"My fault?" Mello dropped the tin onto the top of the mini-fridge, with a clatter, and took a measured, menacing step toward Matt. "My. Fault?" Another step, and the bags and flashlight hit the floor. So what if it was? Matt wasn't allowed to say so. "Take that back," he said, being entirely too generous, given the situation. Matt was lucky Mello hadn't decked him again without giving him a chance to back off. He'd gotten off too easy before, and since then, Mello had been slammed with guilt that wasn't even rightfully his; it belonged to some future, possible, whatever version of himself. And he'd lost his bomb ingredients, and those damn nanomachines were putting ideas in his head he'd never normally have, trying to make him weak, trying to make him lose his sense of who he was. They'd almost succeeded, too. Yes, he definitely needed to hit something.

"Do I have to remind you, alleged genius, that I hadn't seen you in five years 'til your ass showed up here?"