Title: Clockwork Silences
Disclaimer: I'm never going to own The Mentalist.
Rating: M
Summary: "Appearances can be deceiving," Craig had told her once. Dark VP/O'L. Written for Miss Peg.
After Craig O'Laughlin's death, she considers only wearing black. It's not because she's mourning him; it's because she's mourning the loss of her own innocence. She believes she should have seen it coming, should have felt it in her bones and in her blood, but she had ignored it all. Craig had been too perfect of a man (for her, anyway) and she, always one for believing in true love and a happily ever after, had allowed him to defile her with his false love.
In the beginning, their relationship had begun all sweet and innocent. Their little conversations (in person and on the phone) that had filled her with butterflies, their little lunches in wine country that had kept her wanting more, and the small tokens of affection that had made her take that "leap of faith" in trusting his feelings for her.
Gradually, she had allowed him into her apartment; and gradually, into her bed, where he had touched and fucked her senseless. Their bodies had writhed together, had climaxed together, and hours later, had lied together whilst entangled in the heat of the other. Craig had stroked her hair, called her beautiful and her heart had nearly burst from her chest.
He had been so unlike Wayne and in hindsight, maybe that's why she had fallen so hard for him. Why she had been so ready to change for him, and why, she had deluded herself into believing that everything he had done to her was out of love. All of the name-calling, all of the bruises, all of the heartaches—he had done it all, because he had loved her.
The first time he had raised a hand toward her, he had been sober. They had been calmly discussing Red John over dinner, when she had commented that Red John had only pawns and no friends. Craig's hand had struck her across the face and she had stared at him, in surprise. She had blinked once, had blinked twice, before he had hit her again, repeatedly.
"Get out!" She had screamed at him, trembling. Craig had stared at her with a smirk, before his lips had been right at hers.
She had felt him shove her backwards, felt him push her up against the refrigerator, before he had ripped aside her clothing and had fucked her senseless against stainless steel. She had moaned his name, had dragged her hands through his dark hair, and her fingernails had left bloody rivets against his flawless skin.
"You're mine," he had hissed in her ear, before he had shoved her to her knees. She had taken his full length into her mouth, had felt his hands yanking at her hair, and had tasted him completely. "You'll never be able to escape me, until you're sorry."
She had almost asked him why I would ever want to, but the question had died on her lips with his body grinding against hers.
After a while though, until his death, it had become their routine. He would come home— some nights sober, some nights drunk—, he would paint her body with his fists, and she had allowed him to continue doing so, only because she loved him and he loved her. And because she loved him, she had ignored the promiscuous messages on his phone to other women. And because she loved him, she had ignored the different shades of lipstick on his collar. And because she loved him, she had completely deluded herself into believing he loved her too and that it wasn't "abuse".
"Appearances can be deceiving," Craig had told her once, back when they had just started dating and she had asked him about his family. "My mother and father seemed happy growing up, but I know now that they had only pretended to be happy when I was around."
(His mother had killed herself on the eve of his fifteenth birthday; and months later, his father had killed himself by walking into oncoming traffic. It hadn't only been a shock to the small farmer's community, but it had also been a shock to Craig too. He had genuinely thought his parents had been happy.)
She had merely grabbed his hand in hers and had told him she was sorry.
"You're not sorry," Craig had told her, hiding his darkened smirk behind his red-stained napkin, "Women are rarely sorry; but don't worry, okay?" He had slowly circulated his thumb on her soft skin, until the words had become a mere memory for them both. "You soon will be though."