He can't say he's a fan of most of Clint's coworkers. He likes Natasha, even if they have a perpetual game of one-upsmanship and occasionally annoy the everloving shit out of each other with slightly oppposing viewpoints on some key issues — the issues that matter, they're on the same page about. Namely, the Bartons. All of them. Clint, Laura, the kids, they see eye to eye on them, so they've got one permanent fixture keeping them tethered.

The rest? Iffy. He doesn't know Rhodey except for what he's seen on the news. Has a slight, begrudging respect for Steve soldier to soldier, even if he's a little resentful about the hypocrisy that separates the two of them. They star-spangle Frank up and he'd bet money he'd go from Punisher to Captain too. Unless they're pretending like those skulls Rogers bounces off of steel with all that super strength don't shatter like tissue paper half the time, like he's not out here killing bad guys just like Frank is, but with a flying disc instead of a gun.

He thinks they're not careful enough. That they take too much for granted with Clint. That they could be doing more to watch out for him. The whole mind control thing started them off on a bad foot, and they never really recovered in his eyes.

So yeah, no, he's got no burning urge to justify himself or redeem the skeptical reputation he seems to instantly have when they come bounding down their jet. All he does is spit blood into the grass beside them, and slowly haul himself to his feet, pointedly ignoring the guns trained on him — if you're gonna shoot me, pull the trigger already and shut the hell up — in favor of holding a hand out to Clint. An offer, obviously, to help haul him to his feet.

Because that's how it works. That's what you do after this.