#and i think the trauma of being on those meds is glossed over to often

[traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors]

Tw domestic abuse, sexual assault, suicide, self harm and eating disorder mentions (those last two not in detail, just mentioned)

Nickname: turquoise

Looking for advice, either on how to get out or just come to terms with this being the rest of my life, either way.

So I have a situation kind of similar to this ask posted just now.

https://www.tumblr.com/traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors/712807834009665536/tw-romantic-partner-violence-hey-so-ive-known

I've been with my wife for seven years now. A lot of her issues come from childhood trauma, but it's just...been wearing me down lately. Nearly from the start there were emotional issues between us, and physical violence and one sexual assault within the first six months (she said I agreed to let her do stuff while I was asleep but I don't remember that, and either way she didn't stop when I asked her to). I'm honestly not sure why I stayed but that's neither here nor there. Maybe I kept thinking it would get better but it didn't and at a lot of points I was genuinely scared for my safety, especially since the one time I did try to leave she found me in under a day and the friend I'd run away to decided I should go back home with her since, in her words 'well, you are kind of a bitch'. Anyway, there would be times when things got better but they'd always get bad again. We're in one of the better periods, though recently there's still been a lot of emotional stuff, some minor physical stuff (only small bruises and no lingering pain) and two sexual assaults last week. Still, things have definitely tapered off from a couple years ago, and she has been putting in more effort to be nicer, so if nothing else it's been a while since I've been balled up on the floor trying to be a small target so that's something. Still, as much as I should be happy about that I just...honestly I feel like shit a lot of the time, and I can't seem to stop being on edge no matter what happens, even though she gets mad at me whenever she notices that.

Also over the past two years she's developed significant anxiety, to the point where even after being on meds and in therapy for over a year she says she can't work.. We have no income now and I have a lot of my own mental difficulties that have made jobs difficult for me for most of my life (not self dxing, but likely autism and ADHD and a PD that have never been treated, along with a lot of past trauma from her and people before her, that's she's sometimes triggered on purpose or been dismissive of, though she is trying to stop that), but more difficult since I met her, especially since I've spent the past year at least in one of the worst depressive episodes I've had in my life, with my self harm and eating disorder getting worse again (both of which she knows about and does not respond well to at all), to the point that I'm pretty much always passively suicidal and have attempted a few times. At the very least I'm out of the bout of drinking I dealt with for a few months. I'm not outlining this to make anyone feel bad for me, just to point out that a full time work week, especially in the kinds of fast paced, people centric jobs I could reasonably get, would be very difficult for me to handle at this point. I've asked her if we could both work part time, since I thought a few days a week for each of us would be easier to handle, and at first she said yes but now she's flat out refusing, saying that since she supported us for a while she deserves a long break too, completely glossing over how often she hit me during that time and how generally shit she made me feel every day, or the fact that the abuse didn't stop when I went back to work, or that the circumstances that led to it being best for only her to work in that time were out of our control.

Basically, I want to leave. Ideally I'd just leave her, but she says she can't survive without my support, and that she'll kill herself if I actually go. I don't know if that's true or not but I don't want to find out the hard way, but I also know I can't handle both working full time and taking care of her full time (she refuses to do anything at home or to manage and organize our lives either, sometimes to the point of yanking me out of bed after only a few hours of sleep to make her food even though she is able to cook, arguably better than me).

Im basically never happy, and I want to leave but I can't, not with the way she is mentally now, not with what she might do, especially since the only person I know she could go to is her mother, who wouldn't be accepting of her being trans which isn't something I want to put her through. I've been thinking of asking a friend or relative of mine (what few I have left after she isolated me for so long, since I can't drive and for years she's been in charge of if I leave the house or not, which she rarely lets me do), to let me stay with them during the work week, since it would be easier to find and keep a job that way. I'd have limited contact with my wife, only seeing her on the weekends and preferably not talking much during the week, but still with me supporting both of us.

I don't know if she'd go for this, or even how to ask, but I know I can't handle dealing with both work and her and my own issues at the same time. I've tried to say this a bit and she's said I'm just being whiny and lazy, so I just don't know what to do or how to fully broach the subject, but I'm just so scared for the future between us in general.

I'm sorry this was a long post my thoughts are just not organized sometimes. Thank you for everything you do.

Amendment from turquoise. Abuse mention.

