It was the tone in his voice more than anything that relaxed Clint, brought the hint of a smile to his face. "Touche," he said. And then, at the comment about Steve, grumbled, "Nobody every listens to me when I tell them to moisturize." It was true, certainly (except Natasha, of course, but it wasn't like Clint ever had to tell her about the benefits of good skin care), but Clint knew full well that it was more of a laugh line than anything else, and that's what he was going for. Even shitty as he felt, the humor came through. He couldn't help it, not really. Especially around people like Bucky or Scott, where quipping was practically their main form of communication.
But his tone turned a little more serious after that, the small, insistent reminder. You don't wash your own damn clothes? There these things Clint couldn't do that anyone worth their salt from his home district could, and living here, even temporarily, drove that home more than anything else. He might've hated the Capitol and talked a big game about farming and livestock, but it didn't make him any less of a Capitolite. "I been living in my downtown highrise apartment in Capitol city since I was fuckin' fourteen years old. What do you think?"
It came out a little harsher than he meant for it to, a little more bitter, and he took a shaky breath in the wake of the outburst, his attention split, now that Bucky was tensing beside him. He watched his eyes as Bucky spoke, reacting to it, and Clint felt the shrug ripple through him. He squirmed a little then, shifting a little, so he could swing an arm up over Bucky's back, not quite facing him, but enough for a one-armed hug that Clint held for a few seconds. "I'm sorry," he murmured, and then shifted back to their original position. "I really am, Barnes. That's a shitty position to be in and there's nothing you can even do about it. You deserve better than that. Life fucking owes you more than that."