As much as she toyed with his hair, the bangs always drifted back into his eyes. At times they masked the monstrosity of a scar on his face, though still it peeked out as it laced over the surface of his muzzle. Jefferson had watched for himself, independent and alone, for far too long; he had become coated in scars and tatters as a result, yet blamed such disfigurements as payment for his sins. He cared little for his appearance, not once considering he could cut his hair from his eyes, for he had far too much else to worry himself over. She mused with playful words, returning a smirk to his scarred lips.
"I have too much else to worry about than bathing or eating," he shrugged, a coy glint in his eye. "A pack, a son, a woman and her tumbles... she takes good care of me." He missed his independence, that once-upon-a-time feeling where he owned nothing and nothing owned him, but that was nothing but a past life. His place now, the place he had lingered in for what felt like such a short time, could not have made him happier. "The dark is exciting," Jefferson hissed through the teeth that formed a sly grin, "don't you remember the night with the fireflies? You and me. You want to take that away from me?"
He snickered at last. "And I think the matter is that they don't play well with me." A pause. "Most of them," and he laid a kiss on her nose.
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