A/N.: So here's an update. I hope you're still enjoying the story. Thanks to my beta ParisAmy and for the nice reviews =)

11.Help – I'm still there for you, no matter how hard you push

K.

I lean against the door frame. He sits in a chair, trying not to notice me, trying not to show the agony the liquids streaming through his veins cause in his body. He doesn't want to show weakness. He never had wanted to. He doesn't let me look behind his stony wall of avoidance and indifference. After his radiation session yesterday afternoon, he just went to bed, curled up and pretended as if I wasn't there. He didn't say a word through the rest of the day. Did he have headaches? Dizziness, or anything my Mom used to complain about afterwards? I don't know. I don't think that all of this doesn't do anything to him. He just doesn't let me into it. On the other hand, I said to him that it is up to him how deep he lets me in. There are only some obvious marks he can't conceal. His skin is paler than it used to be. The needles the doctors, and nurses strike under his skin leave evil black and blue marks. I can only watch his silent agony and the torture he has to go through. He's taking a small sip of a cup of juice someone had brought him earlier. His hand his shaking. He carefully puts the cup back and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. I'd like to sit next to him being there, but he doesn't let me. I wonder whether he recognises me standing in the door frame, whether he recognises how worried I really am. What is worrying me is what will happen when I bring him to my father's house. He won't let me help him in any way. Everything he does and says to me is another attempt to push me away and I have to stay strong not allowing him to finally push me away. I can only watch. It's awful. I'll have to wait and watch him becoming less and less. I sigh. I'd do anything if I could take any of this from him. If I only could give him at least the feeling that he has found a place where he's welcome and safe and where he can retreat until he's better again, that there is a refuge for him. I can't. For him all this is another violation of his freedom. The more I'm frightened that he had eventually agreed to come with us and let us violate it. Inwardly he must be awfully helpless and left alone. From the outside he seems not to care about that too much.

R.

I sit in the back of the car and I feel…uncomfortable and not only physically. I recognise her staring at me, watching me trying to witness my breakdown only to be able to show me that she'd been right from the very beginning, only to show me that I'm incapable of taking care of myself, only to show me that she's been so damn fucking right. Alright I feel like crap and I only want to lie down as soon as possible. I only want to be left alone and hide somewhere. I hate it if people star at me when I'm tired and struggle to keep my stomachs contents. I close my eyes and lean my head against the window. Her presence is so dominant. It's radiating from her immensely. I want to switch it off, the awareness that she's there. Oh my God, I only want to go to bed right now. I feel the chills running through my body and I have to brace myself not to start trembling. I don't want her to see this. I don't want her to start her hovering. Oh God, I feel so sick. The drive to the house takes longer than I expected. I can't sit any longer. I need to get out of the car. This strained silence is driving me crazy. Everybody is walking on egg shells, and the worst: I'm certain that I am the reason for that. I…just want to have things normal again. I don't like being in the centre of everyone's attention and…I feel lost – entirely lost. I have no plan. I don't know what to do and I'm …helpless. I hate this feeling. It doesn't feel right. I always have a plan. I always have a clue what to do. I always can handle things on my own, but…it's just too much. And whom to thank for? Kirsten's sudden appearance and that she brought up all these well buried issues: her alcoholism, Seth's depression, Sandy…Sandy. Oh God. I feel how my heart starts racing at this thought…or maybe the meds…. I feel the sweat tickling on my forehead. I can't get this image out of me head: his angry face, his hand… his fist. I still see it my dreams, I still have nightmares.

K.

I watch him. His walls start to crack. I can see his discomfort. He wants to get out of the car and probably lie down. He needs to. He has to rest now. I don't want to do anything more than taking him into my arms. Eventually we reach the house. I watch him how he climbs out of the car on unsteady feet. My father tries to support him, but Ryan backs away. He slowly makes his way to the house. I have to brace myself not to rush to his side, but from my Mom I remember how important it was to be independent as long as possible. Not to have the feeling of being…sick. He slowly follows us, making his way up the stairs carefully. I try not to let him notice that I'm watching him. I don't want to upset him even more. I can see his exhaustion when we enter the house. He looks lost and uncomfortable, the way he's staying in the hallway, glancing around – unsure what to do next.

