Chris could feel the heat, metaphorical and real, as he watched the other man. He knew there were several options open to him now, but he didn't want to take the safe paths. He was exhausted - he had spend nearly forty-eight hours doing nothing but watching the wall, trying to get through or figure out how to get it down. It wasn't his fault the journals had stopped, it wasn't his fault Smith had been trapped on the other side. None of it was his bloody fault and he wasn't going to deal with Smith. He just wasn't.
"I've known heat," he said, his voice a hiss. "I've known heat white-hot enough to burn you from the inside out and frankly, Smith, even its pathetic flickers as is died were more than you've given me to work with to date. So take your words, your violence, your petty ignorance, and your accusations and just go jump off a fucking bridge, alright? I've tried being nice, I've tried doing what I can and fine. It's not good enough for you. That is just fucking fine. But I've got people to take care of now, I can't just shove them off on someone else when I don't feel like doing what needs to be done, so I'm going to walk the fuck away before you pull me down to whatever level it is you're operating on."
His eyes, when he flicked them up and down the other man's body, were cold. Chris ignored the throbbing in his chest, the ache that he knew would bruise, and said, "I don't want to know," before turning and walking away.