He hated that tone in her voice, he hated it when she adopted that air of superiority, and he half considered reminding her that he wasn't going to put up with it. But there was no use in arguing with her now, not when he was still suspicious of everything and absolutely desperate to get home and out of his costume and into his own bed.
"Slow down," he called to her, jumping along just a moment behind, with much less finesse to his movements than was typical. He was hurting, aching, and he was dead on his feet. He didn't have a body that was built to ignore injury and spring into action after days of constant duress. "For the love of God, Widow, at least tell me you'll tell me what the deal is when we get there."