#if interruptions are occasionally seen as normal/acceptable‚ is it because the first speaker already got their point across

[thesixthstar]

Turn taking in conversation is a complicated beast and also varies by culture. What counts as a “break in conversation” can look different to different people depending on their background, so a tiny gap might look like a break to one person while another person might assume it’s rude to ride someone’s proverbial heels so hard. In some cultures, there’s something called “cooperative overlap” which basically means “interrupting but it’s considered good and participatory instead of rude”, but if you try that overlap in a culture with strict turn-taking, it will be seen as rude and interrupting.

Even in cultures which accept interruption as cooperative, there are some rules on what interruptions count as good and which ones count as bad. Most people only understand their cultures turn-taking intuitively and won’t be able to articulate the hard rules for you unless they’ve studied it specifically, unfortunately for everyone.

Also unfortunately I don’t have any concrete advice as to how to use this knowledge in a practical sense, but I hope that clarifies why you might be getting some seriously mixed signals when it comes to “how to participate in a conversation”.

(I only know about the linguistics side so idk if this carries to the topics that the metaphor alludes to)

Neurotypical people will teach you that it's rude to interrupt others, that you shouldn't talk over people, and then make fun of you your whole life for being "quiet" and withdrawn because you're waiting for a break in the conversation that never comes.

[emerald-chaos]

Touchdown

*gif not mine, credit goes to the owner*

I just want to take a moment to say thank you for the love on my last fic! It made my lil ole heart swell to see that peopled enjoyed it enough to leave a like or reblog.

This is just something special I had in my arsenal that I wrote for a friend a few months ago. I touched it up a bit and added a few things here and there. It all started when we were talking about how much we loved when Chris' accent got heavier after he'd been drinking, and well, I couldn't help myself lol. I hope you enjoy the fluff! xoxo

I apologize for any grammatical errors, I tried to proof-read but am also a little exhausted lol.

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Word Count: 2844

Warnings: I don't think there's anyway? Mentions of being drunk/drinking alcohol, cursing, and illusions to sexy times, but that's about it.

You hadn’t noticed how furiously your knee was bouncing up and down until the person sitting next to you on the subway got up to move seats once the train squealed to a stop. You sighed and ran your hands down the front of your thighs. Normally being a little late didn’t bother you as much, but tonight you were meeting him.

You flipped your wrist over to check your watch. 8:30pm. In all honesty, it had probably been only thirty seconds later than when you checked it the last time. Another deep sigh escaped from your lips as you started to become hyper aware of the train remaining still at the current stop. What could possibly be taking so long? You knew he wouldn’t care if you were running late, but the time the two of you had together already felt so minuscule. You wanted to capitalize on every second you could.

The train began moving again and you slumped back into your seat, feeling only a small amount of relief. It was becoming painfully apparent that you needed to try and relax. You could feel the sweat building up on your body, the sting on your palms from where your fingernails were pressing in with a vengeance moments ago, and you could hear your heart thumping in your ears. Your hand dug around in your purse for a few moments before finding the small case you were looking for. Opening it, you slipped your headphones into your ears and let your head rest on the window behind you as music intertwined with your thoughts.

Once upon a time, you made fun of people who decided to go to grad school. What kind of a clown would spend thousands of MORE dollars and go BACK to school?? Not to mention the stress of the assignments, the due dates - it was not for you...or so you thought.

Now here you are, a regular booboo the fool.

NYU’s graduate program for design and merchandising wasn’t necessarily part of your 5-year plan, but when the opportunity landed in front of you it was difficult to pass up. NYU was a school you had only dreamt of attending back in high school. When you were a senior in high school you were able to tour the campus and fell in love immediately. Hours upon hours were spent researching grants, scholarships, and all sorts of ways to try to make it happen. However, the dream ended as most teenage dreams do - crushed. There was no way you or your parents could afford the loans that it would surely wrack up to attend the out of state university, and there was no way you could ask your parents take on that kind of debt just so you could go to college. UMass was the way to go - close to home and familiar. Not to mention you were able to obtain several scholarships and grants that helped bring down the cost tremendously. Little did you know, boring ole UMass would bring you one of the most important things in your life.

Applying for graduate school wasn’t an easy decision and one you couldn’t really take all the credit for. A smile crept across your face as you reminisced on the night you nervously brought up the idea to your long-term boyfriend.

“I think you should do it,”

“I know, right?” you scoffed, “it’s insane, why would I do something so stup...wait, what? You do?”