I just really wanted to clarify that I don't want anything I said about my wife to be attributed to the fact that she's trans. I don't think any of the mods of this blog would do that, but I just worry that others would, or that it came across as me saying her abuse and her gender are somehow connected but I swear I don't think they are and if anything came across that way I never meant for it to. I know most trans people don't hurt others (not to mention I'm trans myself but that just didn't seem relevant, still not sure if it is here)

Basically I just hope I didn't paint an entire group in a bad light and I really didn't mean to if I did sorry I was just worried about that.

Hi turquoise,

I'm so sorry about what's been going on. Also, I wouldn't worry about potentially coming off as transphobic, I don't get that vibe at all and I see what you mean to say quite clearly.

Just because the abuse has been tapering off doesn't mean you should tolerate it. Being assaulted violates your boundaries, and it's important to respect and assert them. Just because it's tapering off doesn't mean you're supposed to be happy in this relationship. It makes absolute sense why you still feel like shit. You're on edge because you may have developed trauma responses and you're around someone who your brain has been conditioned to perceive as a threat.

Emotional availability is essential for the longevity of a relationship. For your partner to not be there for you or respond well to depressive episodes or even suicidal thoughts is definitely a problem. I feel like if she truly cared about you she would make a better effort to be there for you, especially when you're contemplating suicide.

It sounds like your partner is refusing to share the responsibility of any productive or reproductive labor, which puts unnecessary stress on you. Just because she's been working doesn't mean you have to do everything. Most people just continue working without breaks, you know? So how is it fair for her to refuse to work when that means no income? It would make more sense if she was overwhelmed with burdens, but she really has pushed virtually every responsibility of hers onto you and is expecting you to be absolutely fine with that.

It seems like you've tried communicating with her but she's given you a hard time. If it is safe to do so, it may be helpful to simply assert a boundary such as "I feel x when you do y. If you continue to treat me this way, this isn't going to work." Just letting her know where things stand may be helpful in terms of communication, but if this would be unsafe to do, then it may be best to simply leave without warning.

Like I said in the other ask, if she is going to choose to mistreat you then it is your right to leave if necessary. It's a hard decision though of course, because you don't want her to go back to her abusers, but really, that's not your problem. If you need to leave then you need to leave, where she goes is not really for you to worry about. It's important to assert your boundaries and put your foot down when you've had enough, even if it doesn't benefit everyone.

Abusers often block the exit in various ways, and that can include threatening suicide. Please know that it is manipulative for someone to blame suicide or self harm on someone else. It is your right to leave when you want or need to. Your partner's actions are her responsibility alone. Breaking up does not hold you liable to what your partner chooses to do as a result.

If anyone else has any comments or suggestions, feel free to add on. Otherwise, I hope I could help. Please let us know if you need anything.

-Bun

[pipedream-parrish]

Andrew w/ Sensory Processing Disorder:

When Andrew was on his meds, everything was turned up

volume up, sound up, brightness up until everything was just one big blur of color and light and noise that went by much too quickly for his addled mind to make sense of, until all he’s left with are the too-bright afterimages burning behind his eyelids

its the sort of stimulation that anyone else would be drowned by; it’s too overwhelming, too loud too bright too much

but his meds force him to deal with it, force him to stay above water and laugh through it all and smile smile SMILE GODDAMNIT SMILE

so he lives his life like this - under constant siege, unable to breathe for all of the information being hurled his way, his only respite when he comes off his meds for games and Columbia, but other than that?

he’s pushed along the river of his thoughts at such breakneck speeds that all he can do is watch life blur by on the shores

And then he comes off his meds but he can’t even enjoy the quite because then he’s at Easthaven and everything hurts and he’s not laughing anymore oh no not laughing anymore at all no more smiles from me Bee no sir no smiles here--

But once he’s out of Easthaven, and he has time to the think clearly for an extended period of time for the first time in years, he realizes that the quiet is nice.

It’s nice to be able to thoroughly process everything going on around you, and control your own reactions to things (never smiling again, Bee, never smiling again)

because here’s the thing that people don’t understand about Andrew:

he likes the greyness and the silence that dwell inside his mind

he likes them because it’s so very different from all of the awful-horrible-dreadful-painful colors that he had to live with for so long

and he finds himself dreading any of the stimulation that he used to have to deal with all the time

you see, everyone has a limit to the amount of stimulation they can handle at any one time - for some people it’s less than others, and some people may never cross that border, but everyone has one

the thing is, Andrew had to live with that border crossed for two fucking years

His limit had been crossed so severely, had been smashed into smithereens in such a violent and painful way, that now even things that were well within his limit just bust right through

((the bottom of the pie of had been punched through, so now everything else goes all the way down))

meaning that he becomes very prone to sensory overload

so now, when things are too loud or bright, it becomes much too overwhelming much too quickly, and that same too loud too bright too much feeling that his meds used to give him comes back, but now there’s nothing forcing him to stay afloat, meaning that sometimes

He

Drowns.

