"It's okay, Laura."
Danny took a deep, shuddering breath. The blood from her back was drying and cloying, sticking shirt to skin with a sweat-slicked stubbornness she could do without.
Bracing herself against Laura's knees, her vision swam slowly in and out of focus. She was a boat loosed from her docking at the harbour, steadily drifting out into a still sea. She blinked brine from her eyes and began again.
"It's okay."
Laura's fingers clutched at her, tugging at the fabric which pulled at her wound, bring new fresh pain to light and causing Laura to grip her tighter with every grimace.
It was the best kind of bittersweet Danny had ever encountered: a final symphony to send her to sleep.
"I meant what I said before." A gasp, a shudder. "That it was worth it..."
The pain is blossoming into a white hot heat now, and Danny struggles to keep communicating as the whole wave threatens to submerge her, sinking her down into soft sand below. "... And I'm not scared. Okay?"
Laura is crying and Danny is crying, and they're not alone - they've never been alone, not when it ever mattered - but Danny can't stop herself. She's started, so she'll finish. Those were the rules.
"You remember that. I'm not scared."
Laura's face is a picture-perfect postcard of sadness, and the tiny, selfish morsel of Danny that remains wishes that there was regret in there too. Now isn't the time for callow conceit, but Danny has always loved Laura. She lost long nights to wondering if she would ever get another chance. She supposes that this is her answer.
"I'm not scared."
Had she already said that? It seemed important, so very vital to this whole mess: to be strong, and stalwart, and steadfast, and, and...
The burn has reached her face, and Danny feels her skin flushing but flesh cold, limbs leaden and limp, eyelids heavy with the sheer effort of remaining fixed on Laura's now-fragmented face. She was so beautiful, back when Danny could see clearly. She'd still be beautiful now.
The dull thudding in Danny's ears sounds like the kind of countdown she'd rather not hear, but it's too little too late. There's a raw, rushing sound which grows louder by the second: that must be the ocean encroaching on the land. Man overboard.
"I'm not scared. I'm not..."
There are voices around her, like thunderclouds on the horizon. Indistinct and yet ever-present. Intangible, frustratingly out of reach, but creeping closer, ever closer.
A low, tremulous noise is torn from Danny's throat, and she can feel her fingers fisting against the carpet before she can gain control of her senses. There's still pain, but it's sharp and sweet.
Everything seems jumbled. She's hearing scents and feeling sounds, and suddenly, Danny is living her life all over again. Her first bike (second-hand, third time fixed), her last kiss (with entirely the wrong person and for utterly loathsome reasons), her death in the arms of a long-lost loved one.
Every decision Danny has ever made is exposed like a raw nerve, and she bears witness to each regrettable choice. She feels herself thrashing against the injustice of it all; she had lived with the consequences then, surely that should be enough?
In the porch of her ear, phonemes find their way to the heart of her conflict. There's a cursory comment muttered, disparaging and yet simultaneously, obscurely encouraging, as though some small part of her is determined to succeed in spite of the adversity.
"C'mon, Clifford. Up and at 'em."
The blackness bursts into bright light behind her eyelids, and there's an overriding sensation of being dunked in ice water before Danny truly determines what's going on.
Black hair hangs over her, curtaining her face. There's an ache in the side of her neck, and she tastes copper on her tongue, the tart metallic tang of a life-altering conclusion come to without her consent.
"No."
"Yes, Jolly Green. Get up."
"I didn't want..."
Carmilla sighs, her fingers curling into the collar of Danny's shirt as she lifts the redhead a little off the ground, bringing her close enough to hear the acerbic sentiment that follows. "Nobody cares right now. The battle might soon be lost. They needed you back, so back I brought you."
The brunette stands, lifting the hem of her own shirt to her lips, wiping away the remnants of somebody else's blood. Danny wonders if it was hers; she is almost offended by the gesture. She had resigned herself to some semblance of an afterlife, and yet here she was, happily never after. Forced apart by frat boys, damage undone by the undead.
Extending a pale hand, Carmilla held her gaze like a challenge. "We need you back, Big Red. So get the fuck up. Don't make me stake you."
Ignoring the proffered hand, Danny jerks her joints into action, feeling as though she's been motionless for years. Looking around the apartment, she knows it can't have been for more than a matter of minutes. There's nobody nearby but the female Nosferatu, and Danny can sense herself spoiling for a fight. Despite the rumbling rage that seems to fill every inch of her being, she has to concentrate.
Flexing her arms, Danny feels for the wound in her back. There's a tear in her shirt and the stickiness of serous fluid, but otherwise little to find. Surrounded by broken furniture, she spies that Carmilla's body is covered in a litany of cuts, and wonders how many - if any - of those were inflicted during the process she was mercifully unconscious for the duration of.
Ignoring her inspection, the older woman simply views her with a raised eyebrow and a sardonic smile. "Ready?"
Danny wants to laugh at the irony of it all, but she doesn't. She can't bring herself to.
Battle-born, she nods. Better late than never.