“Of course I do. This is something you love and that you’re passionate about. Do you know how many hours of my life were spent listening to you ramble about NYU?” he questioned with a grin.

“It will open up so many doors for you. We can make things work,” a chuckle escaped from those beautiful lips as he saw your dumbfounded expression. He wrapped his fingers around your waist and pulled you close, “What? Did you expect me to forbid it? Cmon, baby, what kind of guy do you take me for?”

You didn’t have a lot of wins in your life, but you did have Chris.

When you got accepted, he took off a week from work to drive you 3 and a half hours south to help get you settled and moved into your temporary new home. The two of you ate a disgusting amount of pizza, moved a ridiculous amount of heavy furniture in the middle of a summer heat wave, and enjoyed each other’s company before the long-distance thing would set in. Chris spent that week encouraging you every step of the way, talking you off the ledge when you were convinced you had made the wrong decision, and made sure to help you christen every possible surface of your new place in the most deliciously sinful way.

You bit your lip slightly at the thought and a warm feeling spread across your face. Chris was one of the most incredible people you had met in this world. Kind, caring, funny, intelligent, passionate, and god was he sexy. The connection the two of you had was scary at first, but now you just couldn’t imagine spending your life with anyone else.

The robotic voice came over the loud-speaker in the subway car and you were rudely ripped back to reality as it pulled into your stop. You hurriedly scooped up your bag and jogged off the train.

It had been a promise between the two of you when you moved that there would be equal effort when it came to visiting and keeping in contact while having good, open communication. Long distance was hard but the two of you were determined to make it work. FaceTime calls, hours upon hours of texting, and even as far as writing the occasional letter back and forth (because your boyfriend was a hopeless romantic and you loved it so much). This weekend was your turn to come home to visit, and of course your last class had to go longer than anticipated. Fuckin’ Tiffany and her stupid ass questions.

The muscles of your calves burned as you kept up your hurried pace, weaving through the crowds of people gathered on sidewalks outside of various clubs and restaurants. It was a weekend night and the Patriots were playing, which meant the city was more alive than usual. New York was it's own beast, but it was a different type of hustle and bustle. Nights like these made your heart ache for home - the thick Massachusetts accents, the rowdy voices of bar patrons arguing about the game, the hugs shared between family members as they parted after dinner, and the faint smell of nicotine and alcohol that hung in the air.

As the neon sign that hung in the pub window came in to view you felt your heart dip down into your stomach. Last weekend’s visit had to be cancelled due to some stuff coming up with Chris’ work and a surprise assignment for you, so you hadn’t seen your boyfriend in 2 weeks. With a deep breath you swung open the door and scanned the crowd for him. He told you that he would be there promptly at 7:15pm for pregame shenanigans with his friends - which actually translated to how many pitchers of beer could they suck down before kick off.

“Aw, come ON! That is such a bullshit call!”

You heard him before you saw him. Of course. A grin spread across your lips as you shook your head. The thought of leaving to avoid secondhand embarrassment crossed your mind briefly before you picked up your feet and made your way through the crowd toward the sound. A room full of people from New England and you would still recognize that voice anywhere.

Everyone else seemed to fade away as you saw the outline of the tall, dark haired man standing at the bar. The slight freckles that spattered the back of his neck, the Brady jersey that he spent WAY too much money customizing, and the signature backward ball cap were ingrained in your subconscious memory. Not to mention if you didn’t recognize his outline or his voice, you would definitely recognize that ass anywhere.

You loved how passionate he got about sports and the way his Boston accent seemed to get thicker with each beer he consumed. Growing up in the area, you wouldn't think the accent would send a tingle down your spine the way it does, but it was different - it was Chris. Not to mention the sparkle in his eye when he would watch his favorite team or the way he would get in to arguments whenever someone tried to say something negative about them. You loved your big, handsome, over-sized toddler man so damn much.

A light tap on his shoulder made him whip around, his slightly opened mouth from his interrupted conversation curved upwards into a wicked grin as he made the connection of who was finally standing in front of him.

“Hey there, handsome. I don’t see a ring on your finger. You single?” You grinned, feeling your entire body fill with warmth as Chris leaned back and grabbed his chest as he erupted in laughter.

“Nah, nah, nah, unfortunately for you I am taken” he responded as he snaked his arms around your waist, sliding his hands into your back pockets as he pulled you into his figure.

