Hello readers! You may know me as a Star Wars fanfic writer, BUT I had had had to write this fic! Touch really is the best show like ever ever! Martin and Jake's strained yet completely loving relationship is so appealing and real to me - when something tugs at my heart strings I can't not write about it! So here is chapter one, a prologue of sorts. Please read and review! Thanks! :D ~Ellisaed
Martin Bohm sat with his head in his hands. It was dark in his living room, and it didn't bother him. He knew the remnants of his wife, Sarah, were lying about: her sweater thrown across the back of the couch, her files from work spread on the coffee table, her photographs sideways on the mantle place. It was too much too soon.
Fingers dug through blonde hair in an angry hold. But he wasn't angry. Martin loosened his tie and unbuttoned his dress shirt, leaning back against the couch tiredly. The funeral had been long and formal, and was finally over. He hadn't cried. The families, so many families of the victims had said their goodbyes and shared memories. They had offered him consolation. Martin had politely accepted it. He had watched the flags be folded, and hadn't shed a tear.
9/11 was its new name. Martin bit back a curse. He had so many regrets, so many sorries to say and goodbyes to give. He had been away at work when it happened, and the news had reached him late. By the time he returned, he knew Sarah was gone. His wife was dead. He was too late.
Martin released a sigh. He lifted his head, sore eyes looking across the dark living room to the playpen there. He watched the little form that sat inside, seeing the outline of curly dark hair and profile of tiny features. Jake sat quietly, sucking his pacifier and staring at his father. The dark eyes, just like Sarah's, staring into his soul.
Martin rose and crawled over, sitting beside the playpen. Jake didn't move, one of his little hands clutching the mesh of the pen. Martin faced his son, turning his head a little to meet Jake's eyes again.
"Hey Jake." He whispered, smiling a little, "You were quite the little bugger tonight . . . giving Auntie Abigail grief like that."
Martin chuckled, remembering his sister-in-laws face. Unlike him, his son had indeed cried at the funeral. The entire time he had wailed and screamed, despite Abigail's attempts to soothe and rock him. She had insisted on taking him home with her, but Martin knew his son. He knew Jake better than anyone else.
Martin had learned Jake liked to be alone in the dark, in the silence; upon retuning home that was just what Martin arranged, and his son had stopped crying instantly. That was his Jake.
"I understand what mommy meant now. Telling me you were a wonderful handful." Martin ran a hand through his hair, taking a breath, "Mommy loved you, more than anything. She would have given anything for you. I'm sorry I wasn't here. I'm sorry - "
Martin stopped at the falter in his voice. His lip trembled at the sight of his still serene little boy. He looked so much like her.
"Mommy's gone now, Jake . . . she won't be coming back. So now, I'm going to take care of you. I'm going to stay with you. And I'm going to keep you safe. Alright?"
Jake sighed, blinking back at him.
The young father held back tears, wiping his face. No, the little child could not understand him, let alone reply. But that small sigh echoed reassurance to him. It was enough.
"Alright. Good." Martin smiled, "Lets go to bed then . . ."
Martin rose to his knees, reaching into the pen to scoop up his son. Jake struggled against his touch, and in his fathers grip he screeched a wail. Martin hushed the baby, rubbing his back, but it only seemed to make it worse.
"Jake, sweetheart, calm down."
Jake screamed louder, and louder yet, and Martin set the baby back down in his crib, seeing the child grab his pen and quiet in a heartbeat. Reluctantly, he sat down aside it again. Martin stroked his sons hand, but the baby pulled away and whimpered. Martin met Jake's eyes.
"Shh, it's alright sweetheart. Daddy will sleep here with you."
In a few moments, Martin arranged himself semi-comfortably beside his son on the floor, leaning back against a pillow and beneath a blanket. He placed one of Sarah's pillows in Jake's pen with him and whispered goodnight. Martin watched Jake intently, seeing him still sit awake. Restless.
"I know, I know . . . Mommy isn't here. But I'm here. Okay? I'll always be here."
Jake rubbed his eyes. His father chuckled again, knowing what to do.
" . . . Hey little sleepy boy . . . do you know what time it is?" Martin whispered the song, "Well the hour of your bedtime's long been past . . ."
Jake blinked at him, quiet. He was listening. Martin knew he sounded nothing like the voice of his wife, of Sarah's beautiful singing, but he knew Jake better than anyone. He knew eventually it would get him to sleep. So Martin sang the song, memories rising in his mind bittersweet and sorrowful, and he sang it again and again until his son closed his eyes.
"Though I know you're fighting it, I can tell when you rub your eyes . . . you're fading fast . . . fading fast . . ."