[He uses that single point of contact to reel himself in, until his shins bump against the soft bulk of the wormipede draped over L's lap. His ears go forward to catch his Witch's explanation of the situation; the lack of motion from his tail broadcasts what he thinks of it (be still, there's a threat here) as much as the Bond does.

This is dangerous, and neither of them is in a state to navigate these complexities right now. The stag in Myr--as ever--suggests that they run, or hide, and--for once, the man in him is inclined to listen to the wisdom of the prey.]

Then, amatus, [gentle words, punctuated as he takes L's hand entirely in his own and rubs his thumb over the knuckles; he does not feel calm himself, but he has hard-won years of experience at acting it when he must,] stop talking to him so you don't have to lie.

[For now.]

Buy yourself the time you need to reason through this. And--

[...a thought he'd been meaning to speak nearly since Light's arrival occurs to him, and he stops, but doesn't voice it yet.

The tip-of-the-tongue feeling hangs there, though, in the Bond between them.]