“That is too bad,” you tsk'd, running a finger down his toned bicep, “she’s one lucky girl.”

“I think I’m the lucky one,” he grinned. He leaned down to meet your lips in a kiss. You sighed into it, allowing your body to mold itself so perfectly into his. The taste of beer on his lips and the smell of his cologne was intoxicating - it was home. You immediately allowed him entrance as you felt his tongue glide along your bottom lip. Your body felt small in his strong grip and you couldn’t help but laugh a bit as he gave your ass a firm squeeze. Normally, this type of bold, public display of affection would make you cringe away but at this point you were lost in Chris that you had absolutely no shame. Each time the two of you embraced had always felt like the first. Your heart still fluttered and your knees still got weak, like you were a 16 year old being kissed for the first time.

In the middle of your reunion moment, however, something happened in the game that made the entire bar erupt in boo’s and curses. Chris lifted his lips from yours to look over his shoulder and inspect what he had missed. You laughed and shook your head as you pushed him back towards his friends and took a seat in the bar stool he had been standing behind initially. His large hands found a natural place on your shoulders. While his eyes remained glued on the TV he began applying a moderate amount of pressure to your neck and shoulders. You didn’t realize how much your body craved that touch, his touch, until you immediately melted back into him.

The bartender slid a beer in front of you with a wink and you mouthed your thanks. You felt a twinge in your heart as you looked around, taking in the atmosphere of the bar. This was a typical weekend night for the two of you whenever you were living together. Football, drinks, pub food, and friends. If it wasn’t this pub it was your living room, just a couple blocks away. You didn’t even mind that it was your first night back and you weren’t alone, spending it immediately wrapped up in your satin sheets. The atmosphere, the people - it was so warm and familiar that you really wouldn’t rather be doing anything else. Plus, being wrapped up together in the sheets was sure to follow.

“I missed you,” hummed a pair of lips as they placed a kiss on the shell of your ear. A shiver shot down your spine at the sensation of his warm breath fanning over your neck. You reached up a hand and connected it to the nape of his neck.

“I missed you too,” you replied, turning your head to plant a kiss on his stubbled cheek.

His arms changed position as he wrapped them in front of your shoulders and crossed them, resting his chin on the top of your head. Your hand absentmindedly rubbed his forearms as you nursed your beer and placed your focus onto the game for the first time tonight.

The laughter seemed to escape from your chest naturally and effortlessly the entire night, as it always had a habit of doing when Chris was around. The camaraderie between him and his buddies during a game was something you’d grown to enjoy over the years. Chris’ competitive nature and the way his jaw clenched when something wasn’t going the way he wanted was always kinda...hot. All of his friends were huge assholes, but in the best way. It was always entertaining to hear them jab at each other and do what they could to rile someone up. They were the life of every party you had ever attended and they had a way of making a boring night a lot more interesting.

Thankfully (for the integrity of the bar) the Pats won the game with a surprise touchdown in the last 30 seconds of the game. Chris, being the guy he is, bought a final round for his friends and a nearby group they had been going back and forth with all night. You couldn’t help but laugh as he drunkenly leaned across the counter and slurred his order to the bartender.

“I need a round for m’friends and for these assholes over here who thought Tom Brady was anything but a winner!” the group started yelling in protest and he simply waved them off and started sliding beers down the bar.

The group eventually moved to a bigger round top so everyone could shoot the shit and banter about the outcome of the game. You were tucked into Chris’ side, hands intertwined as he was passionately discussing the importance of Brady’s legacy with a stranger who made the mistake of stopping to talk to him. Your eyes followed the motion of your thumb as it traced small circles onto the back of his. Your other hand under your chin, holding up the weight of your head as your exhaustion started to catch up with you. Chris, although slightly drunk, picked up on your body language and raised your hand to his lips for a kiss.

“Alright, fellas,” he said as he stood up from his seat, pulling you up with him, “the lady and I are gonna call it a night. See you boys next weekend”.

“Chris, we don’t have to go,” you began to protest as he tucked his jacket around your shoulders.

“Mm, ‘course we do,” he replied with a soft smile, “you’re so tired, baby. I can see it in those beautiful eyes”.

You could feel your cheeks turn a light shade of pink as you rolled your eyes at his attempt at laying it on thick. After what felt like a proper 10 minute goodbye session, the group said their final goodbyes, hugs included, and you walked out of the pub hand in hand.

