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The hunchback was still heaving, glowering at the door as Scruff whined and scratched at the crack beneath it. Why had the scareon's master shooed away his new friend? The fat patchwork beast harrumphed unhappily.

The moment Christof noticed what Amrita was holding, though, he quickly snatched it away, glancing in renewed terror at the rest of his room. It was HIS room! Other people weren't supposed to come in here! Quickly, he set to work gathering up the rest, hastily snatching the remaining ones taped to the stone to shove them in his drawer, his face flushing scarlet in some patches and a more pinkish shade in others.

He turned with his back to the desk now, leaning on the drawer to make sure it stayed closed, but his blush firmly remained. Tidy up? There wasn't really anything to tidy as far as he was concerned- at least things he wanted her anywhere near. His furniture was minimal, but there were contraptions here and there, unfinished or in the process of being fiddled with on a wooden dresser on the far wall, and a heap of burlap in the corner leaned up next to a couple pairs of old black boots, no feet inside thankfully. The chase after the little Deathly monstrosity had left things scattered, a few papers here and there with the occasional forgotten picture fragment. They looked like they had been done partly from a cheap camera, in some cases behind bushes, and some from what looked suspiciously like they had been stolen from old school newsletters and any announcement he had found with a photo photocopied onto it, only he had cropped out everything but... a leg, an arm, a square of foot with a question mark in red marker.

Shifting uncomfortably, he scratched at his unfinished seam, glancing anxiously to the door and the sounds of furious snuffling.

He straightened, not quite sure what she meant at first until it damned on him and he jumped, shaking his head, no. Things were... as they'd be, he supposed. Just... act casual. And fix your arm, you look like a mess! Admonishing himself, he returned to his disheveled bed to sit and locate where the needle had flown off to. Once found, he held it up to her in a simple motion he hoped communicated that no, he just did repairs.

At his shoulder above his stitching was a circle with a star inside, punctuated by various foreign looking writing- a demon mark, but it was unclear as to who's.

Scruff, meanwhile, growing bored and sleepy had crept towards the growing heat, flopping down against it with a purr, a whine and a fart, his short hairy tail thumping against the warm wood.

The interest took him off guard, blinking at her in confusion a moment before hurriedly finishing his work, juggling a small pair of scissors to snip the thread before giving the fresh arm a flex. It was always odd when the new limb was in place. It felt like it had always been his arm.... except... a bit foreign. He had done fairly well in locating a few back ups that were almost the same as the old, but he had some work to build the muscle back up to where he was used to. He preferred fresher parts, before the muscle atrophy kicked in.

But why the sudden interest? He looked over her face critically a moment, gauging her sincere expression before reaching for the Jinglebell, cracked and tarnished, but with one ring left it remained delicately in-tact, to illustrate. His old arm was lost... somewhere in Christmas town. Who knew after that blast? Probably incinerated. No matter, it was a bit like losing a favorite sock, really. You'd miss the comforting familiarity but there were other socks. Carefully, he set it down on his shelf again before cocking his head at her curiously. Why did she want to know? Just being polite and making conversation? Maybe... even if he could tell her everything he knew, it was minimal. He did not know the secret to the spark of life in a Patchwork being, but he had vague recollections of his Master hinting towards it involving a pumpkin... but he did know the *mechanics* of it inside and out. Maybe she wanted him to try to build her a better pet?

He shrugged, putting his sewing kit away before shuffling to try to find a fresh set of clothes, his ears practically burning at the embarrassment of being caught this way. Maybe she was just trying to find excuses to not venture out towards that.... affectionate firey THING in the hallway? It didn't seem like it was going anywhere any time soon... eventually he would have to take matters into his own hands, he figured. Quickly he at least pulled on an undershirt to cover his autopsy scars. No, it didn't hurt, but that didn't make them comfortable either. He was quite happy to be entrenched in Fear. Unless things went awry in class, he wouldn't have to worry about fresh stitches for a while.

It was difficult to stay frustrated by that half-gone face though, and Christof felt a pang of sympathy for the Ghoul's rotting body. Obviously she didn't want her hands and feet corrected, she had made that clear on the Train, but perhaps a skin graft to cover the skull part of her face? He motioned to his cheek before moving to point to her own face questioningly.

His stitched lips wriggled as he fought between frowning and smiling, but ultimately moved to his desk for a pen and paper. Alright, if they were going to chit-chat,he might as well at least try to make things easier. Turning the notebook open to a fresh page, he scribbled down a quick note, "Do you need patching?" It wouldn't be a problem, he did skin grafts for himself all of the time. Something more elaborate they might need help with, but a few repairs he was definitely good at.

Christof was suddenly staring intently at her face, mismatched eyes studying what he had to work with like an artist stepping back from a blank canvas. Well... she'd need more than a skin graft. He'd have to go digging all night to find a good fit for that hole, but if he was careful, maybe the fleshy edges would be enough to hold the graft into place? He had no idea, he had never worked on anyone or anything besides himself before. Biting the inside of his sealed lips, he scribbled down, "We could try, if you wanted." He was hesitant to give the remaining rotting flesh a tentative poke to test it. But she was the one asking all of the patchwork questions, after all! "Still do not want hands/feet fixed?" He added in a margin to make sure. After her stumble he wondered why she insisted on keeping her limbs... well, WRONG.

He flinched back when she made her nervous noise, flushing again as he scooted a little further away on the bed demurely. He hadn't meant to make her feel uncomfortable. Biting the inside of his lip again, he continued to write, "Too soft. Stitches will rip. Not built hearty like Patchwork." Shifting again, he felt a pang of guilt in case he had gotten her hopes up and he added, "Sorry."