And he has to leave the room and leave the conversation and lock himself somewhere quiet and dark and safe 

because its so overwhelming and all of the stimulants crash into his system until he just needs to squeeze his eyes shut and cover his ears and yell for everyone to SHUT THE HELL UP JUST BE QUIET JUST ONE SECOND OF QUEIT--

At first, he guards this secret with his life; this thing he has is a weakness, and if anyone knew about it they could exploit it and exploit him and that’s bad bad bad bad BAD

But of course, Neil finds out, and--

It’s not terrible.

Having someone who will make easy excuses so that they can leave parties early when he notices Andrew starting to get overwhelmed

And someone who buys him noise-canceling headphones for his bad days

And shuts up without Andrew having to ask him to

And slowly, slowly, Andrew starts to learn that this perceived weakness of his doesn’t necessarily mean danger and harm and exploitation

really, it doesn’t have to be a weakness at all

It can just be.

thanks for reading! if you reblog I’ll love you forever :)

[chickensarentcheap]

Sanctuary -Chapter 25

Warnings: none really

Tagging:  @alievans007,  @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @thorsbathroomchicken

It's seven thirty in the evening when they park three blocks away from the Slainte pub; sidewalks crawling with pedestrians, streets packed with cars, restaurant patios standing room only and offering up not only booze and traditional Irish and American dishes, but live music as well.  At first neither of them move or speak. The only sounds the clicking of the cooling engine and the muffled sounds of conversations and laughter filtering in from the outside world. Tyler grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white; his eyes dark and stormy, brow furrowed, lips set in a thin, stern line. Everything is telling him that this is a bad idea; that aching pit in his stomach, the tightness in his throat,  the anxiety that sits heavily on his chest.  He's tempted to just say 'fuck it' and turn the car back on and return to the hotel. Or to actually accompany her to her destination; sitting inside as opposed to being separated by hundreds of feet and walls of brick and glass.  

“You have to trust me. Tyler.”  

Her voice plays over and over in his head.  It isn't that he doesn't trust her. He trusts her with his life. With his children's lives. It's that the threat of losing her is becoming all too terrifyingly real. The thought that anything could happen while she was in there alone. Someone in that bar could have seen her at the hotel or with him out on the street or at the airport and 'make her' as soon as she stepped through the door.  If they know who she is...who she is tied to...it's game over. There is no coming back from what will happen to her. They will beat her. Rape her. Torture her. For days on end until they finally got their fill. And then they'd kill her. It has happened before; women tied to mercenaries captured and unbelievably savagery and brutality unleashed on them.   Even if they did manage to survive, the effects and the trauma were long lasting. Life altering.  And it's fate that is just too painful to consider.

He thinks of his kids. At the thought of actually having to do it alone. Raise them as a single father. And it makes him nauseous. His head pounds; sweat gathers at his temples and upon his brow. And he reaches into the side pocket of his cargo pants and takes out a bottle of anti anxiety meds; twisting open the cap and dumping four into his mouth.

Esme notices but says nothing. Simply resting her hand on his thigh and and giving it a tight squeeze. She never judges him; she knows his struggles with mental illness. The effects of his PTSD and depression. The often crippling anxiety. All seemingly kept at bay until McCann had stepped into their lives and torn it all to shit.

She moves beside him now; grabbing the laptop bag that rests between her feet, pulling those fake eyeglasses from a side pocket and slipping them onto her face.  “Well?” she inquires, and turns to face him. “What do you think?”

He can't help but smile. She looks years younger. With that fresh face devoid of any make up and shimmering red hair and those freckles across the bridge of her nose.    Looking the part of the working girl in a simple pair of black dress slacks and a cream short sleeved blouse that plunges just far enough to both capture attention and send any mortal man's curiosity into overdrive.

