Clint Barton doesn't have the same relentless mixture of fear and hatred toward ice that a couple of his teammates do, but all the same: he hates the cold, and he hates ice because it screws with his footing. Even with the cleats Tony'd added to the bottoms of his boots he still has to worry about falling, probably to his death at this point.

He huddles down into his parka, looking at the battlefield below and trying not to let Tony's arc reactor remind him of the coldness that had washed over him with the touch of a golden staff, what seems a lifetime ago.