Still laboring under the illusion that this is a fox--albeit unusually pretty and intelligent--Cricket didn't think he needed permission. He's not surprised by the flailing, though, and remains gentle, murmuring softly, "Okay, it's okay, I ain't gonna hurt you. Hold still a second--"

If the fox were determined to get away, he probably could. Cricket holds him like one would a crotchety cat, not a wild animal that might turn on you, gathering up the jacket around him loosely.

"...well," he says after a minute of frowning. "I don't think it's broken. You're a lucky little fox. Don't look fit to run on, though. Ain't like I'm a doctor, but I wanna take you home and wash it out, at least."

"Then again, that depends on if you'll cooperate." He smiles down at the fox. "You seem like you understand I'm tryin' to help, at least. Unless you're just stickin' around for the compliments, Pretty-Eyes."