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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.

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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.

When he took the step back and away from her, Martha visibly winced. One hand rested on her head, and the other held her rolling stomach as if doing so would stop the waves and waves of nausea that were pooling through her as more memories slammed themselves into her head, making room, forcing it to widen.

The Rani, The Doctor, Coyo, Jack, Sveta, bets and Merlin. Another sharp gasp and Martha just kept holding her head as more and more memories slipped in. Howie, fighting with Sveta about not telling her about the wedding. The wedding itself, the way she wore a black dress that had once been borrowed and how the beach had looked. Crimson rings made of fire engines and just..

"Sev." She gasped the word again, reaching out for him, wanting him, trying to understand how things fit and where things were. Jack Jones. Made perfect sense now, a man who looked like Hix on the network. Her brain felt like it was exploding in on itself. And then it stopped, mostly. Well, it had lessened to a dull roar and Martha shook her head again.

"Let me help," Martha's voice was entirely regret and apology and she took another step towards him.

He looked from her face to her hands, then to his own arm, assessing the situation. It was easier to take control of this - the injury, the dull ache in his foot, the blood spreading along his sleeve - than to think about why she had forgotten him. To think maybe, maybe she hadn't forgotten him and just didn't want him.

"I need -" He faltered at that, then looked up at her again, scrutinizing her from behind a guarded, expressionless mask. His eyes moved away from hers quickly. What did he need? He needed his wife - but now that he had her, he was treating her like a stranger. Relief warring with hurt, fear and uncertainty. Lashing out, wasn't that what she called it? Hurting her to protect himself from any further harm.

He needed to heal his arm. "Xenophilius. He knows who I am; he may have dittany."

Or something of his own concoction, but the possibility was better than nothing.

Martha was already removing her jacket, and then she pulled her jumper over her head. Without waiting for him to let her touch him (when had she ever, really?) Martha pressed the fabric to his arm, applying pressure to it with as much care as she could manage, her face just a complete mask of guilt.

Xenophilius, right. Martha nodded for a minute and then holding one hand against the sweater she pulled out her CID. "Do you have a different way of contacting him? I know you mentioned you needing your wand."

Right now she wasn't sure how to go about apologizing for something that just wasn't her fault. But for that, guilt and apology haunted her eyes and settled onto her shoulders like a shroud. Her brain was already doing the thing where she was reminded about what had happened. How had she forgotten her time aboard the Barge? How?

He almost jerked away when she put her hands on him, but the reality that she remembered him hit like a wave of relief. Petty, stupid and petty, to think she would ever intentionally act that way toward him. He let her tend to his arm, his left hand reaching to touch her face, but hovering away from her cheek and finally dropping. It was wet with blood. The urge to touch her passed, and he looked away once more, deliberating.

"I trust Lovegood very little. He is protecting my identity, but only, I imagine, until a better offer comes along." He needed the wand to Apparate, but, too, for self-defense. Just in case Xenophilius got ideas into his screwy, cross-eyed head. "'Better safe than sorry' would be appropriate."

"Nevermind," he added quietly, "that I thought it entirely likely you would snap it in half."

Edited 2011-11-09 15:28 (UTC)

The way his muscles tensed for a moment hurt her, because she knew that he had almost pulled away. There was nothing else that he could have been doing at that moment. When he didn't touch her, she could feel lead in her stomach and mingling with the nausea in her stomach.

She was attempting to focus on something other than the worry about what had happened, and about what would happen once the two of them stopped being in crisis mode. She'd forgotten him and he'd hurt her and this was just going to be a mess.

"I'll try him, then. Or you can, but..." Swallowing quickly Martha took a deep breath. "I wouldn't have done that to you, even like that I wouldn't have done it. I know how important that is to you, I just..." Had been scared.

It seemed like the pair of them were walking a fine line between the immediate problem and the bigger picture, and neither wanted to think about what it might mean that she had forgotten him, mistaken him for the Doctor, injured him when he tried to get her alone.

He shouldn't have grabbed her, he decided - but the past few days had been spent with the worst sort of thoughts, hoping she waited, hoping he could escape, when all the while, she had forgotten. He had frightened her, he took her to mean, but he couldn't bring himself to feel regret over it. Neither could he quite quash the desire to blame her. She'd been wearing the ring he put on her finger and thought of Milligan.

Irrational? No. But he was the one with days of agony at the thought of losing her, a gaping wound in his arm, and an aching foot. Whatever he had done to her, he thought, she had repaid him in spades.

Yes, it was far easier to simply focus on his arm and getting help. He nodded curtly at her CiD. "Contact him."

