The woman wasn't unused to strange sights, and to be scared of something akin to a prosthetic [though she deemed it just a replacement... on further inspection, it didn't seem to function as an eye...] would mark her a hypocrite.
Still, to see this man with a clock face so plainly sitting in his head was... perplexing. Standing there, she almost longed to reach out and touch the glass, but stopped herself. That would be rude.
"Ah... Excuse me, Sir, but do you have any oil or tools that I might borrow for a moment? I hate to bother you, but walking might become a hassle very soon. I'd be happy to compensate by buying something from you, of course."
The Exile asked this while looking down, then shifting her attention to folding up her pant leg on the right. It seemed only one of her legs was real, though her prosthetic could pass for a real limb unless inspected closely enough.
Alarmed, as one might say, the Clockmaker's head jolted up from his work. The watchface clattered to the counter, while he caught his breath—eye pressed shut, his sigh of relief was palpable.
Regaining his composure, the Clockmaker swallowed thick; his head hung as he laughed, light and low.
"Goodness," he started, startle still evident in the hitch of his shoulders, "I didn't hear you come in."
The Clockmaker shook his head, straightening out. It'd do neither of them any good for him to catch on his momentary blindspot—he'd simply been engrossed in his handiwork. He brushed the watch aside, and put his needlepoint screwdriver back into its carrier.
While he tucked the latter away, he took a moment to take the Exile in, his eyes catching on her rolled up pant leg. It was a convincing façade, alright, a near-perfect swatch match. Practical, nude to the eye—
He gestured for her to sit.
"What might be wrong with it?" He asked, leaning over in his own chair to faff with his tools. They sat in their box under his desk; it was much easier for him to bend down than it was for him to walk.
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