“I think you should get glasses for real,” he replies, and leans across the front seat to kiss her. He can taste her tinted lip gloss; a mix of coconut and strawberry. And he wishes he could keep kissing her forever.  “Are you sure about this?” he asks. “I need you to be sure about this.

“I'm good,” she assures her. “Are you sure about this?”

“No,” he admits. “I'm not.”

“I'll be okay,” she promises, laying a hand on the side of his face and pecking his lips. “I've got this. I know what I'm doing. Just hold up your end of the bargain, okay? You only come in if you hear something going wrong.”

“It'll be too late if I wait that long.”

“Give me a chance,” she implores. “If I'm not out in twenty minutes, then come in and get me. Don't talk to anyone, don't make every contact. Just walk in and grab me and we leave. But I need at least twenty to get anything out of these people. Even if it's just names of other people to talk to.”

“There's a restaurant across the street. I'll be waiting there. On the patio. When I see you come out, I'll wait until you've turned the corner and then I'll catch up. Okay?”

She nods.

“I don't like this. Not one fucking bit.”

“It's going to be okay, Tyler. You just have to trust me.”

He nods, then presses a kiss to her forehead. “Just be careful.”

“I will,” she vows, a gentle smile curving her lips, so much love and adoration in her eyes and written all over her face as she reaches up to push his hair away from his eyes.  She gives him on last peck on the lips and then opens the car door, stepping out on the street and slinging the laptop bag over her shoulder.  Shooting him a smile and a small wave of the fingertips before crossing the busy street.

He watches through the rear view mirror as she goes. Then waits until she disappears around the next corner before climbing out himself.

****

He arrives first; his gait longer and quicker. And he takes a seat at one of the remaining tables on the restaurant patio. A table for four; sitting in the very middle, facing the other side of the street and the busy pub that is their target. Taking in the surroundings; the bouncer at the door, several couples sitting outside under umbrellas emblazoned with the Guinness logo, an acoustic guitar player completing the equipment set up before his gig.  Through the pub's front window he can see the wet bar that stretches all the way from front to back; a handful of customers on the stools, a waitress moving around with notepad and pen in hand, a lone bartender tending to thirsty patrons.

He orders a beer and pretends to be interested in seeing a a menu. Even the littlest things can spark suspicion,and it's better to be safe than sorry. And he's just slipped his sunglasses onto his face when Esme finally rounds the corner,  and he sees the nervous way she tucks her hair behind her ears and constantly looks over her shoulder. It's been a long time since she's done something like this. Walked into the unknown and lied and conned to get her way. But it's like riding a bike; once you hit the right stride and your confidence comes back

She pauses before approaching the door, casting a glance in his direction. A tiny smile tugging at her lips.

He raises his hand in a small wave, then gives her a reassuring smile of his own, followed by a stiff nod.  Sipping his beer, watching over the rim of the glass as she briefly engages with the bouncer, flashing the hulking man a dazzling smile before reaching into the pocket on her pants and  pulling out one of the fictitious business cards that Nik had made up.  Chatting amicably, gesturing animatedly with her hands, cocking her head to the side and giving that flirtatious little grin that he knows so well.  He hates it. Seeing her that way with other men, Whether it's for a job or not.  And he'd never considered himself a jealous or possessive man. Until her. And he actually frowns when she lays a hand on the other man's bicep. Legitimately angry at how the younger man is so obviously checking her out; the way he gallantly opens the door for her and then his eyes focus on her ass as she steps inside.

Gulping down a mouthful of beer, he takes his SAT from the side pocket of his pants and sends Nik a quick and simple text.

SHE'S IN.

*****

The wooden floors are scuffed and bowed; peanut shells and wood shavings cracking under the soles of her heels. It fits every stereotype that her mind has ever held of an Irish pub;  Guinness on tap, the smell of fish and chips hanging heavily in the air, polished wood tables and booths, chairs and stools and benches clad in rich green vinyl. The Tiffany glass swag lamps that hang over diners as they eat,  the dart pools and pool tables taken up by the young and old alike.

She notices the attention she attracts; a fairly young woman clad in modest business attire, the black patent pumps and the vibrant hair. She feels the eyes on her with each patron she passes; the curious, the intrigued, the suspicious. A fresh face in a place like this is bound to turn some heads, and puts an extra sway in her hips as she walks, licking her lips and making them glisten,  shy smiles for the men her age and younger, broader and more friendly ones for the elderly gents.  It's been a hell of a long time she's had to play that game; lure men in, giving them a false sense of confidence, encouraging them to approach yet not wanting to come across as too eager.  She's missed it. The sense of satisfaction that you get when you know you've got someone on the hook and you just keep reeling them in until they're eating out of the palm of your hand.

