It would be so much easier if she could yell. Her teeth knit, throbbing at the sudden force of it, and she hates how much concentration it takes to write even when she isn't paying attention to it. Hates how much it isn't like talking. Isn't like yelling. Can't convey more that a silent echo of her current suddenly choking anger. The desperate drilling need -- fear? -- need to know if she missed more of these before this one.

Especially as he just. goes. on. sitting. there.

A writ without denial, becoming a note of defiance in his own voice, she recognizes even small. And the fact it pops out, both that she can hear it and because it's every proof of the fact she can't do anything like it, she can't even keep herself from crossing what's left of the room at him, and the small rolling desk chair he's wedged into

-- Big. That single word echo's like a solid door, metal and feet thick; untouched but never unknown --

and Allison can't even. She doesn't even know it's coming before she's doing it.
Reaching out to backhand his shoulder with the force her voice can't give her.

Because you're not putting your life into the hand of some idiot here!