Whatever game Clint was trying to play, Jefferson wasn't of the mind for it, or the mood. The only reason he'd held his attention this long was because his metal-armed twin was clearly less in the way of mental stability than he was and despite however shitty he was feeling, the hatter didn't want to get shot or stabbed or blown up just then.
He was somewhat struggling with whether or not he wanted to give Clint a piece of his mind, or try and figure out how the hell he was looking at himself. Clearly, this man wasn't him. He looked and sounded like him--which only sent a wave of goosebumps down Jefferson's back, because when did anyone get to see and hear themselves in such a manner? He'd seen much, but, this was just a little bit much more. Too much more than he needed to see.
Ultimately he decided that mulling over what clearly was reality here, and given all that had ever happened to him, was a possible thing, and loosing his mind over a doppleganger or whatever the hell this Bucky was, wasn't worth the migraine.
The sudden change to apology and the formal way with which he spoke to Clint only raised Jefferson's suspicions. He had to be kidding if he thought he was about to pawn this little issue off on him. Just because they shared a face, or if Jefferson may have looked like an easy sell.
"A real problem, I'm sure." Jefferson replied dully under his breath, glancing from Bucky to Clint, leaning an elbow against the counter. "With respect," he mocked his double's follow up to the archer, if only because it seemed like the man wasn't picking up in the obvious agitation within his demeanor as to indicate that he wasn't up for playing games, so snarky comments were needed. "This is a tailor's shop. I haven't found the Adoption Center, but, since Bucky here is so benevolent, I'd be happy to help you two find it."
Which was about the most cordial way he could say that this wasn't his problem.