“May I?” she address an older man as he drinks at the bar, casting a glance down at the overcoat and the copy of that day's paper that sits on the stool beside him.

“Of course, love. My apologies,” he hurriedly removes the items, then gallantly offers a hand to help her up onto the stool.

“A gentleman,” she muses, and curls her fingers around him, accepting the gesture with a smile.

“Can I buy you a drink, love?” he sounds a little too eager. But he's encouraged by the fact that a woman more than half his age has chosen the seat beside him...out of all the empty stools remaining at the bar...to perch herself upon.

“I'd love to accept, but I'm actually on the job.”

“Something non alcoholic, then. Just to quench your thirst.”

She relents, laying a hand on his shoulder and squeezing lightly.  “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“Billy!” he calls down to the bar keep, a younger man that leans against the end of the bar, watching soccer on the flat screen mounted on the nearby wall.

Esme estimates his age; twenty five, thirty at the most. Tall and and thin but blessed with broad shoulders and a wide back. Rowing perhaps. Maybe even swimming. A brush cut that draws attention to the thick silver hoops in each ear lobe and the tribal tattoos that decorate each side of his thick, strong neck.  Faded and well fitting blue jeans. Doc Marten boots. A black and red button down plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows and a white tee underneath. Casual, yet well put together.  And he regards her suspiciously as he wanders towards them, both hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.

“Something for my new friend here,” the older gentleman says. “And another for me. “

“Just a diet coke,” she orders with a smile. Not too broad. Not too dazzling. Just right to break the ice. It's a process; some people are more easily charmed than others. She can tell he's going to be more of a challenge. If she seemed too friendly and chatty, it would turn him off from continuing a conversation. Too standoffish and he won't even engage.  “Busy in here tonight. Is it always like this?”

“One of our most busy Thursdays,” the bartender confirms, as he moves way to gather their drinks.

“I'm sorry love,” the man beside her speaks up. “But I didn't catch your name,”

“That's because I didn't give it to you. Patience is a virtue, after all.” She pulls out her cell phone...her personal line...and uses the front facing camera as a ruse to fix her make up and touch up her hair, sneaking a picture of the young bar keep as he pours a stein of Guinness.  She slips her phone back into the laptop bag, then turns to the older man with her hand out. “I'm Meghan. Meghan Young.”

“George,” he says in return, politely shaking her hand and then going the extra step of pressing his lips against the top of it.  “You're not from around these parts, are you? An outsider. What brings a pretty young lass like yourself to these neck of the woods?”

“Business,” she offers a smile of gratitude as the bar keep places her drink in front of her, then takes the plastic straw behind her thumb and forefinger and places just the tip between her lips, eyes never leaving Billy's as she takes a long pull.  “I'm here for work,” she continues, and removes one of the business cards from the side pouch on the laptop bag, placing it on the top of the bar and then sliding it across with the tip of her finger.

“What kind of business?” George inquires, sitting sideways on his stool now, leaning towards her ever so slightly.

Billy picks up the card, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he reads the information. “Journalist.”

“For the Chicago Tribune.”

“And they send you all the way here on business?”

“They send me everywhere. Nothing can stop a reporter from chasing a good story. And I've stumbled upon quite the winner, here. I was hoping maybe you gentleman could help me. Give me a little information. Or at least point me in the right direction.”

Billy slips the business card into the breast pocket of his shirt, then leans back against the bar, arms folded across his chest. “What kind of information?”

She leans forward, elbows on the bar, hands clasped around the glass of soda. “I received an anonymous tip. From someone in Chicago that has connections. To the IRA.”  Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the way George's eyebrows shoot up, mug of beer pressed to his lips. “Is it true. That this place is owned by a member.”

George is more forthcoming with the information,  eager to please and impress. “Indeed it is. Been in the same family for more than fifty years. All of them in the IRA. What makes you so interested?”

“I've heard there's some trouble brewing.” she keeps her voice low. “Between the IRA and one of their ex members. Who has ties to a New Zealand crime family.”

George nods enthusiastically, then looks at the young bar keep. “She's talking about McMann.”

“How do you know of him?” Billy asks her.

“I already said. An anonymous source with his ties to the IRA.”

“What's his name?”