The walk home was filled with the sounds of cars passing by and conversation of what each other had missed in the week prior. Small talk typically felt like such a chore, but with Chris every conversation came naturally. Even when he had absolutely no idea what you were talking about, he would listen intently and ask all the questions as if it was the most interesting conversation in the world.

The lock on the apartment door clicked as you pushed it open and entered. You smiled as you stopped into the middle of the living room, taking in the home you missed so dearly. A soft tapping of toenails against the hardwood made your heart soar as you met the eyes of your sweet pup, Dodger. A squeal left your lips as you squatted down to give love to the sweet boy. Chris always made fun of you when you came home, saying that you always seemed to miss Dodger more than you did him and I mean, he wasn’t entirely wrong about that statement.

Once again lost in your own world, you didn’t even notice Chris leaned up against the wall watching you with a smile.

“Oh my god,” you gushed, standing up, “do you like...like me or something?”

Chris grinned as he crossed the room and caught your belt loop with his finger, pulling you into him slowly.

“Yeah,” his voice had dropped down an octave, “you could say that”.

“Mm,” your tongue swiped across your lower lip and you wrapped your arms around his neck, “care to show me how much?”

The look in his eyes made your core burn. The tension building between you two became too much to handle as you crashed your lips into his. The kisses were messy and you could feel the sense of urgency between you two. His beard scratched against the column of your throat with a delicious burn as he left wet kisses across your jaw and down the side of your neck. Chris’ hands found their way back into the ass pockets of your jeans as he started walking you back towards the direction of the bedroom.

Soon, there was a trail of clothes leading to your bedroom and you felt very sorry for your neighbors. It had been a long time, but Chris always had a way of welcoming you home.

[ieattaperecorders]

Something’s Different About You Lately - Chapter 9: A Disappearance

Several employees become preoccupied with personal projects. The archive has a minor infestation.

Read on Ao3

Martin leaned against the break room counter, phone to his ear. As before, the call went directly to voice mail.

"Don't know what I expected," he muttered to himself. He'd called twice already that morning, third time wasn't going to be the charm.

The sound of the kettle came nearby, and he paused to pour water into two mugs. As the tea steeped, he brought his phone up to stare at the familiar number. Pushed down a tiny, anxious compulsion to just call again, as if that would accomplish anything. The phone was either on silent or powered down, either way he wasn't getting through.

Sasha always had her phone on her. She always had it charged. Martin had never known her to go more than a few hours without responding to texts or missed calls. Really, he had no idea how she kept on top of it.

Maybe she'd caught the flu and was sleeping all day, too tired to call in or charge her phone? Or maybe she'd lost her phone. It happens. You couldn't assume someone was missing just because they'd skipped a couple days of work, could you? One and a half days, really, since it was barely past noon. And the weekend, of course, no one had seen her then. But that was the weekend.

Reassurances like these might have sat easier with him if it weren't for the time Jon had vanished into a set of supernatural corridors. As was, things were beginning to feel uncomfortably familiar.

He opened his text history with Tim, knowing as he did there'd be nothing to see.

Martin: are you at the institute ?

Tim: nah nowhere near

Tim: doing some field work

Martin: oh :/ are you coming in at all today?

Tim: probably not. dw i texted jon, he knows

Tim: tell him not to worry, just doing some recon

Martin: maybe you should call and tell him yourself? he seems pretty upset

Tim: it's cool. i 'm gonna have my phone off so i won't see texts for a while :) ttyl

Martin: I really, really think you should call Jon and talk to him

Martin: seriously. Things are getting weird here

That exchange had happened that morning, and there'd been no word from Tim since then. Martin didn't like this feeling. Half of him thought he was worrying over nothing, while the other half suspected that he wasn't worrying enough. And the only other person in the archive wasn't likely to provide a model of stability anytime soon.

He remembered what it had been like during the two weeks Jon had disappeared. The first days had been marked by a passive confusion, with the three of them going about things normally, occasionally looking up and asking has he still not come in? Did you see him at all? Should somebody call him? Idle concern that grew into anxiety as more time passed.

After four days of it, Martin went to Elias to ask whether Jon had called in, if he knew where he was. Elias had said something vague about field research. Said that it was open ended, and no he didn't know when Jon would be back. Added with a smirk that he was taking a "hands off" approach with him. When Martin pressed for more, expressed worry that he wasn't answering his phone, Elias had given him a knowing smile that made him feel like he was naked in public. He'd suggested Martin might be letting his own "personal preoccupations" color things, and reminded him that repeated phone calls can make one look rather desperate for someone's attention. Martin had shuffled off, face burning, and not brought it up again.

