Fangirl

Baz was kneeling over her and trembling just as hard. His hair hung forward in a way he normally wouldn’t allow, and his pale skin glowed oddly in the moonlight, like the inside of a shell. Simon wondered for a moment why Agatha wasn’t trying to escape. She must be dazed, he thought. Vampires could do that, couldn’t they?

“Go. Away,” Baz hissed.

“Baz…,” Simon said, holding his hand out.

“Don’t look at me.”

Simon avoided Baz’s eyes, but he didn’t look away. “I’m not afraid of you,” Simon said.

“You should be. I could kill you both. Her first, then you, before you’d even realized I was doing it. I’m so fast, Simon.…” His voice broke on the last two words.

“I know.…”

“And so strong…”

“I know.”

“And so thirsty.”

Simon’s voice was almost a whisper. “I know.”

Baz’s shoulders shook. Agatha started to sit up—she must be recovering. Simon looked at her gravely and shook his head. He took another step toward them. He was close now. In Baz’s reach.

“I’m not afraid of you, Baz.”

“Why not?” Baz whined. It was an animal whine. Wounded.

“Because I know you. And I know you wouldn’t hurt me.” Simon held out his hand and gently pushed back the errant lock of black hair. Baz’s head tilted up with the touch, his fangs popped and gleaming. “You’re so strong, Baz.”

Baz reached for him then, clutching Simon around the waist and pressing his face into his stomach.

Agatha slid out from between them and ran toward the fortress. Simon held Baz by the back of his neck and curved his body over him. “I know,” Simon said. “I know everything.”

—from Carry On, Simon, posted February 2011 by FanFixx.net author Magicath

EIGHTEEN

“Do you just hang out here now?” Nick pushed his library cart to her table.

“Just trying to write,” Cath said, closing her laptop before he started peeking at her screen.

“Working on your final project?” He slipped into the chair beside her and tried to open the computer. She laid her arm on top of it. “Have you settled on a direction yet?” he asked.

“Yep,” Cath said. “Lots of them.”

He frowned for a second, then shook his head. “I’m not worried about you. You can write ten thousand words in your sleep.”

She practically could. She’d written ten thousand words of Carry On in one night before. Her wrists had really hurt the next day.… “What about you?” she asked. “Done?”

“Almost. Well … I have an idea.” He smiled at her. It was one of those smiles that made her think he might be flirting.

Smiling is confusing, she thought. This is why I don’t do it.

“I think I’m going to turn in my anti-love story.” He raised his Muppet eyebrows and stretched his top lip across his teeth.

Cath felt her mouth hanging open and closed it. “The story? Like … the story we’ve been working on?”

“Yeah,” Nick said excitedly, raising his eyebrows high again. “I mean, at first I thought it was too frivolous. A short story is supposed to be about something. But it’s like you always say, it’s about two people falling in love—what could be bigger than that? And we’ve workshopped it enough, I think it’s ready.” He pushed his elbow into hers and tapped his front teeth with the tip of his tongue. He was watching her eyes. “So what do you think? It’s a good idea, right?”

Cath snapped her mouth shut again. “It’s … it’s just that…” She looked down at the table, where the notebook usually sat. “We worked on it together.”

“Cath…,” he said. Like he was disappointed in her. “What are you trying to say?”

“Well, you’re calling it your story.”

“You call it that,” he said, cutting her off. “You’re always saying that you feel more like an editor than a cowriter.”

“I was teasing you.”

“Are you teasing me now? I can’t tell.”

She glanced up at his face. He looked impatient. And let down. Like Cath was letting him down.

“Can we just be honest?” he asked. He didn’t wait for her to answer. “This story was my idea. I started it. I’m the only one who works on it outside the library. I appreciate all of your help—you’re a genius editor, and you’ve got tons of potential—but do you really think it’s your story?”

“No,” Cath said. “Of course not.” She felt her voice shrink into a whine. “But we were writing together. Like Le

“John Le

Cath clenched her fists in her lap.

“Look,” Nick said, smiling like he was forcing himself to do it. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done. You really get me, as an artist, like nobody else ever has. You’re my best sounding board. And I want us to keep showing each other our stuff. I don’t want to feel like, if I offer you a suggestion, it belongs to me. Or vice versa.”

She shook her head. “That’s not…” She didn’t know what to say, so she pulled her laptop toward her and started wrapping the cord around it. The one Abel had given her. (It really was a good gift.)

“Cath … don’t. You’re freaking me out here. Are you actually mad about this? Do you really think I’m stealing from you?”

She shook her head again. And put her computer in her bag.

“Are you angry?” he asked.

“No,” she whispered. They were still in a library, after all. “I’m just…” Just.

“I thought you’d be happy for me,” he said. “You’re the only one who knows how hard I’ve worked on this. You know how I’ve poured myself into this story.”

“I know,” she said. That part was true. Nick had cared about the story; Cath hadn’t. She’d cared about the writing. About the magic third thing that lived between them when they were working together. She would have met Nick at the library to write obituaries. Or shampoo packaging. “I’m just…,” she said. “I need to work on my story now. It’s almost finals week.”

“Can’t you work here?”

“I don’t want to waterboard you with my typing noises,” she murmured.

“Do you want to get together one more time before we turn in our stories, just to proof them?”

“Sure,” she said, not meaning it.

Cath waited until she got to the stairs to start ru

*   *   *

On Wednesday afternoon, after her Biology final, Cath sat in front of her computer. She wasn’t going to leave the room or get on the Internet until she finished her Fiction-Writing project.

She wasn’t going to stop typing until she had a first draft. Even if that meant typing things like, I don’t know what the fuck I’m typing right now, blah, blah, blah.

She still hadn’t settled on a plot or characters.…

She spent an hour writing a conversation between a man and his wife. And then she realized there was no rising or falling action; the man and his wife were just arguing about Brussels sprouts, and the Brussels sprouts weren’t a metaphor for anything deeper.

Then she started a story about a couple’s breakup, from the perspective of their dog.

And then she started a story where a dog intentionally destroys a marriage. And then she stopped because she wasn’t all that interested in dogs. Or married people.

She thought about typing up everything she remembered writing from Nick’s anti-love story. That would get Professor Piper’s attention.

She thought about taking one of her Simon/Baz stories and just changing the names. (She probably could have gotten away with that if Professor Piper wasn’t already on to her.)

Maybe she could take a Simon/Baz story and change all the material details. Simon is a lawyer, and Baz is a spy. Simon is a cop, and Baz owns a bakery. Simon likes Brussels sprouts, and Baz is a dog.