Chapter Text
A faint beeping noise rings through Carmilla’s ears as she buries her face impossibly deeper into a pillow to try and block it out. She waits a few minutes, trying to even out her breathing to return to her previous slumber, but the sound becomes more irritating as the seconds tick by. Letting out a frustrated groan, she swats her arm out to the side, trying to locate the alarm clock that she assumes she turned on accidentally. When her hand finds nothing but air, she peels her eyes open and brushes some stray hairs from her face. Now that she’s somewhat awake, Carmilla quickly becomes aware that the beeping noise is most definitely not coming from her alarm clock, and she has fallen asleep on the couch, not her bed.
Carmilla sighs, accepting the fact that nap time is over, and scratches the back of her head as she twists around to locate the source of the god awful noise. “Oh fuck,” she mutters and climbs off the couch, rushing into the kitchen to pull out a batch of pizza rolls she must have fallen asleep while making. She flips a switch on the wall and her ceiling fan comes to life to clear away some of the smoke. Inspecting the pizza rolls, Carmilla finds that each one is burnt to a crisp, and the low growl of her stomach informs her that it’s not very happy with the outcome. Carmilla kicks the oven angrily, though she very well knows the blame rests on her shoulders. It helps relieve her of some frustration, though.
Dumping the charcoaled dinner into the trash, she begins to look through her fridge and cupboards for anything to eat. When she comes up empty-handed, she debates returning to bed to sleep off the retched night, but is once again reminded of her hunger as her stomach rumbles loudly. Carmilla glances at the microwave and groans at the time. It’s two in the morning and there’s no fucking way she’s going to be able to find a place that delivers this late. Giving into her need of sustenance, she quickly slips on a pair of black boots after shrugging on her leather jacket. Going out at two a.m. in all black probably wasn’t the most brilliant idea, but since when did she care about others’ opinions?
She grabs her keys off the kitchen counter and pries open the front door. Due to the fact that her brain is still half asleep, she doesn’t quite process that something is very unusual about her non-existent doormat before she finds herself face-planting in the middle of the apartment hallway. “Are you ser-,” she begins to growl, but immediately swallows her words when she sees that the oversized doormat is actually a human being. Carmilla glances up and down the hall and comes to the conclusion that her and the mystery girl (she's assumed based on the long hair and small stature) are the only ones around. Running a hand through her hair, Carmilla grumbles as she pushes herself off the ground and lightly taps the girl with her foot. After a few attempts to nudge the girl into consciousness, Carmilla sighs and crosses her arms. She can see the subtle rise and fall of the girl’s chest, so she knows calling for help isn’t necessary. “Goddamnit Karnstein,” she mutters to herself as she bends down, scoops up the unconscious girl and slips back into her apartment.
After laying the girl down on her couch, Carmilla props her head up with some pillows and trudges around her bedroom until she musters up a clean blanket to drape over her. Now that the girl looks relatively comfortable, Carmilla bends down to pick up the wallet that has slipped out of the girl’s pocket. She flips it open and smirks as her eyes rake over the girl’s driver’s license. The first bit of information that Carmilla notes is that the mystery girl’s name is Laura, Laura Hollis. The second thing she notices is that Laura is 21 years of age as of today’s date. She lets her eyes settle on the photo portion of the ID and snorts immediately. Most people complain about the picture on their license, but Laura looks like she was having the best day of her life. The smile spread across her face could light up a room, and Carmilla hates to admit how adorable it is. She quickly observes that Laura has honey-brown hair that matches her eyes before she closes the wallet and places it on the end table beside the couch. No matter how cute Laura is, she’s clearly new to the drinking club. The smell of alcohol is practically rolling off of her and Carmilla is sure that anyone experienced with drinking would never blackout on someone else’s doorstep. She shakes her head and retreats to her bedroom to snag a book and a garbage can (she would rather Laura get sick in a container than all over her carpet) before curling up in the living room armchair, forgetting all about the rumbling in her stomach.
Fifty percent of Carmilla’s evening is spent reading. The other fifty is spent listening to the quiet inhale and exhale of breath from the girl lying across from her.