He twists in, as Holden moves to pass him, and for his feet it's a fencing move, fluid and automatic. He catches both of Holden's wrists in each of his hands, gripping tight enough to hurt, although pain isn't the point. He needs something grounding, something certain he can at least pretend he's in control of, even as it's something that stops him doing anything else.

He doesn't know what else he wants, except that James does not get to be the one who walks away. He's quite sure he can't take that.

"If you could just watch," he says slowly, like gravel grinding, "You wouldn't have anything new for me, would you?" They're all trained to watch, in the Heptarchate. They all learn, one way or another, to live with it.

It's not, he doesn't think, a question that needs an answer.

"I called you," he growls, and it feels like glass in his throat, "Because I need help. I'm sorry I'm a cuckoo knotted mess of a fox but I don't fucking know how to trust you more than that."