A gargling, feral sound greets the words. Possibly understanding, maybe probably an ‘okay’ of his own.
Hard to say when he’s spitting out something with the patter of something pebbly hitting the ground.
He doesn’t look at Graves. Bit distracted.
One has to wonder why he even has it, then.
Taking a moment to rub his face along Graves’ shoulder, he leaves a rusty red and oily black smear, before plunging into the storage unit and immediately toppling to scrape his side along the floor with a sharp, keen sound.
Pausing in the middle of nibbling at his forearm.
Patchy fur e v e r y w h e r e.
Itchy. Tasty.
Half-scrambling, half-falling out of the car with a slightly wet ‘thud’.