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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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The Snapes were the sort of couple who could sit in companionable silence. They could (and did) just sit there being in each other's company and having each other's nearness being a pleasant sort of comfort. This situation wasn't anywhere close to that, and Martha felt twitchy all over, and she almost broke the silence several times, but she didn't quite know how to go about doing it.

Then he spoke and Martha checked her messages. "Not yet. Before..." She took a deep breath and then she moved a bit closer to him, touching his arm above the wound in order to check on the bandage as if his eyes could somehow undo it.

"I got a job, working as a doctor at this place called Hellsing. It reminds me of Torchwood only without Jack. And bigger, loads bigger. If nothing else I'll take you there and try and treat you."

When she touched his elbow, he reacted instinctively, though not to pull away from her. He moved to reach for her in return with his uninjured arm, only to realize she was doing nothing more than checking the makeshift bandage. He dropped his hand uselessly to his knees and tried to focus on her words, instead.

"I've been told of Hellsing." It seemed the safest reply - safer than asking why she had found a job, safer than asking why she wanted to situate herself here (they had a life waiting for them, didn't they?), and if he didn't ask those questions, he wouldn't have to think about what had happened in the hall. "They seem to be a sort of magical law enforcement. Aurors. That was my impression, at least."

Okay, reaching for her. Well, that settled it at least a little bit. Despite everything else, he reached for her and Martha moved one hand down and laced it through his, her fingers holding his tightly as he spoke. It felt like a very long moment before he'd finished and she could lean over and press her lips to his.

The kiss was soft and it was slow and it was a definite 'I'm sorry' as well as a bit of 'please forgive me.' Two weeks of missing him desperately, and she wasn't certain how to tell him that. She didn't know how to tell him she'd barely slept and kept reaching out for someone else, how the houses were all wrong whens she'd looked at them and how there'd been a person shaped hole in her she couldn't explain.

When she pulled back, Martha felt less lost, but things weren't fixed--this hadn't been something magic to undo it. Instead of answering to what he said, all she could say was, "I missed you even when I didn't know who you were."

That helped. She didn't lie, and if she said she missed him, no matter how unbelievable it was, she meant it. It was difficult to keep up with a dour attitude with her hand in his. He wasn't alone here any longer.

His eyes flickered from her face to her arm and back again as he slipped slowly into the old routine with her. Words and gestures were used, of course, but also that talent for silent communication. Glances, subtle nods - a couple, yes, but also allies. And now he was asking if he had hurt her, fearing saying the words out loud might change her mind about staying.

He wasn't quite ready to accept that he had done the unforgivable and lost his temper, but he couldn't simply ignore it and wish it away.

She didn't lie, she was bad at it, and she definitely didn't lie to him. Ever. That was one of the things about their relationship: no lying, no leaving and inadvertently she'd done both. It made her angry at whatever had pulled her here from their home on the Barge. From their life.

The unspoken question was answered aloud, if only for the reason that it needed to be said. "I'm alright. You didn't hurt me, love. I'm fine now that you're here." Tomorrow there wouldn't be a single mark to show where he'd grabbed her like that.

He had lost his temper, but as he was acknowledging it, there wasn't anything else to say. And it was true that Martha felt a million times better now that she was here, and now that she was just holding his hand and perched on the arm of his chair.

What he couldn't ask, she could. "How's your foot?"

"It feels as though it was shot, healed over improperly, and then brutally ground by the heel of a tiny, irate young woman," he sighed as he leaned back in the chair. Her response satisfied and unsettled him at the same time; she wasn't hurt, but something in the back of his mind suggested she ought not be quite so forgiving about it. She shouldn't say what had passed between them in the hall was made right now that she knew who he was.

His fingers tightened around hers as though reassuring himself that she was real. "When I found myself in that room, I thought for certain I'd lost you, Martha."

If it had been any other time, or any other situation the tiny, irate young woman would have had a huge issue with what he'd done. Any of the pieces would have cause a huge issue never mind all of the pieces that were pushed together. But the circumstances that the two of them were in had been extreme and she was willing to forgive his anger when he'd thought he'd lost her.

