Destined Fur More

English People With Cricket Bats

Recap because I have terrible priorities:

Fisher and Teague argued about BLAH BLAH SHIFTERS HUNTING THEM BLAH REVOLUTION BLAH. Teague's also an eagle.

Wasn't that a great summary?

-can't think of anything for transitioning space so you have this incredibly suspicious sentence telling you there's a transition to the actual plot-

After all those points had been so tactfully shoved into my face, we'd both gone to bed. Or floor with sleeping bag, I suppose I should say. Considering two hours ago I'd thought I was going to be sleeping on the bottom of a homicidal river, it was quite comfortable. Teague and I were back-to-back, sharing the same square footage to keep warm, though the fire and heavy, military-issue sleeping bags did that quite well. We didn't want to risk anything, and frankly, I'd be scared out of my fucking mind if I couldn't feel anyone in my remote area. Even if Teague'd slept a few feet away, my subconscious would still make up stupid noises to scare my conscious. You'd think after ten years of learning to despise other's presence, I would hate all human contact. But even I couldn't deny how much comfort it provided to have another person here, just in case I'd get eaten by a bear or something. Not completely cut off, you know? Someone to pick up my severed arm and bury that, at least.

That is until Teague fell into a calm, silent sleep and I heard a scratching outside the door. My eyes, which had been attempting to stay closed, went wide and nearly popped out of my head. I clenched my teeth and stayed still, trying to convince myself it was just in my—

—scratch, scratch, scratch.

Fuck. Of course, it was real.

I swallowed hard, trying to determine if moving would alert the thing outside of my presence—scratch, scratch—and send it into a boiling, murderous rage and eventually end up with my blood shooting from my throat and waking Teague up, where he would also perish because I twitched my finger.

The fire was throwing shadows all over the room, but there were no windows for me to crane my neck to peek out of. This also meant that the thing also couldn't see us, but it could—scratch—probably smell the smoke and see the firelight through the cracks.

Not moving my neck on account of the possibly deadly thing outside, I shifted my eyes to the left so much it hurt, trying to see if Teague was in a deep sleep or not.

Unable to tell, I cleared my throat to see if it would stir him. I grimaced when he remained asleep. I coughed a little louder. Nothing. My eyes narrowed at his sleeping ignorance. Why couldn't I be the one asleep and painfully unaware at my impending doom? These situations are never fair.

The thing scratched at the door again, causing my heart to clench and turn into ice. My mouth quivered in terror.

I "accidentally" bumped into Teague as I "rolled" over "in my sleep". Again, he didn't stir. Wasn't he supposed to be the protector here? Isn't that what all cliché stories said? Guy wakes up, hears noise, investigates, saves girl's life and they continue through their trek, bond even closer until that fated moment when they both get captured, break out, fall in love, make out and and shit? I ground my teeth together and kicked my feet viciously, hoping the noise would awaken him without alerting the thing we were alive and full of fresh meat. Teague mumbled something, but didn't make any notifications of consciousness otherwise.

Finally, a few more scratched and rustlings from outside prompted me to hiss, "Teague" once and quite venomously. He didn't reply.

Slowly, I untucked my arm from my sleeping bag, watching the door with caution, just to make sure it didn't blow off its hinges with thousands of ravenous goats pouring through it, and shook Teague gently.