Elias's explanation and lack of concern had kept them all complacent for too long. But Martin shouldn't have been complacent. He should have known better. No, that wasn't even it – he did know better. Deep down he'd known something was wrong, because he'd spent so much of those weeks worrying.

Worrying, and thinking about those days he'd spent trapped in his flat, slowly accepting that no help was coming, that the outside world had shrugged at his absence and moved on. He remembered worrying what would happen to his mother when the payments for her care stopped coming. And thinking that the others at work might not even learn he was dead unless his landlord gave a statement about the rotting, buzzing, hole-shot thing he'd find when he finally came to evict him.

Sitting with his back to the wall, cold, tired and halfway to delirium, Martin had hoped that they'd feel guilty when he did.

It had been some consolation to learn Jane had been using his phone, that there was a reason nobody had looked. Nursing resentment, he'd thought to himself that ‘stomach problems' had been a weak excuse. But then, an even weaker excuse alongside a snide comment about how obvious Martin was had been all it took to stop him asking questions, so how much worse was he? He'd known something was wrong, but instead of doing anything he'd kept his head down, and worried, and hoped it would work out.

Tea finished, he brought the mugs out to the bullpen. Jon was already there, bent over Sasha's desk -- he'd emptied the contents of her drawers all around him and was sifting through them, brow furrowed. He looked up as Martin entered.

"Anything?" he asked, expectantly.

"Still no answer . . . should you really be going through her things like that?"

"Yes, it's fine." Jon waved a hand and turned back to the papers he'd been looking at.

The question had been rhetorical, not an opportunity for Jon to give himself permission to keep rifling. Martin decided to let it go.

"She didn't tell you what she was working on, did she?" Jon asked. "Anything that could give you a clue where she'd be headed?"

"Not really," a twinge somewhere, because since when did anyone tell him anything? "I mean, she's been looking up statements for some research she's doing, but she's secretive about what it is. I think has something to do with Gertrude? She's been talking about her a lot, anyway."

"That isn't much help . . . there's too many directions it could lead. And that's just the ones that I know about . . . ."

"Sorry . . . I wish I knew more." Maybe it was the anxiety already swirling in Martin's stomach that made Jon's tone cut through him the way it did. It was hard to say.

"It's something. A starting point, at least." Jon sighed, shoving some papers haphazardly into a drawer. Assuming Sasha wasn't eaten alive by some nightmare creature, she was definitely going to notice when she got back. He pulled a notebook from his pocket and began scribbling in it. "I'll try making a list of relevant statements, maybe we can check whether she accessed them recently."

Martin stepped a little closer to peek at what he was writing: 0081912, 9522002 (would she recognize the voice?) 0141010, 0063011, 0090202 (anything involving A. or L.F.) The moment he realized Martin was watching, Jon frowned, flipped the notebook closed and stuck it back into his pocket.

"What about Tim? Have you been able to reach him at all? I think he's flat-out ignoring me at this point."

"No. His phone rings, but he doesn't answer. Last we talked he just – well, see for yourself."

He displayed the last text conversation. Jon's eyes scattered over the words, then he grabbed the phone from Martin's hand and began typing a reply. Martin barely had time to sputter a hey! before it was handed back to him: Sasha is missing. Call immediately. -J

Terse, but he supposed it might get Tim's attention. Martin looked up to see Jon pacing back towards Sasha's desk, shaking his head.

" ‘Recon . . .' there are only a few places that could mean, and all of them are bad," he muttered. "I'm going to have to go after him, aren't I? I'm going to have to – but there's only one way that can end for me and I can't – not yet, not while Sasha's still gone. . . "

Martin frowned. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Last night." There was a note of triumph in Jon's voice, an unspoken so there. "The same as you, presumably."

"Okay. How much sleep did you actually get, though?"

"I don't know. Not much. Doesn't matter . . . can't sleep anyway." His voice dropped in register and he muttered, "spiders" like it was the name of his mortal enemy. Martin considered mentioning something about how they'd at least keep more harmful pests out of his home, but thought better of it.

"Okay, then. . . suppose I'll file that away with all the other weird, cryptic things you keep saying." At that, Jon gave him an aching look that made him instantly regret saying anything.