It didn't bode well for his promise to leave her alone if she told him to, however.

Martha frowned, and then she leaned over and rested her other hand against his face. "Sev, you're not going to lose me. I saw you and remembered. Now we just need to decide what happens here." A pause, and a frown. "And how we get out of here to go home." There was a sound and Martha frowned again, holding up her CiD with it's message from Lovegood.

"And we need to decide to tell people what we are to one another, given the way you were disguised."

When she touched him, he moved almost imperceptibly to lean into it. Had she told him to leave her alone, he would have - but it would have been the hardest thing he had ever done. And in time, he supposed, he would simply have given up.

It had been his knee-jerk reaction to losing Lily, to wish himself dead, and that had been unrequited. He never knew what he was missing. With Martha, he would know. He had two years of memories that would eat away at him each and every time she looked at him and didn't remember.

He tried not to think about it. There was work to be done; things more important than 'what if'. He touched the CiD in her hand to angle it so he could read it, then gave a soft, frustrated sigh.

"I barely trust him as it is. Tell him...you're a friend from the 'elsewhere' I mentioned. He knows not to ask questions about it. If he comes, we'll explain that the marriage is a ruse to avoid uncomfortable questions." A beat passed, and then he amended pointedly, "I will tell him it's a ruse."

Edited 2011-11-10 16:05 (UTC)

Their marriage as a ruse. Martha hadn't expected that to be on the table for discussion, and it showed in the instant rejection of the idea on her face and in her eyes. She didn't want to have something that was such a core of who she was be written off by other people as some sort of trick. Especially when one added the fact that she was going to be very bad at maintaining such a deception.

Of course, she knew that he was only suggesting it for their safety, and that he was trying to do what was best for him but there needed to be other options than simply... telling people that what was between them was a lie. While he may be able to avoid expressing his emotions for her, he definitely, was less likely to hide hers for him.

Taking a deep breath, Martha looked around for a moment before she spoke. "Uncomfortable questions?" There was a worried and crestfallen tone in her words, and her hand just moved over his cheek again. The subject of just what this ruse would mean was causing all sorts of question in her brain. Questions that held answers that Martha didn't like.

He watched her reaction closely for as long as he could bring himself to do so, then looked away, as though watching the door. In truth, he couldn't continue to see the look in her eyes without going back on his suggestion. He was certain there were other ways.

"Uncomfortable situations, I suppose I should say. We arrived together, and we wish to return to the Barge together. Therefore, we do not wish to allow ourselves to become enmeshed in personal intrigues. A marriage - a new marriage - is fair excuse to want privacy. To reject advances from other men," he added pointedly. "As to why I wish to lie to Xenophilius himself...he isn't loyal to me, Martha. Think what he did to Potter. If it would better his situation, I have no doubt he would turn me over to the few Death Eaters living here. Or you, if he thought I loved you."

He realized after he said it how bad it sounded. If he thought I loved you. He didn't bother to correct himself, however. She knew better than to think he didn't love her...didn't she?

Edited 2011-11-10 17:53 (UTC)

"What he did to Harry was because he wanted his daughter back, and he wanted her safe. Wouldn't you make a deal with the devil if it meant having me safe? I would, for you." She would, there was little doubt of it. If it meant assuring his safety, Martha would make a deal with Saxon himself. And Martha wasn't unaware of the fact, that in essence, he had done it before. He'd made a deal with Dumbledore in order to save Lily. Even if it didn't work, he'd made the effort and that didn't mean that he hadn't make the effort.

"And how are we going to explain us living together?" It was a forgone conclusion, naturally. Martha had just found him again. "That we're doing it for the same reasons? That it's convenient?" She didn't like this at all. She understood it, that much was certain, but liking it was another matter entirely.

And she did know that he loved her, and Martha had known what he'd meant when he said it. Severus Snape loved her to bits and right now that was a weakness and he was shutting down everything else to protect it and her.

