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"Three weeks!?" Martha laughs loudly as she collects the pile of dirty wine glasses in the sink. "How are we going to organise everything by then?"
Humphrey's not sure how to respond. The thrill of anticipation hasn't escaped his system yet and, as far as he's concerned, it doesn't matter where or when he gets married, so long as it's to Martha. Settling on a hum by way of response, he fluffs their cushions and resets them atop the lounge.
"I mean, we've so much to do! The theme- the guests- the food- the cake! Oh, Humph, the cake! What flavour do we want?" Martha's being flustered draws a giggle out of Humphrey. It's usually he that's so disoriented by eclectic thoughts.
She's just finished running the hot water into the now-soapy sink when Humphrey notices her turn around. She looks lost when he manages a brief moment of eye contact with her. Her focus jumps around between the furniture pieces in their boat's makeshift kitchen-dining-living room.
"And where was the booking again?"
Now, she looks directly at Humphrey. It almost frightens him, her intensity. He idly imagines that this is how it must feel for Martha nearly every day. It must be similar for Esther when he's mulling over a case, and Kelby, and Margo.
He laughs properly now and steps forward into Martha's personal space. His hands land gently on her shoulders. "The town hall," he begins slowly. There's a heavy pause as Humphrey searches his fiancée's eyes. "If that's okay?" She nods shortly, but she's now staring at their fridge and he's almost certain that she hadn't actually heard him.
"Martha?" he asks finally. Their guests left at least half an hour ago and, since, Martha's been in her own world, rapidly tidying the deck and sweeping and washing and scrubbing. She's been working as though she's rostered herself for the closing shift at the Ten Mile Kitchen, rushed and tired.
He can only recall seeing her in such a dishevelled state twice in the time he's known her. The first instance was when they'd decided to embark on their IVF journey. She'd been so fixated on determining their precise diets and vitamin intake to maximise the possibility of her pregnancies' succeeding that it'd been a challenge to get through to her for at least two days. Humphrey had finally managed to pull Martha's attention onto him and get her sitting down, away from her planning scrapbooks and her Excel spreadsheets and her 'Spontaneous Ideas' notebook. They'd watched the London traffic rush along the street from the outdoor steps that lead into their flat. Between the fresh air and the repetition of the passing cars and Humphrey's firm clasp on her shoulder, she was able to snap out of her haze. It was such an anomalous experience - for Humphrey to be the one quietening Martha's thoughts - that he'd wondered for days whether he was truly invested enough in their endeavours to have a child as he didn't care for vitamins or structured exercise regimes.
The second time that Martha frightened Humphrey with her sudden antithetical behaviours was the week or so before they moved to Shipton Abbott. For nearly six days, he had to sleep alone because Martha refused to leave their lounge room. For six days, their flat was dismantled around Humphrey and, although he would always help out, packing for the move, cataloguing all their belongings and confirming all the details of their move became Martha's obsessions. Unhealthily so, Humphrey had decided quite quickly into the ordeal.
She hadn't eaten regularly throughout those six days. She only ate when he ate, and he very frequently forgot to eat. And she hadn't been sleeping properly either, if at all. Once or twice, Humphrey'd caught her passed out on the couch but, in laying a blanket over her or attempting to carry her to their bed to tuck her in, she woke up easily every time. It'd been a very distressing week for Humphrey. He'd managed Martha's every need as she had abandoned the entire concept of self-care. And he was still working at the Met Police for the first days of Martha's panic, so he hadn't noticed her discombobulation until it was, perhaps, too late.
He'd taken her out for a drive on the sixth day. It was later into the evening than he would've liked but he'd wanted to avoid the after-work rush hour as best as anyone can avoid a traffic standstill in London. He'd driven for what felt like hours. Until 'London' could no longer describe their surroundings. It must've been hours, because they reached the sea. Wakering Stairs, specifically. He'd never been before but his concern for Martha tampered any excitement he might've had about visiting the unfamiliar look-out. Once they'd sat on the rocks, their bare feet resting gently against the rocky sand, and allowed the wash of the sea's waves to clear their minds, Martha was pulled out of whatever anxiety-induced spell she'd scared Humphrey with for nearly a week. It'd been a great relief for Humphrey and, oddly enough, the whole week had helped Humphrey learn more about himself and how he deals with his disordered mind.
But now, it's happening a third time. And, hopefully, he can cease Martha's spiral before she forgets the importance of sustenance and sleep.
"Martha?" he repeats, louder than is probably appropriate for such a late hour of the night. "Martha, look at me." And she does, albeit slowly. She doesn't speak but Humphrey can easily spot the query in her eyes.
"Follow me," he instructs, firmly though not unkindly. And he takes her hand, guiding her from their boat and to their little, yellow convertible. He opens her door and says, "hop in; we're going for a drive," before seating himself in the driver's seat and starting the engine.
Martha, to her credit, follows Humphrey's instruction quickly and without question, and they are on their way north before Humphrey is even sure of his own plan.
What's something that worked for Martha the other two times? He must've asked himself that question at least a thousand times. He asked it after the first instance, when he was unsure what it meant for his partner to be in such a state. And he asked it moreso after they moved.
Would she react this way to every significant change in their lives? What triggers this reaction? Why did the busy streets of London outside their small flat calm her once but not the second time? What gave Humphrey the idea of driving to the East Coast to help her out the second time? Why did it work?