"I'm sorry, Martin. I am trying to be more forthcoming. I t's just – well, it's difficult . A nd I'm afraid it's already making things worse . . . ."

"Look . . . you don't have to tell me everything, okay?" Martin said. "Just let me help. If you think you know where Tim's vanished off to, tell me. I can check in on him if you can't. Really, I'd rather be doing that than sitting here doing nothing--"

The rest was cut off by Martin's yelp of surprise, as Jon closed the distance between them, grabbing him tightly by the shoulders.

"No! Don't you dare. Not you too," Jon's voice began to crack. "Please . . . if I can't even keep you safe . . . ."

His eyes were wide, and he was holding Martin very, very closely. As Martin tried to think of what to say to that, tried even to remember how words worked, his phone rang and startled them both. Jon's grip on him loosened and he pulled away to check it – it was Tim.

"Put it on speaker," Jon said. He did, and Tim's voice came out before Martin had the chance to say hello.

"Martin. What's going on?"

"I see now you're suddenly available," Jon's voice dripped with disdain.

"Don't. Not now," Tim said warningly. "Just tell me what's happening with Sasha."

Martin held a hand up before Jon could interrupt him again. "We don't know exactly. She didn't come in today, or yesterday. We'd actually been wondering if she was with you."

"I take it from your call she isn't," Jon said. "Did she tell you anything about where she was going?"

"No. I didn't even know she was going anywhere. Have you called her?"

"Of course--"

"--We tried," Martin cut Jon off, his tone forcefully calm. "We've been trying to reach her for a while, actually, but she isn't answering calls or texts."

There was a pause on the line as Tim quietly cursed. Then Jon's hand was on Martin's wrist, pulling him – no, pulling the phone in his hand – closer.

"Look, just . . . come back to the institute," the argumentative tint to his voice was gone, now he was all but pleading. "We can work this out together. Just – just come back."

There was a pause, then Tim's voice again.

". . . I'll be there in a few hours."

He hung up without ceremony. Jon released his hold on Martin and slumped into a chair.

"Well, that's one crisis dealt with," he exhaled. "Or postponed."

There was nothing like relief in Jon's voice, only a low, tired dread. Martin looked at him, taking in the bruises under his eyes, the unsteady tremor to his hands. He looked . . . harried. Like he'd been running for days and might drop dead from exhaustion before whatever was after him even caught up.

Martin found himself badly wanting to reach for him, to brush away whatever dark thoughts were settling in. He wanted to take a blanket and wrap him up warm, to sit next to him as he'd done for Martin in the storage closet, until he felt safe enough to close his eyes and rest.

"Jon . . ." he said softly. "You're not well."

A hollow, humorless laugh. "Not really, no."

Sasha was missing, monsters were real, and Jon was keeping secrets that were tearing him apart from inside out. Martin didn't know how anything he might say could stand against any of that. But he still wanted to say something. He pulled up a chair and sat down.

"You don't have to take everything on, you know. We're in this together, right? That's what you just told Tim. So let me help you," Martin said, something weak and pleading in his voice. "Tell me what you need."

An indecipherable look passed over Jon's face. Martin wanted to take his hand but had enough sense not to try, instead placing his own hand palm-down on the desk beside them. To his surprise, Jon reached forward to grasp it. For a moment something fluttered in Martin, but he nudged the feeling carefully aside. This wasn't about his embarrassing, childish crush. Jon was scared and exhausted, and he needed a friend. Martin turned his palm and gripped back. If he could give Jon any little bit of comfort, he was going to, and he was not going to be weird about it.

"What I need . . . ." Jon swallowed and shook his head. "What I need is to know where Sasha is, and – I need Tim to not be doing something suicidally dangerous." He looked up at Martin, then back to their joined hands, placing a second palm over them both. "I need you all to be all right. It's all I have . . . ."

"Okay . . . okay. Well." Martin took a breath, in and out. "We'll do what we can to find Sasha. And Tim is on his way back for now," he said softly. "And for what it's worth, you know, I – I'm here."

". . . I know." Jon gave him a weak smile, and shook his head again. "Whatever else happens, I . . ."

He trailed off, looking down at their hands. His thumb moved back and forth, absently brushing little arcs over Martin's knuckles. He was quiet for a long while.

"I don't know," he finally said. "Just be safe. Please. If . . . if I lost you, Martin, I don't even know . . . ."

