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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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For a long minute there was no tapping of the keyboard, no clicking of the mouse. Margaux felt an uncertain prickle on the back of her neck and instinctively turned her head.
Bill was looking down at her with a slight frown.
“…What?”
“You might prefer not to know.”
“That’s really the worst possible thing you could have said.”
“Because now you have to know?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.”
“…Please tell me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“I was working out what we’ll have to cut off,” he answered abruptly. Margaux stared at him.
“…You’re right,” she said at last, looking back down at the magazine. “I didn’t want to know that.”
“You asked.”
“I know. It’s my own fault. I think part of me knew what you were going to say anyway.”
“You know it has to happen. We’ve talked about this.”
“Yes. We have. I’m not sure I really believed it was going to happen, though.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“I know.”
Bill set the laptop on the seat beside him and leaned forward, sliding a hand over her shoulder. She tensed up, his touch sending hot, unwelcome electricity straight through her.
“I think we need to discuss it.”
“…What is there to discuss?”
“You could tell me what you’re least averse to losing. That would be a start.”
“Least averse?” Her mouth felt dry. There was a trembling at the back of her throat and suddenly she was afraid she might be sick.
“You must have a least-favourite toe.”
She looked up at him, flinching back when he was closer than she’d expected. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
He smirked.
“I’m only half joking. If there’s something you really don’t want to lose then I suggest offering an alternative. Before the decision’s made for you.”
“What would you say?”
“I’m sorry?”
“If someone asked you the same question.”
“Outer ear,” he said, without the briefest pause.
Margaux compulsively put a hand to her own ear, feeling the curving shell of cartilage and skin. The thought of someone taking a knife to it… God, there would be so much blood…
“Then the fingers of my left hand. Working in from the little finger.”
She swallowed compulsively, feeling a little dizzy.
“That’s very practical of you.”
“I’d suggest a similar approach in your case.”
“I d—” A lump was growing in her throat. “I don’t much fancy the Van Gogh look, I’m afraid.”
“You’d prefer to go straight for the fingers, then?”
“Not especially.” She was trying to beat back the desperate tone that was creeping into her voice, but it wasn’t doing much good. “Can’t you start with my hair?” She grasped a thick lock of it to emphasise her point. Bill took it and stroked the loose curl thoughtfully between his forefinger and thumb. “Wouldn’t that be a startling enough thing to get in the post?”
“No, Margaux,” he said, with gentle condescension. He let go of her hair and slid his fingers back to curl around at the nape of her neck. “We can’t just take your hair. What kind of a message would that send?”
“Please…” Margaux turned her body towards him and moved up onto her knees. Her hand rested on his thigh. It took her a heartbeat to realise that she’d done it. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t. Think of the court case. You could get twenty years for adding grievous bodily harm to kidnapping and false imprisonment. Is that really what you want? To lose two decades of your life, just like that? I — I could testify that you’d shown mercy — not used undue violence—”
“Margaux.” He pressed a fingertip to her lips, dropping it when she fell silent. “This is never going to reach the inside of a courtroom. We both know that.”
She stared up at him, her eyes wide and pleading, their bright, oceanic blue made startling by the redness around them.
“Please…?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Bill was silent. His knowing half-smile had faded, replaced with a searching look, a slight frown and a drawing together of his pale eyebrows. With a shy, tentative movement that stopped and started, Margaux moved up and closed the gap between them, pausing just before her trembling lips met his slightly open mouth. He didn’t move, save for the barely-perceptible shifting of his grip on her neck. She closed the last minuscule distance — a matter of millimetres, in which crackled the warm static of anticipation — and flesh met flesh. She tasted salt and saliva and garlic, and her hand slid up his thigh almost of its own accord. Bill’s hand at the back of her neck was warm, the movement of his fingers echoing the gentle pressure of his lips. He didn’t move into her or pull her closer, as if he expected her to startle and run if he did. She brought a hand up to his cheek, her nervous fingertips following the curve of the hinge of his jaw, her thumb rubbing over his rough, reddish-blond stubble.
Had someone asked her what she thought she was doing, Margaux wasn’t sure she could answer them. Did she think she could somehow inspire mercy? Did she really think he could be manipulated so easily? Had she just wanted to shut him up, to silence the unfortunate truth? Or was this something far worse?
His other hand brushed against her waist, hesitant and oddly gentle. She got the sudden, distinct impression that Bill Callas was not accustomed to being kissed. She could admit to feeling some small satisfaction at having him, for once, on the back foot, waiting for her to act. She took the initiative for him, grabbing his wrist and pressing his hand against her breast, drawing back from his lips just long enough to meet his eye. That seemed to bring him back to earth. When her lips met his again he surged into the kiss with unreserved ferocity, and Margaux felt that strange, heavy heat beginning to build in her throat, in her chest. This time she welcomed it, letting it drive her to tangle her fingers in his hair, to grasp a handful of his shirt and move into his touch as his fingers kneaded at her breast, meeting the rough insistence of his mouth with a hunger and desperation she hadn’t known was there.
The hand at the back of her neck dropped, sliding down over her bare shoulder, caressing the warm inward curve of her waist down to her hip, where his fingers grasped and urged her upward. She resisted, sliding her hand backward from its grip on his shirt, down his arm, to tap his wrist. That way lay straddling his lap, and the eventual agony of penetration. Too soon. Not yet. She met his frown with a shy, reassuring smile and moved her hand back up his thigh, curving abruptly inwards to stroke nervous fingertips across his groin.
Realisation dawned.
Bill leaned back and watched her fingers work at the buttons of his fly. When the last one gave, she pulled gently at the denim, baring a wide triangle. Margaux brushed his shirt aside and slid her fingers up the dark blue cotton of his underwear, feeling the vague prickle of pubic hair and that hot, turgid column of flesh beneath the fabric. When her thumb passed over the deep ridge at the head of his cock, his hips jerked upward of their own volition. Margaux suppressed a laugh. She let her touch stray over the point where the ridge curved, following the narrow bridge of nerves and skin back down to the shaft. She gripped him gently then, laying her head against his belly and teasing him with an almost imperceptible movement up and down, squeezing and releasing until he groaned softly, letting his head fall back. She kissed him through the fabric of his shirt, trailing her mouth down, parallel to the line of buttons, matching the pace with her hand, stroking slowly up and down until his erection strained against his boxers. Finally her lips reached the indent of his navel, brushing over his warm, bare skin and the coarse line of dark blond hair, and she brought her fingers to a halt over the waistband of his underwear, letting him ache and pulse, his breath quickening with anticipation, before she grasped the thick black elastic and pulled it down.
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Autobiography