She felt miserable, her head hurt and she just want to go home, to be home.

Under normal circumstances, he would be willing to sit here and patiently explain to her every angle of his plan. Every reason why it wasn't simply paranoia, how it should work. But his foot ached and his arm throbbed with pain; he hadn't slept since he arrived here, and he had already lost his temper once. So when she asked question after question, poking holes in his plan simply because she didn't like it, he reacted. Poorly.

"You tell me what to do, then," he snapped angrily. "Shall we go about this as ourselves? Shall we let the Lestranges know I'm here, Muggle wife in tow? And if they kill you for sport or spite, Martha, what then? There is no death toll here - I asked."

Once the final sentence was out, he looked stricken and quickly, almost guiltily dropped his gaze. There was absolutely no reason for him to have asked such a thing upon his arrival. Not when he supposedly had his mind on other things, such as getting home. Or the loss of his wife.

"Tell him what you like."

He'd asked about the death toll. He'd only been here days and he'd asked about the death toll. Martha's breath was a sharp intake and she just looked at him. Even if she had known about the death toll, asking about it's relevancy here wasn't something that she would have done, especially not so soon.

Everything else was forgotten for a moment. The situation, the fact that they were stuck here, the way they were arguing about what was happening (though that argument was likely only tabled for a moment) slipped by the wayside as she stared at him in completely shock and concern.

There was a precedent for his thoughts, and Martha remembered it. Even more so, she could hear it thoughtfully provided by Stephen Fry's voice during lengthy flights. “Gone … dead … I wish...I were dead... There was no other need to know whether or not a person could die here. Doubt and worry moved over her-what would have happened if she hadn't remembered? What would he have done if she'd not been here at all?

Her heart was feeling like there was a hole carved in it as she reached over and took his chin in her hands. The touch was loving, but firm and Martha held it so she could peer into his eyes. Her voice was soft. "Sev, no. Never, don't do that. I'll find you. Somehow, even if I need to go back to the Barge to get back."

He moved as though to jerk away from her, but at her words, he reach up, took one of her hands away from his face, and fixed her with a look. A pointed reminder that she couldn't very well get him back if she couldn't remember a thing about him.

Granted, it hadn't been the case during those first eight hours in the arrival room, but it invalidated her assurances nonetheless. She would never even have known.

Instead of offering a response, he decided to keep things on-topic. "What would you like to do, Martha, about our present situation? Are you willing to accept the risk posed by the Lestranges?"

Martha just stared at him blankly for a moment when he took his hand away from her face, and at the look. She couldn't have found him if he'd...

She didn't want to think about it not one little bit. Thinking about losing him made her stomach clamp up tightly and ball itself into lead and fear. The memory of what it had been like to see him be decapitated came to her suddenly, and Martha needed to swallow around the bile that built in her throat.

Pulling away a bit, Martha removed her hands from her face and settled them into her lap. Four versions of themselves had found one another, and he had been thinking about ending his life. It made her hurt.

"Your Jack Jones," she sounded tired. "I'm Martha. Married to keep people from asking stupid questions or chatting me up." Some of the fire was back in her voice. "We just want to go home. You don't love me, it's nothing but an arrangement as far as Lovegood is concerned."

He waited until she had repeated back to him the entirety of the plan, then nodded with satisfaction. Or, perhaps, resignation. He didn't particularly want to lie - certainly not using a mirror of the truth.

But it was the safest option. He reached out and took one of her hands, holding it reassuringly for a moment as though to remind her that it was nothing but an act. "We'll escape. We'll return to the Barge, Martha. And then home."

He didn't want to think about Mozenrath's reaction to his disappearance. He had enough to be getting on with at the moment. Releasing her hand, he gestured to his arm. "Xenophilius. Please."

Martha just looked exceptionally unhappy. It was written in the line of her shoulders, in her face and in the sigh that she made when he nodded. Her lips pursed for a moment as if she was going to say something in disagreement with him but she didn't want to at the moment. Not when everything had just happened.

