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interrupt others, that you shouldn't talk over people, and then make fun of you your whole life for being "quiet" and withdrawn because you're waiting for a break in the conversation that never comes.

[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!"