Jon kept his grip on Martin and yes, he was definitely stroking his hand now. Martin's heart began to pound. He might have kept it together, but then Jon's fingertips trailed up the curve of his wrist and his breath hitched – quiet, but Jon heard it. He looked up abruptly, seeming to realize himself, and dropped Martin's hand as if it was on fire.

"God, I – I'm sorry, I didn't –"

The pained look returned to Jon's face as he pushed away from the desk. Several responses crowded Martin's brain at once. It's okay, you don't have to stop, and please don't look so sad, and I'M GAY IN CASE THAT WAS SOMEHOW UNCLEAR, I MENTION THIS NOW FOR NO REASON. But instead of saying anything he stared, dumbfounded, as Jon got to his feet.

"I have to go," he said, hurrying back towards his office. Martin heard the door slam followed by the click of the lock, and he was left sitting speechless next to two cold cups of tea.

* * *

Back to the door, Jon pressed his face into his crossed arms, swallowing back the noises that refused to stop coming out of him. He wasn't crying, the fact was that he was far too tired for tears, but kept his mouth covered all the same. He'd done enough to confuse Martin already without him hearing Jon sob through the door.

Stupid, stupid. Careless. It was falling apart so quickly. He couldn't imagine what else he'd have managed to destroy if he'd stayed in that room a moment longer.

Every step he took seemed to be a mistake, every option leading to disaster. Keep his secrets to himself and Sasha runs off to die looking for answers. Let out a little truth and Tim throws himself to the Circus. Be the Archivist, let the Beholding in and he would repeat the cycle as Jonah's tool. But stay human, and if he wasn't killed by something lurking in the shadows he'd be spun into the hands of the Spider.

Assuming he wasn't there already. He'd danced his way to the apocalypse once, all the while thinking he was trying to prevent it. How could he be sure every action he took now wasn't part of the Spider's plan?

He'd had a dream some nights ago. Martin had been in his flat, curled up with him on the couch – there had been no confession, no revelation of feelings, they were simply together once more, and it was wonderful. Until Martin tried to get up. Jon felt a tug as he moved – first gentle, then more insistent. Martin's expression went from one of contentment to confusion, to sudden distress. He was trying to pull away, but somehow his arms were still wrapped around Jon. With as much force as he could muster, Martin yanked back hard, and his arm finally moved to reveal thick, white webbing between them, binding their flesh together.

Horror washed over him as Martin began struggling in earnest, and Jon felt every tug and snap, the desperate writhing of hopelessly trapped prey. Jon wanted to say something – to comfort him, to scream with him, to beg for his forgiveness – but a thousand legs were stirring inside him. He felt the press of movement in his throat, and put all his effort into keeping his mouth closed. Not certain how long he'd last, but entirely sure of what would swarm from him the minute he let it open.

He very nearly found himself missing the Watcher's nightmares when he woke. At least he'd never worried that they might be prophetic.

Jon's fingers tangled themselves into in his hair, and he felt something crawl over his hand. He jumped, shaking his arm free, and a palm-sized spider fell onto the floor. Revulsion crawled through him – he grabbed a loose folder, ready to smash it. But the moment he raised his arm he saw something move in the corner of his eye. He looked around and suddenly they were everywhere.

Hundreds, thousands . . . more? He didn't know how many, it didn't matter how many, it was too many. Too many spiders, his brain screamed. Tiny, skittering things crept out from behind boxes and between files, from under the baseboards and over the ceiling. They crawled from every direction in the room – above him, around him, everywhere, EVERYWHERE.

Panic gripped him. He froze. So did the spiders. For a tense moment, they all stayed like that – Jon too terrified to move, eyes darting from one part of the room to another. He was surrounded. There was a clean circle a few feet around him, and beyond that, the swarm. Waiting. Unmoving. Why were they just sitting there?

Experimentally, he lifted the folder in his hand, ready to bring it down. The swarm crept closer. He stilled, and they stopped. They didn't withdraw, but they didn't advance either. It seemed that they weren't going to touch him . . . unless he made a move to kill one of them.

What the hell was this ? Some new way to toy with him? Was he being trained like a dog, now? The Web didn't like his habit of killing spiders, so it was sending a message – quit swatting at us, or – or what? They'd kill him? Not if they intended to use him, they wouldn't . . . but then, they wouldn't need to. He'd seen the sort of things they do to people – victims left hollow but alive, helpless to stop as their bodies are jerked along on invisible strings.