"Well, I guess you'd like to lie down for a while, so I'll show you your room." I try once again to break the ice. I feel bad for having to drag him upstairs, but I know his urge for privacy. I go and he follows me – my father on his heels, never letting the gap between him and Ryan becoming too huge. We reach the room. It's a huge bright one, with an own bathroom. He'll need it probably. The bed is all ready for him to climb in. He hesitatingly enters the room. I notice that he doesn't want to give me an insight into his physical condition, thus it's on me to give him the space he needs.

"Alright then. I'll leave you alone and you can settle. Take your time and if you need anything at least one of us will always be in the house." I throw a look at my father, who seems at a loss as well. We exit the room and close the door. There's nothing more for me to do.

R.

I'm relieved when the two leave. I sit down on the edge of the bed – actually a real bed not only a mattress like in Boston. No, I don't feel well. I let myself fall to the side and curl up on the covers of the bed. I don't want to stay up again to change or put my shoes off. I…just want to lie down and close my eyes; drifting into the peaceful darkness that conceals all the hurtful reality around me.

I wake up. My heart is pounding heave against my chest – speeding. A nightmare. Again. I try to get my breath back under control. While concentrating on it I realise the pounding in my head. Oh God. I want to shoot myself. Oh shit. I feel convulsions in my stomach. Not good. I want to jump up. Why am I tucked in? Who stripped me down to my underwear? Hell, what about priv… I can't even think this thought to an end. I throw the blankets off my body and jump…out of bed. No, not good. Everything's a blur…I can't hold back any longer. I need to go! I run into the bathroom and slam the door shut. Luckily the lid is up. I wouldn't have had the time to open it, as my stomach now turns into evil convulsions making it impossible to keep its contents. It hurts. With each convulsion and each retching my head starts pounding even harder. I don't know what to concentrate on. The chills that are running through my body? The stomach aches? Nausea? Headache? I don't know. I have to hold on tight on the bowl. I doubt that my body was able to keep itself upright. The convulsions become heavier, with each time I retch into the bowl, although there's nothing left in my stomach. Help. I want this to stop. I have the feeling as if my head bursts into pieces. I try to take deep breathes. I inhale the cold and dry air: slowly and considered. I have to calm down. My body has to calm down. I'm so tired. I want to go back to bed. I can't. Help. I feel miserable. Eventually I get my stomach back under control. I slump down and lean against the wall. I pull the towel next to me from its hook and try to cover my shivering body in it. Now I need a plan how to get up and back to bed. I don't want to get up, but sitting on the bathroom floor is way too cold for me. I can't get up. I'm too tired. I'll just close my eyes a bit and try to rest a bit – gaining some strength back. It'll help. Help.

"Ryan, sweetie…" I feel a hand on my shoulders. I open my eyes. Where am I? I've lost orientation. I have to look around to realise that I'm in a bathroom. Why am I in a…Okay, my stomach made its point clear. I'm shivering. I look up to the person that hand belongs to. It's Kirsten.

"You're okay?" She asks me, her face drawn with concern. I want to answer, but a heavy convulsion catches my attentions and I heave over the toilet bowl once again. There's not really something left to come out, but the cramps won't stop. I feel a hand on my back.

"Take deep breaths. It'll help your stomach to settle." She says. Easier said than done. One cramp follows the other.

K.

I watch him retching and it rips my heart out to watch him in agony, but there's nothing I can do for him. I rub his back in circles. His body is all tensed up, but I can't figure out whether it's me who's making him flinch or whether it's the shivers of cold making him tens up. His body relaxes a little, and he slumps back down into his previous position.

