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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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At the sound of measured, deliberate footfalls, Margaux sat up and put her back against the wall.
The bar of light beneath the door was broken in two spots, where the man on the other side stood. The question, of course, was which man. She watched the shadow, waiting, hoping whoever it was that he’d change his mind and leave.
The metal handle rattled softly, and Margaux’s breath caught in her throat, her hands moving to pull the blanket against her chest in the dark.
It turned slowly, quietly. Maybe they thought she was asleep.
The door opened, throwing an exaggerated rectangle of light across the bed, and Bill walked in, his gangly shadow stretching out towards her. She had a strange urge to move away from it, as if the shadow itself might do her some harm.
He switched on the light, and the ghoulish shape was lost in the flicker of the low-watt bulb.
Bill closed the door with a soft click, then leaned back against it, folding his arms.
There was blood on his knuckles.
Margaux compulsively dabbed at her split lip, afraid to take her eyes off him. He met her wary gaze with a look of cold detachment.
“I’ve been trying to think of an appropriate punishment for you.”
She swallowed nervously around the growing lump in her throat. In her head, images were racing out of control — vivid re-enactments of every sadistic act she’d ever heard of, with herself and her captor as the players.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Margaux was silent. Lying about how sorry she was would only make him angry. Defending her actions, doubly so.
“No,” she said at last. Bill raised an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth twitching upward.
“Really?” He moved away from the door, standing between it and the bed, his arms still folded. Margaux involuntarily tightened her grip on the blanket.
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“…You could tell me you’re sorry.”
“You told me not to lie to you.”
Bill laughed, and the tension in the room dissipated a little. Maybe he’d already vented his frustration on Robert. She felt a little guilty at the relief that thought gave her.
“Then I suppose you’re not going to promise not to do anything like that again, either?”
“I would be lying if I said I’d never take an opportunity that was handed to me like that.”
“I can respect that.” He turned and sat beside her on the bed with his back against the wall, one foot resting on the mattress. Her gaze flickered to the blotches of maroon drying onto his knuckles. “That doesn’t mean I’m happy about it. But I can respect your honesty.”
“At this point I might as well be.”
She was trying hard to remain calm, but her voice was trembling.
“And as long as we’re being honest, Margaux…” One long-fingered hand reached out and encircled her ankle through the blanket. “You weren’t very compliant this evening. I’m not happy about that.”
“I—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry. You were doing so well. Let’s stick to the truth, shall we?” His thumb moved in slow circles over her ankle bone. The sprained tendon ached dully beneath the gentle pressure. “Knowing what I know now, I can see why you might have been agitated. Doubtless your mind was already overwrought. So I forgive you.”
“…Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
His hand slid up her leg to her knee, and she flinched away instinctively. Bill frowned.
“If it happens again, I will not be as understanding. Is that clear?”
He placed his hand back on her knee in a slow, deliberate motion, and she looked down at it with trepidation. “Crystal clear.”
“It isn’t going to happen again, is it?”
She met his eye and instantly regretted it. Her throat tightened.
“No,” she murmured, in a voice that was as small as she felt.
He stared at her unblinkingly, and in that moment Margaux was certain she had a fairly good idea of how a gazelle must feel.
“Stand up.”
“But I’m—”
“I know you weren’t just about to say no, Margaux. Not after the conversation we just had. You wouldn’t be that foolish, would you, darling?”
“…No. I wouldn’t.”
She moved her legs over the edge of the bed beneath the blanket. As she stood, she tugged the hem of her camisole down over her bare thighs. Now that she stood here, avoiding the eye of the man sitting on the bed and instead fixating on the wall behind him, she didn’t know what had possessed her to take anything off when she went to bed. But then, she knew that was immaterial: she was just as vulnerable no matter how many layers she wore. It would only take someone longer to rip them off.
“Look at me, Margaux.”
It was only with a great deal of effort that she could bring herself to do as he said. And when she did, the look in those intensely blue eyes was one of…
Hunger.
She swallowed nervously. Bill leaned forward, and as he did she took a compulsive step back. He ignored it, resting his forearms on his knees and looking up at her with a kind of ravenous fascination.
“Take that off.”
“My—”
“Yes.”
Without thinking, she bit her lip, and tasted iron. That cut would never heal at this rate. Her fingers trembling, she grasped the hem of her top and pulled it over her head.
As her hair settled against the bare skin of her back, she clutched the garment to her chest, shivering, and without a word Bill held out his hand. After a moment, she handed it to him.
“Good girl.”
Suddenly the room felt too brightly lit. She was certain that her every imperfection was even clearer to him than it was to her. If his objective was to humiliate her — and she was increasingly certain that it was, even if his arousal was a happy by-product — then he was making an efficient job of it. She wrapped her arms around herself self-consciously.
“I said look at me, Margaux. You’re looking at the wall again.” He held the crumpled fabric of her camisole in his lap, twisting and turning it in his deft fingers. Her stomach felt as if it was receiving the same treatment. “That’s better.” He grinned at her, and she was certain she was going to be sick. “What’s wrong, Margaux? Are you afraid?”
“I think you know the answer to that question.”
He shifted forward until he was sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I want to hear you say it.”
Her voice cracked as she answered:
“…Yes.”
His wide, petulant mouth twisted into a self-satisfied smile.
“Good.”
Beneath her folded arms, Margaux was digging her fingernails into her palm.
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Autobiography