“A journalist never, ever gives up her sources. I'm sure it's the same way with you. I'm sure you'd never out one of your informants would you.”

His smirk grows.

“Look,” she sips at her drink, then taps her fingernails against the glass. “Journalism is a dying art these days. Everything is on the web. There's no substance. No spice. There's no one out there delving into the hard topics and writing truly valuable human interest stories. I want to bring that back. I want to bring back the passion for the written word. A story like this could launch my career. I could really make a name for myself. And I'd really appreciate if you'd help me out.  If not now, then maybe we can arrange something? Talk in private?”

He nods down at her wedding band. “You're married?”

“Separated. He's out of the picture. Chose work over me. What's the saying? His loss is another man's game? I really, really, really want this,” she adds a slight plea to her voice. “Badly. And there's nothing I wouldn't do to get the information I need. Is it true? That the IRA kidnapped McMann's wife and son's?”

Billy shakes his head. “Rumour. We...they...had nothing to do with it. It's that crime family you mentioned. Trying to stir up trouble.”

“Do you think we could arrange something? Perhaps I could come back after hours? Or during the day when it isn't as busy?”

He nods, a slow grin spreading across his face. “We can definitely arrange something.”

“And I was thinking...” she runs the sides of her fingers along her straw, her eyes never leaving his. “...it would really help if I could get more than one perspective on things. Perhaps someone higher up the chain of command? A boss? Someone with a little more...pull?”

“I could arrange something.”

“You're a life saver, William,” she shoots him a wink, and she sees the slight blush that creeps into his cheeks at the use of his full name. “Here...give me your hand...” she motions for him to do as asked, and when he steps forward, palm down, she turns it out to face her. Then fetches a pen from her back and scrawls her SAT number into his skin. “This is a better, more private line to reach me on. Non work related. If you catch my drift.”

“Oh I catch your drift alright,”  he says, and then gives her hand a squeeze before she pulls it away.

She pulls her cell phone from her back, gasping dramatically when she checks the time. “I'm running late. I have another place to be. More people to talk to. It was a pleasure, William. I look forward to seeing you again.”

“Pleasure was all mine,” he declares.  “I'll be in touch.”

She flashes him a dazzling smile. “I hope so. George...” she lays a hand on the older man's back, rubbing softly as she slides off the stool.  “You're a gentleman. And incredibly charming. Thank you for the drink.”

“Hope to see you again,” he calls after her, as she slings the laptop bag over her shoulder and heads for the door,

******

Tyler glances down at his cell phone.

Five minutes to go.

He sips his beer, leans back in his chair, nervously rubs his palms against his thighs.  The world continues around him; despite the fact that fifteen minutes ago his entire life...his heart...disappeared through the front door of the pub across the street. He hasn't felt the effects of the booze and the anxiety meds; his nerves and senses still on high alert. Eyes always watching. Ears pricked for any hint of trouble across the street.  His stomach in knots, chest tight.  He can't sit still. He drums his fingers against the table top, nervously shakes his legs or taps his foot, runs his hands through his hair, chews absentmindedly on the corner of his thumb nail.  A frown crossing his face when someone deliberately plants their body in front of him. And he's about to look up and ask them what the fuck when a voice beats him do it.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

What in the actual fuck?  He thinks, and glances up.  Nostrils flaring. Brow furrowing. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Thought I'd pop by,” Mark says, hands shoving his hands in the pockets of his khakis. “Esme's inside, isn't she,” he nods in the direction of the pub across the street.

“What the hell do you want? Why are you here? How the hell did you find me?””

“I know how to tap cell phones. You used your private one about ten minutes ago. This is where I tracked you to.”

Oh for fucks sakes.

“What's she doing in there? Intel?”

“Would you shut the fuck up?” Tyler hisses. “What is wrong with you? Keep your fucking voice down.”

“How long she been in there?”

“I said shut the fuck up. Are you trying to get her caught? Now sit down and keep your mouth shut.”

“She's a feisty one, huh? I can imagine how hard she had to talk you into this.”

“I said sit the fuck down. Now.”

He finally relents, slipping into the chair across from Tyler.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Mark? What the hell is going on? How'd you know where I was?”

“Who do you think Nik came to for help? To arrange all the secret meeting stuff back at the hotel? The secure satellite feed? The new SAT phones. The fake Ids. You really think she pulled all that off on her own?”

“Why you? What the hell do you have to do with any of this?”