"Here." My father comes in and hands Ryan a glass of water. Ryan takes it with shaking hands and takes small sips. I never thought that my father was able to behave nearly as gently as he was towards Ryan. He prepares a toothbrush with toothpaste. He's really caring. My father once again manages to astonish me by demonstrating a new side.

"You should brush your teeth. Your stomach acid will damage them otherwise sooner or later." My father says and then hands him the toothbrush. Ryan hesitatingly accepts it and slowly starts brushing his teeth. I leave the two men alone and prepare the bed for Ryan. I put a throw over the blanket and add some cushions to the pillows. Ryan will need all comfort he can get. I want to make it as comfortable as I can for him. I watch my father helping Ryan up. Contrary to me, he doesn't back away from Ryan's harsh rejecting behaviour. They slowly make their way to the bed. Ryan's trembling. I doubt that he'd be able to walk even this short distance without my father's supporting arm. Ryan slowly sits down on the edge of the bed, falls to his side and the pulls his legs up to his body, making himself as small as possible. My father leaves us. I tuck him in and brush through his hair.

"Why are you doing this?" He asks me. I'm taken aback. I don't know what he means.

"What?" I ask him back.

"Why do you care?" His voice is nothing but a whisper. I sit down on the bed and put an arm around his shivering form.

"Believe it or not, but I still love you like my own son. This never changed. I guess, during the time in rehab I realised how much I love you – the feeling got more intense. This is all. Nothing more." I tell him. He doesn't respond. His eyes are closed.

"'s so cold." He whispers. It tears my heart a little more every time when his wall losses another brick.

"I know. It'll get better. You'll see tomorrow you'll feel better." I tell him, while holding him with one arm and rubbing his back with the other one. It doesn't take long and he's fallen asleep. I stay with him for a little longer, and then I leave him in his peaceful state of sleep.

"Walls start cracking." My father says when I join him in the kitchen.

"Slowly and I'm not sure whether I like it." I answer him and pour myself a mug of coffee.

"He won't have the strength to keep them up anyway, and he's a smart boy. He knows that." He says and pads my back.

"We should be glad about our little success and think about the next step." He suggests.

"Next step?"

"We need to find a donor and therefore we need to find all relatives which are left."

"Well, there's his brother, but he's negative. His mother is a junky and alcoholic, they won't allow her to be a donor. And his father? Unknown." I answer to demonstrate that this step…seems to be futile.

"I thought his father was in jail, or not?" He asks me. I shake my head.

"Ryan's the product of an affair. Nobody knows who his father is."

"Then we need to find out. Ask Sandy, he knows enough competent people." He suggests. My jar drops and I have to close my mouth immediately to not to spill the sip of coffee on my shirt.

"Dad! This is impossible. I can't tell him that…Ryan's here. I mean…he would want to see him…and Ryan's not ready for this confrontation yet."

"Kirsten the two of them always shared a special bond. I can't imagine that this…disappeared from one to the other day."

"It did. Dad, Sandy…confessed…he did something awful to Ryan…actually he…beat him…badly. That's why Ryan decided that it was time for him to go. Sandy…I can't even say this…but he…in some way…abused him." I try to explain it to him. His facial expression tells me he didn't count on that.

"But…he regrets what he has done, does he?" He asks me.

"He does…ever so badly, but I doubt that Ryan can understand that. It had been awful exceptional circumstances leading to Sandy reacting the way he did, but for Ryan…"

"He just has had too much of that. But…what is this about?" My father asks me.

"I don't get your point."

"This here is about helping Ryan to live. What happened…was awful, but we can't allow it to interfere with us…helping Ryan getting through this. Talk to Sandy. He might have made a mistake, but he isn't stupid. He'll understand if you explain him why he shouldn't see Ryan in first place."

"You know you're talking about my Jewish husband, the bleeding-heart good-doer and poor public defender from the Bronx, do you?" I ask my Dad. Since when does he talk like that about my husband? He'd never done that before.

"Yes, I know, and although I don't think that he's good enough for you I think that he might be the only one who could help us."