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Autobiography	By : tartausucre Category: 1 through F > Firewall Views: 1918 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Firewall is the property of Warner Bros. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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He set his container on the table, and she moved to get up.
“What are you doing?”
“Putting these in the kitchen.”
“Didn’t I tell you not to walk around? Sit down.”
“I’m sorry.” Margaux sat back against the sofa cushions and folded her hands in her lap. She stared up at the buck’s head on the wall. Her eyes felt hot and her throat was tight. She hoped she wasn’t going to cry. She didn’t think he’d like that.
“Finish your wine.”
She leaned forward and picked up the glass from the coffee table. As she sat back, he raised his hand and curled his long fingers around the back of her neck, and she couldn’t suppress a whimper.
“What’s the matter, Margaux?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s the matter.”
“You seem awfully agitated.”
“I’m not agitated.”
“Are you contradicting me for the sake of it?”
“No.”
She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Margaux raised the glass to her lips and finished the remaining wine in one backwards tilt of her head. She wished she could be drunk enough not to care what happened next — although she suspected that the amount of alcohol required for that might just kill her.
“You were fine five minutes ago, Margaux.”
“So were you.”
He was silent. She wished she hadn’t said that.
“What do you mean?”
“You were fine, and now you’re angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You seem angry.”
“Well I’m not.”
“Alright,” she answered quickly, hoping to pacify him. She leaned forward and put the empty glass down. His hand slid down her back. When she moved back into her seat, he slowly, deliberately placed it back over the little bump of her vertebrae.
“Don’t humour me, Margaux. I don’t need that from you.”
“I-It wasn’t-”
He turned to face her, the hand on her neck holding her tightly in place as she tried to move away.
“Do you think if you’re good enough, if you say just the right thing, that I won’t hurt you? Is that what you think?”
Margaux looked up at him with a desperate expression.
“That’s what you promised me.”
Her face was inches from his, held in place as it was by the hand that tightened its grip. As his eyes searched hers, she felt his free hand rest on her thigh. Margaux bit her lip.
“It was, wasn’t it?”
He frowned. The grip relaxed a little. From the bathroom, there was a sudden sound of plastic hitting tile, and Robert swore.
“I don’t understand what I’ve done that makes you want to hurt me so badly.” Margaux’s voice shook as she spoke, barely above a whisper. She wanted so much to understand him — even if all that understanding offered was the realisation of what a monster he really was.
“You haven’t done anything.”
“Then why…”
“That’s why, Margaux. That’s exactly why.”
She shifted uncomfortably in his grip. “I don’t understand.”
“I think you do.”
“But I…”
“Shut up, Margaux.” He closed the gap between them, and his mouth covered hers. Margaux emitted a yelp of surprise and raised her hands to push him away, and he grabbed her wrists. She struggled, pulling desperately against his tightening grip, and Bill gave a low growl of frustration.
“Why are you fighting me?”
“I…”
“You’re right, Margaux. We did have a deal. A deal that only stands if you fulfil your half of it. You’re not being very co-operative.”
“I’m sorry.” She felt tears prickling in her eyes. The worst part was knowing that he was right: whatever he wanted, she’d already promised he could have it.
His lips brushed her temple, his breath tickling her ear as he whispered: “Would you rather I hurt you?”
“…No.”
“Then don’t fight.” He let go of her wrists, and one hand moved back to her thigh while the other coaxed her into facing him. When his mouth found hers again, she didn’t resist, nor did she respond. Her back was stiff, her hands trembling. He didn’t seem to notice. Maybe he just didn’t care.
She had locked her knees together without meaning to, but as his insistent fingers slid under the hem of her skirt, pushing at her thighs, she couldn’t bring herself to part them. He felt her resistance and sighed angrily.
“Are we going to play this game all night, Margaux?”
“I’m trying. I’m… I’m really trying.” The tears finally overflowed, and she turned her face away. She so badly wanted to be stronger than this. Hatred for her own weakness seethed in her chest and only made things worse.
“If you’re expecting some kind of consolation, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
“I don’t want your consolations! I just want you to be the same one moment as you are the next. What’s wrong with a little fucking consistency?”
“I’m not inconsistent.” He scowled. “I’m honest about who I am, Margaux. Are you?”
“You’re just…”
“What, Margaux? What am I?” He grabbed her by the hair, forcing her to look back at him, and she pulled at his forearm in an effort to free herself.
“You’re just an animal!”
“Is that right? I think you forget yourself, Margaux. Perhaps you’d rather I hurt you after all.”
“No, no I—” He pulled her hair sharply, and the pain wrenched a sob from her throat. “I’m sorry! Please-”
“I think you’d better make up your mind, Margaux. I’m giving you ample opportunity.”
For one awful, awful moment, she truly couldn’t decide what would be worse. Bill looked down at her trembling mouth and groaned.
"Margaux, you're so fucking beautiful when you're afraid."
“I-I’m…”
"What?" A mocking smile curled at the corners of his mouth.
"I'm not afraid of you." She tried to say something scathing about pity, but the look in his eyes ground all coherent thought to a halt.