“Come on now, you honestly didn't know I was FBI.”

Tyler frowns. “You're a Fed? Are you serious right now?”

“I'm surprised Esme didn't tell you. She probably didn't tell you the rest, either. About asking me for help.”

His eyes narrow. “What?”

“She was worried about you. Said you'd got mixed up into some mess with the IRA. Asked me to tap your phones and trace your whereabouts. In case something happened to you.  I told her she probably didn't need to be so concerned. You're a big boy. You can take care of yourself. But you know how she gets. All worked up and anxious. A real mother hen.”

“Are you always this big of an asshole? Is it a gift or...?”

“I'm actually quite flattered. That she'd even think of me. Guess maybe she's still hanging onto some of the past. Just can't quite seem to let me go.”

“You're about five seconds away from getting my foot up your ass, mate. Now either shut up or fuck off. I don't have time for your shit.”

“Ever the busy man,” he smirks. “Always running off to solve everyone elses problems but never dealing with your own.”

“Mark, I swear to Christ, if you don't shut the fuck up...”

“Bitter pill to swallow, huh? Knowing she still thinks about me.”

“Listen you little shit...”  Tyler leans across the table. “...I don't know what you want or why you're here, but either keep your mouth shut or I shut it for you.  I don't have the time or the fucking patience for this.”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “I'm just here to help...mate.”

Tyler's blood boils.  But he refuses to take the bait. The games won't work on him, no matter how hard the other man tries.

“Kind if a shitty move on your part, don't you think?” Mark asks. “Getting her mixed up in all this? Considering how she thinks of you as her hero. Her knight in shining armour. The one that came along and helped her get over me. That one that was able to give her the life that she really wanted. A happy marriage, a bunch of kids, nice place to live. That's kind of a bitch thing to do, Rake. Give her all of that and play the role of her hero and then fuck it all up like this. You'd think you'd want to keep her away from all of this. You know, seeing as you are always going on and on about how much you love her and would never hurt her.  Not exactly walking the walk, huh?”

“I will fucking kill you, Mark. If you don't keep your goddamn mouth shut, I will bury you. Do you honestly believe the shit that is coming out of your mouth right now? Or do you just like to hear yourself talk? You know nothing about my marriage. About my wife. About our lives together. So just sit there and keep your mouth shut,” he glances down at his phone. It's well past the twenty minute mark. “Fuck,” he mutters, and stands up, taking money out of his wallet and tossing it down on the table.

“Sleeping on the job, huh? Not quite on the ball when it comes to keeping an eye on her, are you.”

“Just...stop...just shut the fuck up and...”  he notices the door to the pub open up and Esme finally step out, watching as she exchanges parting pleasantries with the bouncer before hurrying off down the sidewalk. “I gotta go.”

“Are you serious right now?” Mark asks incredulously. “You're going to leave her in there while you chase after another woman?”

“You idiot. That's Esme. She dyed her hair. You absolute fucking idiot. Stay here. Don't follow me.”

“Like hell I'll stay here,” Mark says, and stands up as well. “What are you going  to do, Rake? Stop me?”

“Don't fucking tempt me,”  Tyler retorts, eyes on Esme until she rounds the corner and disappear. “Let's go. If you're coming, let's go. Now.”

****

They reach the car first, Tyler using the keyless entry to unlock the vehicle, then tossing open the back passenger  door.

“Get in,” he orders.

“I don't get to call shotgun?”

“Just get in,” he snarls, and then slams the door shut when the other man finally complies.  Pacing by the side of the car until he finally hears the hurried click of heels against the payment. Relief washing through him when she finally comes around the corner, pausing momentarily to lean a hand against a building in order to remove her heels. Now in her bare feet, shoes in her hand.

  “That was twenty five minutes,” he informs her.

“It took a little longer than expected,” she admits, as he lays a hand on her hip and kisses her softly.  “They were chatty. Not particularly helpful, but chatty.  My feet were killing.  These things are bullshit. Remind me never to wear heels again.”

He takes the shoes from her, a hand on the back as he escorts her to her side of the car. Pausing before opening her door, instead tossing open the back one and tossing the heels into the back seat with enough force to catch Mark on the side of the head and leave some damage.

“I'm starving,” she announces, as her husband opens her door. “Let's go and get something to eat. We'll have to drive pretty far out of the way so no one recognizes you or sees us together. Do you think they sell tacos somewhere?”

