He's pissed off. Yeah, okay, so Clint's pretty damn grateful that Barnes got him up and out of there, he wouldn't have been able to hobble out on this knee without a shit ton of effort and trouble. But a huge part of him is pissed that he was taken down, that someone shoved him and caught him and by sheer luck hobbled him. Far as he can tell, the bones in his leg are whole and intact, which is a goddamn relief.

But it still steals the breath out of him, aches sharp and steady, his leg a fiery burst of agony, leading up his spine, throbbing at the base of his skull. The way Barnes slings him over his shoulder doesn't cut down on the pain, and a sharp sound escapes him, even though he bites through his lip to keep quiet. Even held as he is, in pain and aching, Clint watches their backs. It's the least he can do. So someone looming up out of the blue, gun up and ready, hits him in the lizard part of the brain. Clint shoots before he even thinks about it, a grim satisfaction filling him as the guard falls, missing half his face.

Aside from that, their escape is clean. Or as clean as it can be, here. Barnes holds him easily, moves quick and steady, and soon enough they're sneaking back into the blindspot. Even though Barnes puts him down careful enough to avoid injuring him further, Clint's breath hisses out of him, a pained sound warbling in the back of his throat.

He doesn't feel comfortable enough to let that through, not with Barnes. So instead, Clint shifts and breathes, and steadies his leg out before them. Careful fingers scope out the damage, but he already knows its something they should wait for.

"I'll survive." Alright, bad joke. Clint's gaze slides over, looks Barnes over head to toe, much as he can. "You hit?"