“I thought we’d established that you weren’t to lie to me. Have you been listening to me at all?”
He kissed her aggressively, forcing his tongue into her mouth. He tasted of burning spice and red wine and the unfamiliar. She thought about biting him and then thought better of it. As he pulled away, he bit her, and Margaux yelped.
“I think you’d better get on your knees.” He relinquished his grip on her hair. Margaux didn’t move. “I won’t say it again.”
Slowly, warily, she moved forward and slid down onto the floor. He pointed to the carpet between his feet. Margaux dug her nails into her palms and forced herself to move. Her tears had stopped, but she could feel the threat of a sob at the back of her throat as she moved between his knees.
She looked at him expectantly. Margaux knew exactly what he wanted, but she wasn’t about to give it to him without any resistance — even if the only resistance she could afford to offer was making him wait.
Bill gave her a sharp look — one that said he was in no mood to meet any further objections. Margaux swallowed nervously and knelt up, raising shaking hands and forcing herself to lay them on his thighs. It felt strange to be touching him. Like taking a liberty beyond her position.
She couldn’t meet his eye. It was too much. She could see his pale gaze in her peripheral vision, locked on her. He was perfectly still — silent — like a hunter trying not to spook an animal as it wandered closer. Waiting.
Margaux knew what she had to do next. Her gaze flickered down to the topmost button of his fly; a gleaming, awful certainty.
“They’re beautiful,” Bill said suddenly, and despite her fear of doing so Margaux found herself looking up at him.
“…What are?”
“Your hands. They’re beautiful,” he clarified, then frowned, as though he wasn’t certain why he’d said it.
“Oh.”
Margaux tasted blood, and found that she’d been biting the inside of her mouth in an effort to dispel the urge to try and run.
Bill didn’t say anything else. He leaned back on the sofa as if relaxing in anticipation of her next action, but he did so with an air of agitation.
It was like tearing gaffer tape off skin, Margaux decided. The thing was to do it quickly, before her brain had time to come up with another reason not to. She moved her hands forward, slid her fingertips under the hem of Bill’s shirt, and began to work deft fingers around the top button of his jeans. Bill sighed, and one hand found the back of her head, fingers winding in her hair. She tried not to think about the warm skin her fingers brushed over, or the trail of coarse, dark blond hair that led downward.
She managed the first two buttons in quick succession, but hesitated at the third. His arousal was quickly becoming evident, and if she continued… she would have to touch him. She was all for avoiding that for as long as possible.
No. No, on the other hand, she shouldn’t draw it out. The sooner it began, the sooner it would end.
This fighting with herself wasn’t doing any good, of course. She had enough to be concerned with without constantly contradicting her own advice.
Margaux moved down to the next button and tried to pretend she was doing something else.
Suddenly his hand moved to her shoulder and pushed her back, a little too roughly. She looked at him in confusion from the floor.
“That’s enough.”
He stood up and crossed behind her to the space in front of the television. She turned to watch him, half expecting him to demand that she lie down on the carpet. He didn’t. Bill started to button his fly.
“Go to bed, Margaux.”
“But-”
He raised his hand. “Don’t. Just… don’t say another word. Get out.”
His mouth had drawn into a tight line, the tendon in his cheek taut as he clenched his jaw. It was as though a sudden realisation had vexed him immeasurably.
Margaux got up, fighting the shaking of her legs, and turned to leave. She misjudged the weight on her ankle, stumbled, and righted herself again. She could feel Bill’s gaze burning into her as she limped out into the hallway. Shame and anger battled for supremacy inside her, roiling in her lungs until she thought she’d faint. She could feel the heat rising in her face, that tight feeling taking hold of her throat.
There was a sharp rattle of a bolt being drawn, and Robert emerged, whistling, from the bathroom. He stopped her as she tried to pass without acknowledging him.
“Alright?” His face was slightly flushed. She didn’t like to think what he’d been doing in the bathroom that had put him in such a good mood.
“I’m fine.” She pulled her wrist from his grip, and he let her.
“Margaux. Bed.” Bill raised his voice from the sitting room. Robert shot her a bemused look. She pushed past him, and he made no attempt to stop her.
When she reached the end bedroom, Margaux slammed the door behind her, sank to the floor, and wept.

*
Bill snatched up the pillow from the meticulously neat bed, wringing it between his hands as he sat down.
He sat in silence for a long time, staring at a patch on the wall where the paint was a slightly different shade of off-white.
It irritated him, that patch. To him it was glaringly obvious — an offensive splatter of wrong, marring the uniformly-coloured landscape of the wall like a flaw in an otherwise perfect plan.
Her hands.
His fist came down sharply on the mattress, and the bedsprings creaked.
Why had he said that? Why should he give the slightest shit what her hands looked like, much less mention it?
Bill took off his shoes, set them next to the chair, and lay down on the bed. He thought about booting the laptop — it lay on top of the pile of clothes — but he couldn’t see that there was anything to be gained from that tonight.
After a while, he got up to turn off the light.
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Autobiography