He shuddered, withdrawing his hand, and he swore he could feel the pleasured satisfaction running through them as he did what he was told. It made his stomach twist.

He couldn't just obey them like this, could he? But if he defied them and they swarmed, wouldn't they have him then as well? Was it reverse psychology, did they want him to attack and give them an excuse? Or was that what they wanted him to think, so he'd fall in line? Maybe he was damned either way, maybe it was only a question of how his free will would be stripped from him.

To hell with it, then – if nothing mattered, he could still spit in the puppeteer's face. He raised the folder in his hand.

Then he stopped.

Something dawned on him. Not the sudden rush of Knowing he'd felt from the Beholding, this was more akin to the moment he'd understood what the Distortion was, his own mind putting together the pieces of something he'd been struggling with. He forced himself to ignore the swarm and focus on the lone spider he'd shaken from his hair. The one that had made sure he'd noticed it, that still hadn't scuttled away. It was waiting for him. All of them were. The last pieces fell into place.

"It has to be a choice," he whispered.

The spider regarded him, silent. Slowly, he lowered his hand, wary of any sudden movement that could break the stillness holding it all back. He never took his gaze off the palm-sized spider on the floor.

"It has to be a choice. But it doesn't have to be a fair choice." he continued, face twisting into a hateful grin. "Doesn't have to be a choice you understand the consequences of, or even one you know you're making. It can be made under the threat of death or heat of panic, as long as it's done."

"That's what's been haunting me this whole time, isn't it?" His voice was bitter. "You have to make a choice , Jon. You chose to pursue knowledge, Jon . All of this has been because of your choices Jon. That's where you creep in."

Jon knew the small, eight-legged fear in front of him. It had been with him a long time, its legs tickling the back of his mind whenever he agonized over the all things he might have done differently. And how much more had he been thinking of those things since he came back? Since what he might have done differently had become an immediate reality, no longer hypothetical? How many hours had he spent dwelling over all the possible outcomes, the consequences he could never predict? How many times had he been paralyzed by the thought that each new action would make things worse?

If there was no hope – if there was truly nothing he could do, no way to keep the world from ending . . . well, that would be a nightmare of its own. But if the world could be saved, then Jon could fail to save it, could destroy them all again.

That horror of choice, that fear of responsibility. He'd brought it back with him.

The spider scuttled forward. Decades-deep arachnophobia rose in Jon at the skittering motion, but he resisted the urge to swat at it. Stiffly, he pressed himself into the door as the thing began to crawl up his leg. Every muscle in him wanted to jerk away, to get rid of it, destroy it. He resisted the urge. Carefully, he reached down and scooped it up, cupping it between his hands. Its legs tickled his palms and his skin crawled, but his own fear screaming at him to to crush and kill it solidified the certainty that he shouldn't.

"So you come to me when I'm at my worst," he said, "at my lowest and most self-destructive, and you set up this little tableau. Make me feel powerless, toyed with, so that I lash out. And as I do so, I think – to hell with it, let them have me ."

And they would have him then. They'd swarm, slip in through his eyes, ears, and nostrils, crawl through him as he screamed and wept and writhed. Then they'd tuck themselves away inside him, where they could spin their webs, lay their brood, and turn him to their purposes.

He'd be theirs. Freed from all responsibility, a helpless, innocent puppet.

Not a fair choice, but enough of one.

". . . That part of me that wanted you to be the reason I hurt people, that in my worse moments wished the Eye would overtake me, take the fear and the shame and make me a monster that didn't care. It called to you, didn't it? I'm sure it's calling to you still," he said softly. "But that isn't me. A part of me, maybe, but not all of me. And I've been fighting it too long to give in now."

Bending forward, he opened his palms and shook the little fear onto the floor, glaring at it with every ounce of hatred he had in him.

"I don't know if I can fight you forever, any of you. Maybe it's foolish to think anyone can. But I'm not going to give myself to you that way," he growled. "I'm. Not. Yours."

The lights flickered as he spoke those final words, and for a moment he felt an overwhelming sense of vertigo. When he managed to focus again, the spider was gone. As were all the others – he looked in every direction, but they were nowhere to be seen. Left . . . or crawled back into hiding, he didn't know which.

Jon sat there, wondering what exactly he'd just done. It felt as though a decision had been made. But he didn't have much time to think about it before the sounds of shouting came from down the hall.

"Jon!?" Martin's voice, strained and panicked. "Jon! Sasha's come back, and she's hurt!"