His response is a quick, short shake of his head. It's not that speaking is dangerous - not, indeed, that speaking would take too much time. It's that...he doesn't know what to say. It's all right? It very clearly isn't all right. This is a last-ditch, one-in-a-hundred plan to get her out while he still has a little bit of life in his cover. Yes, it's me? She knows bloody well that it's him. I'm sorry? He's not sorry - not even in spite of everything, not even in spite of how this is all turning out. If all of this has underlined anything, it's that: he's not sorry.

Instead, what he does is he reaches out and - quickly, a little roughly - squeezes her arm. A confirmation. Yes, I'm here.

And then he's immediately back to it, hyper-focused. He feels calm, in spite of the desperation of this. Steady on his feet. He follows Natasha, his step light and sure, gaze sweeping the hall around them, stunner at the ready.