Martha wasn't quite so worried about the mistaking him for the Doctor, or for the injuring him when he'd tried to grab her. It had made sense in her head: the way someone whom she didn't know had been so insistent that she had known him, and then the way someone had grabbed her and snarled and her and growled at her. Those weren't the actions of someone who... And Martha wasn't going to think about that anymore.

Tying the wool of the jumper tightly over his wound, Martha wiped her hands on her slacks for the lack of anything else to be touching. It was only that she was in doctor mode that her hands were as still as they were when they pulled out her CID device and for a moment she had to stare at it, remembering the differences between this communications device and the one that they'd used aboard the Barge.

The Barge. It filled her with a sudden longing. All the people whom she'd promised that she'd not abandon, all of the friends they'd made and all the memories. Everything, everything that she had lost and how it must have felt for him when he'd come...

Keeping her voice calm she sent the private message to Xenophilius . Her voice was soft and urgent. "I'm with Severus Snape and we need you. It's urgent. We need dittany or something like it." Turning off the recording, Martha frowned again.

"You should sit and we should elevate your arm." Doctoring once more ago, Martha was worried when she met his eyes again.

Instead of acknowledging her words (or meeting her eyes), Severus turned his attention to using his wand to clean the blood from his left hand. The shirt was ruined, he noted, but he made the attempt nonetheless. It gave him something tangible to focus on, though each movement of his right wrist caused a flare of pain from the muscle in his forearm.

"Claire Bennet is here," he said, a propos of nothing. It seemed like a good idea to tally just who their enemies and allies were. Better than worrying about the chasm he felt between himself and his wife. "As are the Lestranges and Narcissa Malfoy. And Gaheris Rhade."

While Claire wasn't whom Martha would have expected from the Barge, just knowing someone who she knew was a good thing. And Rhade as well... "Did they know you? Are they from the Barge?" Of course the other part was why he had been wearing Hix's face.

He looked like Hans Gruber.

If they were going to talk around this, Martha did as well. "So, low profile then, Sev? You being Jack Jones and looking like Hix?" The Lestranges and the Malfoys and a muggle wife who had driven her heel on his foot. This was going to go over exceptionally well.

"You should sit down."

"No-one knew me," he replied; while there was no accusation, there was a distinct lack in his tone. Disappointment and weariness, yes, but beneath...nothing. "I thought, perhaps -"

He wished for a moment that she would stop calling him that nickname, and immediately loathed himself for it. He had invited her to do so - only a few weeks ago, no less. Had so much really changed today, that he wanted to put a wall up between himself and her, brick by brick? She was the only real ally he had.

Now that she remembered him.

At her insistence, he crossed to one of the reading chairs near the shelves and sat, keeping his wand clenched in his fist. He wasn't sure why he was doing it in spite of the pain; perhaps he expected an attack. "I have no desire to interact with them. I thought perhaps, if you were here, you would know me."

Weakly, he added, "I suppose I win that wager, after all."

Not even his wife, not even the woman who loved him. Why didn't she remember that she had loved him? Why didn't... The lack in his tone was sharp and jagged and it was crushing. All of this was just completely overwhelming, and she didn't know why on earth this would have happened. One moment she remembered walking and then there was three years of the Barge cutting through her brain.

After he sat down, Martha moved over and picked up her jacket, tugging it back on as if it was some sort of armor; she wanted her coat. Her proper dragon coat and the mirror in her pocket and not to have this weirdness between them.

Then he laid it out, that he thought she would know her. A fresh stab and Martha took a deep breath before she moved to sit near him. Not in the normal place (like his lap)but close enough that she could watch him, that she could touch him if possible. If he wanted her to.

If she felt like he ever wanted her to again.

"I think it was something like Barge amnesia. I needed someone who I knew to wake up that part of my memory. If I had my memories I would have known you in an instant." Her voice was pleading, and she locked eyes with him, wanting him to believe her--willing him too.

He let the silence drag out, his eyes on the makeshift bandage created by her jumper as he rolled the handle of his wand between his fingers. He knew her words were the Reasonable Explanation he had wanted. There was no call to continue behaving this way. She was sorry; he only needed to look at her to know she felt guilty.

That wasn't something he wanted of her. He was simply sulking, and in his case, misery really did love company. Not at her expense, however.

At last, he transferred his wand from one hand to the other and set it aside, though well out of her reach. It was only then that he looked her in the eye.

He wanted to tell her how he thought he'd lost her, how there had been no Albus Dumbledore to stop him from doing something drastic, how utterly alone he'd felt. Instead, he frowned slightly and asked, "Has he responded?"

Edited 2011-11-09 19:18 (UTC)