“Just get in,” Tyler says, and gives her one last peck on the lips before she slips into the car. “Let's just the fuck out of here, yeah?”

She nods in agreement, and reaches for her seat belt as he closes her door.

“Hi Esme,” Mark greets her from the backseat, and she nearly jumps clear out of her skin.

“What the hell?!”she shrieks. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“He's here to help,”  Tyler says, as he slips behind the wheel and starts the ignition, tires squealing as he peels away from the curb. “You know. Like you asked him to.”

She glares at her ex husband.  “You dumb ass motherf-...”

“Like the man just said, you asked.”

“You weren't supposed to show up here!” she hisses. “You were supposed to send someone! This is not what we agreed to!”

“I had some time off coming. I figured why not to the deed myself? I could use a little excitement.”

“You're going to get a little excitement when I come back there and beat your ass!” she threatens.  “What is wrong with you? I told you not to tell Tyler. I told you...”

“Uhhh...excuse me...” her husband speaks up.  “...Tyler is right here. Tyler can fucking hear you.”

“It's not what you think,” she says.  “I did not ask Mark to come here. I asked him for help. But I never told him to come here.”

“Why didn't you just leave it alone? After I told you McMann?  I told you all of that in confidence.”

“In her defence,” Mark pipes up. “She was just worried about you.”

“You shut up. I''m not talking to you. I'm talking to my wife. You know, your ex wife.”

“Okay...guys...take it down a notch...” Esme insists. “....there's too much ego in this car right now.  Mark, shut up and mind your business, okay? This doesn't involve you.”

“Well it does considering you're the one who asked me for help.”

“Just...shut...up...” she spits out every word. “Or I'll have Tyler stop this car and get him to toss your ass out in the middle of the road.”

“I can stop right here,” Tyler suggests.  “Throw him right out into traffic.”

“You'd like that wouldn't you,” Mark snorts.

“You know what? I actually would. I would love to toss your arrogant ass right in the path of an eighteen wheeler.”

“Simmer down...please...” Esme begs. “Yes. I asked him for help. I told him about McMann. Because I don't trust him and I was worried about you.”

“It was between us. In confidence.”

“I was worried about you, Tyler. You were walking into this blind with nothing but McMann's word to go on.  Maybe I overreacted...”

“You think, Esme? You really think?”

“...but I wanted to help you and keep you safe and that was the only way I knew how.”

“You had my phone and my SAT traced? Are you serious?”

“I wanted someone to have your back. To keep an eye on you,” she reasons. “I didn't do it to betray your confidence. I did it because I was worried. That's all. I'm sorry.  I didn't meant to upset you, Tyler. I did it because I love you and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He sighs heavily, shaking his head.

“I'd be pissed too,” Mark says, and Tyler glares at him through the rear view mirror.  “Just saying.”

“You really need to just shut up and stay that way,” Esme tells him. “See that vein throbbing in the side of his neck? That's the vein that throbs when he's about to impale someone with a garden rake. So just...shhhh...”

There's finally blissful silence.  Tyler's head pounds ferociously, his stomach growls.  “How'd it go?” he asks.

“It was like taking candy from a baby.  They just bought it hook, line, and sinker.  The bartender is definitely IRA. No doubt about it. I gave him my card. He says he's going to call.  And pass my name and number around to other people that can give me info.  They honestly think I'm here to write an article about the what's going on between the IRA and the Buckman's. And McCann's wife and kids. It was so easy, Tyler.  You would have been so proud of me.”

“I am proud of you,” he says, and she smiles.

“You guys realize I'm still back here, right?” Mark speaks up. “And that we're now about half an hour from where I left my car?”

“For fucks sakes!” Tyler bellows, and makes an erratic U turn in the middle of oncoming traffic.  

“You might want to do up your seat belt,” Esme suggests to her ex. “Tyler doesn't know what stop signs and red lights mean.”

It takes half the time to get back into town. The blatant and dangerous traffic violations making for a quick, yet nerve wracking trip.  And Tyler pulls up in front of the restaurant he'd ran into Mark at.

“Get out!” he orders.  “Just get out! Now!”

Mark puts up little resistance. “Your shoes,” he says, to Esme, holding out the heels.

“You're a real fucking tool,” she declares, as he drops them into his lap.

“We'll be in touch,”  Mark says, more to Tyler than her. “I look forward to working with you, Rake.”

Tyler smirks. Then floors the gas.