He's pondered some of these questions for many months and, others, for years. As a person so used to the experience, he's wanted to know how to support her when, inevitably, she would spiral again. Naively, however, he certainly didn't consider that putting a date on their wedding would inspire such an occasion.
If it were Martha's idea, she would've considered that, he notes pointedly and tries desperately not to berate himself right here and right now, when his attention is supposed to be on Martha and on the road and not his own inconsideration.
It takes great effort, he realises as he parks the car aside a pump at the motorway petrol station, to keep his thoughts focused on his fiancée. As he tops up their car with unleaded and makes for the small convenience store, his mind wanders dramatically. He was so sure of his plan when he'd held Martha's hand off the boat and directed her to the car. Well, as sure as he's ever been of any plan he's ever made, at least. But, now? Now, he can't help but second-guess his every move. But having two disoriented and dysfunctional beings in a car together would do the world absolutely no good, so he takes a deep breath. He can do this. For Martha, he can do anything.
He's snatching them some sandwiches and a big bag of Walkers to buy alongside the petrol and heading back to the car. Martha's still there, sat in the left front seat, looking around. Some too-optimistic part of Humphrey tells him that her staring around isn't as aimless or dazed as it had been whilst she was frantically cleaning their boat. He reaches the car and places a hand on her shoulder over the door. He leans down, pressing a soft peck to her hair. Her only reaction is that of a muffed hum, but it's a contented hum, Humphrey's sure.
"Can you hold this for me here, love?" he asks quietly, still bent over at her height.
It takes her a moment, but she nods and wraps her hands around the bag as he lowers it into her lap. It's kind of cute, he muses--the way her small fingers curl perfectly around the top half of the bag and interlock with each other on the opposite side. If she wasn't so distressed about their upcoming wedding, he might've told her that. He might've cupped her interlocked hands in his and run the pad of his thumb gently along the side of hers. But he doesn't. Because although long moments of physical affection work for them most of the time, they most certainly won't now. What Martha needs now is for a focused Humphrey to follow his wild plan. His wild plan of driving north.
So Humphrey seats himself back in the driver's seat, lets his eyes linger once more on Martha's silhouette in the dim lighting of the petrol pump behind her, then sets off.
The darkness has well settled around them by now. The short, Dartmoor trees quickly become indistinguishable from the bushland behind them and the street lights become more and more infrequent as they drive up and into the National Park. It would be a gorgeous sight, Humphrey knows, if only there was light gracing the endless plains through which he's driving them. However, there's something cathartic and peaceful about the stars glistening somewhat brightly above them and the moon's being stuck conveniently behind the few clouds hovering across the sky.
He's not sure where to stop, he realises as he turns yet another corner of what is promising to be an extremely windy road. He's been to Dartmoor before, he knows many of the landmarks, but he doesn't know the lookouts. Moreover, he doesn't know the best places at night.
The news of Spring hasn't yet reached the mountains and the winds are stronger than they ought to be. He has time to note this as he wishes for a moment that he could close the top of their car. However, before he gets to truly regretting not bringing a jacket, he spots the turnoff for Roos Tor, a collection of stones that was most definitely a castle once upon a time. Of all the sites in the Dartmoor National Park, this is most certainly one of his favourites.
He continues onward until the road deforms into what must be an unofficial parking lot. Then he shifts the car into park and takes a breath to exist in the silence of the open plains in the dead of night. He turns to Martha quickly though, because no matter how calming he finds this place to be, tonight is about Martha and Humphrey's desperate to know whether his intuition was right about her a third time.
"It's gorgeous," she whispers when he finally looks at her.
He nods in hasty, excited agreement as he fumbles, "y-yeah, yes. What a sight."
Their car's headlights have switched off now, so the only illumination comes from the moon and the light pollution of the few nearby cities. Humphrey's really starting to feel the cold now and he shivers for a third time in one minute, so he shuffles as closely to Martha as physically possible, hardly mindful of the gearstick until he rams the side of his leg roughly into it.
"Och!" And the pain must be amplified by the cold because his entire body experiences a shockwave of pain from his clumsiness. And his exclamation must be loud because Martha's hand is on his shoulder in seconds and the other is on his leg and he very quickly recognises where this is going.
He reminds himself to take a deep breath. And another. Slowly. And one more. His eyes must've closed without conscious effort and his hands fisted because he feel the release of tension more than anything else when he's able to breathe normally again.
Martha's regarding him with pointed concern when he turns his head and it takes everything in him not to laugh when she asks, "are you okay?"
"I-" A long breath and a slight smile. "I was intending to ask you that question."
Martha doesn't resist her amusement and the laughter that dissipates out across the endlessness around them is probably the sweetest sound Humphrey's ever heard.
"I'm glad you're feeling better," he admits gratefully, moving his hand over the central console to rest atop her knee. "Everything will work out, I promise."
There's a subtle grimace undertoning her smile, but he sees her attempt at sincerity when she nods in agreement. "Is your leg okay?"
He'd be lying if he said the striking pain of the impact had completely dispelled but he can't bring himself to remove the loving smile off his partner's face. "It's doing okay, just got a little shock, I reckon."
She nods genuinely now and looks away into the distance. "Oh, Humph..." And her tone is laced with a confusing blend of delight and disbelief.
"Hmmm?" He tries to figure out what she's staring at but finds nothing save the vague silhouettes of rocks in the distance.
She turns back to him and holds his gaze with perhaps the brightest smile he's ever witnessed on anyone. "Three weeks!?"