"Are you in a love affair with that piece of junk or something?"

Without waiting for a response, Scaramouche stepped closer from behind, snatching the gun from your hands with his good hand, his mechanical one twitching erratically. He loaded the weapon with practiced ease, aiming it at you as a joke. You were so engrossed in polishing the gun that you hadn't even heard him enter your workshop where, as a gunsmith, you repaired and modified weapons. You rolled your eyes, exasperated.

"What's that look for? Just checking if it works,"

He soon leaned his lower back against the table, eyeing you down, gun still at hand. Your left cheek and hands were covered in grease from the weapons you worked on. As he eyed you down, you eyed him up from where you sat, taking notice of his mechanical arm sparking with occasional hisses, due to clear damage and malfunction. You couldn't help but give him that look that said "Seriously? Again?"

"I'm here for a fix, not a therapy session."

Evidently, he didn't want to hear any of that. Despite not working as an assassin anymore, and instead fulfilling his role mainly as a weapon supplier, there were occasions where he'd have to step in physically, damaging his mechanical arm and returning to you, at the end of the day, for repairs.