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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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The girl was talking in her sleep. Not loudly or clearly enough to make out, but talking, nonetheless. There was a kind of sweetness in that, a vulnerability Bill could appreciate. He ran a hand down the curve of her back and watched her expression as she shifted beneath his touch. He wondered how her brain was interpreting the feeling — whether he had altered her dream. He liked the idea of that.
She exhaled softly, and her hand slid up his chest, moving over his body in a way she would never dare to while she was awake. He felt his nipple hardening against her palm, quickly accompanied by a stiffening against her thigh, and pushed it from his mind. Let her sleep.
There was a satisfaction in having her like this — seeing her completely open. Never mind last night, this was true nakedness. If he chose to, he could do anything to her. That he had no inclination to do so was a source of some confusion for him — it seemed to represent something within himself that he wasn’t familiar with, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.
It had been a good fuck. That was all. He’d tasted what she had to offer and liked it, and now he was loathe to do anything that could get in the way of tasting it again. Perfectly logical.
Except when he looked down at her that didn’t feel completely true.
Her hand moved over his shoulder and it throbbed beneath the fabric of his shirt, where her teeth marks crowded over his skin. He had examined them, when he woke up, in the bathroom mirror — several were wreathed with deep, florid bruises, where those sharp little teeth had almost broken through, almost drawn blood. He smiled, thinking of the ones he had left her in turn. One stood out beneath her damp hair, an oval of indentations on the back of her neck.
A good fuck. A damn good fuck. That was all.
Margaux whispered something nonsensical. With the whisper came a rolling and shifting of her hips, and his resolve to let her sleep faltered. He wondered what it would be like to have her on this sofa, the rough fabric leaving pink friction burns on her pale flesh as she whimpered and moaned and despised him and begged for more.
But no. There would be plenty of time to find out. For now let her sleep.
*
“I’m not an expert, but I’m not sure sitting alone in the kitchen is standard party behaviour.”
Margaux smiled down at her notebook. “For me it is.”
Joe laughed and sat down opposite her.
“What are you writing?”
“Oh, just…” She saw him tilt his head to read her small, cramped-together notes, arranged in boxes across the page, and reflexively covered the page with a shy laugh. “It’s nothing at this stage. Just scribbles. Little scenes and, um… stuff.”
“Do you write a lot?”
“Only when it’s massively inconvenient. And or antisocial.” She drew a slash in the air with one hand.
“A victim of the old selective writer’s block, huh?”
“All too often, yes.”
“Then I guess I can’t hold it against you for, uh, striking while the iron is hot.” He laughed, a little awkwardly. She wasn’t surprised. She could be awkward to talk to.
“I appreciate it.”
She looked up at Joe and smiled. His features swam before her eyes and she realised that she was dreaming. This was just a memory, albeit one skewed by random interjections of the surreal. It did explain the overwhelming sense of déjà vu.
“What are you drinking?”
As she answered, they were in the garden, surrounded by kitsch tiki lamps stuck in the ground. She had a glass of wine in her hand.
Joe was talking. She remembered that the conversation had been about his nephews — they liked her books, while he himself had never read them, he was ashamed to admit (a fact that didn’t surprise Margaux in the least) — but as he spoke his words were just white noise. Utter static. After a while she wasn’t even sure his lips were moving.
It didn’t matter.
The next thing she was aware of was the two of them sitting at a metal bistro table on the patio, playing Truth with shots of sambuca — then, when they ran out, vodka.
She told Joe about a wildly embarrassing time her mother had walked in on her rolling around with a boy when she was seventeen. He told her about a time he’d had his clothes stolen by a one night stand’s friend and had to take the bus home in her skinny jeans and Tweetie Pie t-shirt.
It wasn’t long before they were trying to out-filth each other with Have You Evers.
Margaux won. Joe hotly contested her victory and resorted to outrageous lies. They laughed until Joe was doubled over with cramps. Both of their eyes streamed with tears. From a window somewhere above them, someone was hissing at them to go to bed.
Then they were stumbling around the darkened house, giggling and trying not to wake those who had seen fit to go to sleep hours ago. They found a single bed in a box room and crawled in together, neither of them bothering with their clothes. Joe was whispering something about how her hair smelled. Margaux giggled blearily and told him to shut up. They fell asleep wrapped around each other.
Margaux was still wearing her shoes.
*
This experiment in intimacy was all well and good, but he needed a piss.
Bill rolled onto his side, cradling Margaux’s head. She clung to his shirt a little, but let go as he pulled away. He looked down at her for a long moment before he turned and headed for the bathroom.
Rob had made himself scarce at some point. Bill didn’t know where he was — didn’t care, particularly. Ordinarily someone wandering off during a job would be enough to arouse one of his more violent moods, but he’d decided that Robert’s absence was likely for the best; he wasn’t certain that if he saw him in the next few hours he wouldn’t still feel driven to knock a few of the negligent cunt’s teeth out.
Christ, but it was difficult to piss with an erection.
He braced one hand against the cool, gloss-painted wall behind the cistern and exhaled slowly. Think cold thoughts, mate. Cold thoughts.
When he walked back into the sitting room Margaux had rolled to face the back of the sofa, her camisole riding up to show the almost triangular birthmark on her spine. There wasn’t room to sit.
He crouched beside her, smirking, his eyes following the curve of her hip.
Ten million pounds.
The smirk became a grin.
In his mind he was dividing that sleeping form like the carcass of a lamb, calculating what each part of her would fetch him. His thoughts tended towards clean fractions, but he couldn’t help but assign value, altering figures as he went — five thousand for each deep copper lock of hair, curling and forming soft waves as it dried; one — no — two-hundred thousand for that small, soft cupid’s bow, for the occasional smiles that rose unbidden and betrayed her; five-hundred thousand for each soft breast, and for the sound she made when he took them in his hands and squeezed until she struggled to be free; the same for each small, pretty hand; no less than a million for her sweet, responsive cunt — perhaps two.
She shifted onto her back and her top was caught beneath her, baring her midriff. Bill reached out and pulled the fabric back over her flesh, but left his hand on her stomach. He slid it up over her chest and laid his long fingers over her heart, feeling it beating against them. Like a little bird in a cage.
He was bored. Short of minding his hostage there was nothing to occupy his mind in this house. Any sympathy for her evident fatigue was rapidly losing to the sense of wanting to play with his new toy.
“Margaux?”
“Mm?”
“Margaux, are you awake?”
She grumbled sleepily and turned away from his touch. She didn’t open her eyes.
“Margaux, aren’t you hungry?”
“Mm—?”
“Do you want something to eat?”
Still lost in a dream, she slurred sleepily: “S’too early, Joe. Come back to bed…”
His grin faded.
He exhaled sharply, his jaw tight. Bill got to his feet and turned his back on the sleeping woman.
If he stayed, he was going to hurt her.
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Autobiography