"I'm not yelling at you," he says, frustration edging his voice, but the volume steady as ever. He can't remember the last time he shouted, the last person he shouted at--but he can feel how it isn't any difference. He's angry: it doesn't matter how loudly he speaks. Any other day, he wouldn't be angry at Credence to begin with; he'd push it down, he'd take the tea, and he'd wonder at how to do it--how to teach Credence that someone being angry, even with him, doesn't have to mean violence.

He'll just have to make that realization for himself, today.

"I don't need you to take care of me, Credence." His voice lowers, but his resolve holds. He can't cope while he's coddling someone else, and he can't imagine Credence being around him right now without needing it. "I don't need your help. If I need anything, it's for this place to stop fucking me every chance it gets, and I need you to leave me alone."