned audibly. With her palm pressed to her head, Martha winced. Memories slammed into her brain like someone had a jackhammer, and she squeezed her eyes shut as nearly three years worked themselves back into her brain.

There had been good memories, brilliant ones when she'd shown up, when she'd seen people whom she hadn't known. The friends she'd made, the people she'd met and whom she adored. Then there were the things that were bad, Saxon's capture of her and the subsequent death. Nathan, the Rani, Tallahassee, and then there was her memories of him.

Doctor, Severus Snape is on board. Blimey, he's real.

Thank you, Severus. No one deserves it. Ever.

You're a healer. I might even go so far as to say you would do everything in your power to heal the Master before you allowed him to die.

And it's a testament to the sort of person I am that I had to get myself well into my cups before I could say any of that, or this: I don't regret it. I'm sorry for it, but I don't regret it.

Eventually means- "When I realized I wasn't going to get over this."

Always.

Black dresses, green bathing suits, vacations in the Potter world, couches both purple and not, firewhiskey and beaches and beheadings. Martha gasped softly and she reached for him without thinking about it. "Sev."

The moment between the last of the countercharms and the one word she said stretched out horribly. Worse, when she groaned, he had to tamp down a swell of hope. It could mean anything. Anything at all. (Or it could mean she didn't retain her memories of the Barge; he had always proved to be an aberration, remembering the Barge when others didn't. It could mean seeing him brought back everything. It could mean there was a Reasonable Explanation.)

He felt rather feckless at that moment, dripping blood, wand down, waiting for sentence to be passed. Holding out hope for something so -

When she reached for him, some twisted part inside of him sneered and hissed that this had all been a prank, that she had deliberately set out to hurt him. He knew it was absurd, that Martha would never do such a thing; he could trust her with his life. All the same, he took an involuntary step back, away from her, cradling his injured arm with the other again and eyeing her warily. A wounded animal shying from aid.