They'd discuss it again later, but for now she just gave his fingers a squeeze as he held onto her hand. Returning to the Barge, picking up Mozenrath and then home.

As he released her hand, Martha released a lengthy breath, and then after a moment she responds to it. Her voice is soft but clinical, she's definitely in Doctor mode when she speaks. "I know him from where he was before." The camera moves towards Severus, showing him for just a second, and later she'll go back and delete the response.

"We're in the library and need it. Please come." She was counting on him being a good man, but right now, Martha didn't know if they could trust him or not.

He was sorely tempted to relent and allow her to tell the other man the truth, simply because of the expression on her face. This would be a strain, he knew - things wouldn't quite be the same between them. Keeping their marriage a secret once before had gone over exceptionally poorly.

But she had never been particularly happy with his methods for keeping her safe. It was simply the way things were, and they would have to soldier on. He couldn't protect her if the situation wasn't completely controlled.

"What is he doing?" he asked finally, leaning up to see when he heard no response from Xenophilius. The image showed...a ceiling. Exasperated, he asked, "Did he leave?"

And then they had kept their marriage quiet for a bet. From their friends with the intention of it being a secret that only they could share between them. It was something that had been fun and positive.

This was neither of those things. This was negative. It was negative and it would mean them hiding their emotions and everything else. It would mean that everything they did from here on in would have at least some element of a lie in it. Right now Martha was attempting to determine if their safety was worth that. Looking at him, thinking about what he had thought about doing; Martha knew that he was worth it.

It just was going to be difficult. Incredibly difficult, and she didn't like it one damn bit. Right now in her head she was drawing parallels with the time she'd spent in 1913. Look how well that had turned out.

Flicking the mute button on the communicator, Martha shook her head. "He's looking for it, I think."

He noted the way she muted the device and raised his eyes to her, questioning the action. Perhaps she would argue his decision, after all.

Perhaps when he was in full health, when his arm didn't scream with pain, he could allow a cooler head to prevail. Then again, he didn't think she would be happy about this one way or the other.

"Martha," he attempted flatly. "You know this is for the best."

"I thought it would be better if he wasn't able to listen in, in case that was what he was planning on doing." Her voice was a bit flat in response to his questioning of it, and she didn't like that in the least.

"I've had about three minutes to deal with the fact that I lost over two years of my memories, the fact that my husband considered killing myself when I wasn't here, and now I need to tell people that one of the things that I'm most proud of and glad for in my entire life is a ruse so people don't hit on me. Sev, don't tell me this is for the best."

He opened his mouth to reply, closed it again, and looked away. What could he say to that, really? He was asking her to hide what they were. And from the perspective of a husband - as opposed to a protector, as opposed to someone who should take care of her - it did strike him as wrong. No, he would have liked very much not to hide what she was to him.

He couldn't think of a thing to say in response to make things better, so finally, quietly, he replied, "Yes, dear."

For a moment, Martha didn't know what to say to that. She was torn between laughing and crying over it. 'Yes dear'. A part of her wondered if he wished that he had any of those fight coupons in his pockets. For a moment, Martha just sighed, and then she touched her ring before she leaned over and kissed him softly.

"We made it through the barge and got married. We can get through this."

"Of course we can," he replied flatly, as though that was never the problem. After all, there had been worse things. The time he lied. Sirius. They had managed through that; this would be comparatively simple, if emotionally frustrating.

He reach over to tilt her CiD toward him again, wondering just what Xenophilius could be doing. How long did it take to find dittany?

As if by magic-- or rather, literally by magic, but it's rather serendipitous all the same-- the CiD reveals nothing but the ceiling of a little Flyside apartment, and due to the fact that it is muted, there's no warning when--

Crack!

Xenophilius appears, a little off-balance and dazed as he occasionally tends to be when Apparating in a hurry. His wand is out, just in case, a long thin carved in the design of a narwhal horn, and fly-away white-blonde hair somewhat mussed, but that's a little usual too.

Most importantly, in his hand is a palm-sized vial, half-filled with liquid, and a little greasy to touch.