Disclaimer : Same as first.

Section One: Chapter Nine

PART ONE

The water of the swimming pool in the empty gym of her apartment building is warm, calm, and absent of people.

Claire floats on her back on top of the water, her hair spread out around her like seaweed, and listens to the quiet. The only sound is of the water softly lapping along the edges of the pool, the low hum of the heating system, and the steady rhythm of her own breathing.

She wonders what it would be like to sink underneath the surface, all the way to the bottom, and remain there.

Would the pressure of the water become too great?

Would the weight of thousands of gallons surrounding her compress her body and cause painful popping in her ears?

Would her lungs burn with the necessity for air as the instincent for survival forces panic to build within her ?

Would she be unable to prevent herself from fighting against the crushing weight enveloping her and break the surface, gasping for air and feeling relief as oxygen flows to her brain and that overwhelming weight is finally gone?

It is not that Claire is suicidal, not at all. She does not need a to see a shirnk or write down her feelings in a journal. True, she lost her baby, was left by the one person whom she trusted not to, and couldn't gain her parents approval if she were the most successful person in the world, but that doesn't mean she's crazy.

But Claire wonders if allowing herself to sink, if allowing the water to submerge her and drag her down, if forcing herself to stay there forever would feel better than this.

The feeling of panic that she would no doubt experience has to be better then this sensation of numbness that is broken only by flashes of rage that cause her to force Elle to send increasingly higher volts of elecaitary into her body. That primitive panic brought on by the animal urge to live would surly be better then feeling only the echoes of emotion as they beat against their ice covered tomb deep within her.

The painful burning in her lungs has to be better then the flashes of images and sensations that cause vomit to eat away at her throat or make the hand squeezing her chest tighten even further around her heart and ribs.

The fire that would spread through her may be less painful then the burning hot showers that turn her skin red and raw even as she scrubs harder and harder until blood is breaking the surface. Even when Claire sees the blood running down her body and turning the water pink, she cannot stop scrubbing. She can't stop scrubbing because she's dirty and disgusting and covered in filth, and she needs to get off. She has to remove it, but no matter how hard she scrubs, no matter how red her skin becomes or how much blood she looses that greasy film that's covering her like a second skin remains.

Why won't it come off?

It won't come off because she had wanted it hadn't she? It didn't matter that she was forced or that there was blinding pain and revulsion and terror, because she hadn't made either of them hear her screams and pleads. Doyle had only heard her begging Gabriel to do it harder, only heard the moans and cries wrenched from her throat. They couldn't hear the terrified howling inside her head nor her mental shrieks of agony.

And through it all, that arousal that acompanies the images of Gabriel above her and the sensation of him hard and throbbing inside of her, that makes her want to touch herself yet at the same time stab at the offending flesh? That is her fault as well.

So, yes. The burning within her lungs has got to be better then that.

Claire knows that the sound of her ears popping and that almost sound of the pressure around her would be better then what she hears now.

Underneath the water Claire wouldn't hear the phantom cries from a child that isn't there, nor the sound of a voice, the breathing, or the laughter of someone that she will never see again.

Claire would not hear her parents telling her that she isn't trying hard enough, that they need to cancel their plans or she isn't doing a good enough job.

Claire wouldn't hear Peter telling her that her baby would be better off without her.

Maybe underneath the water, Claire won't hear that whisper in her mind. That voice that hisses at her like the snake from the Garden of Eden, telling her what she would have once known to be lies, but now… now she isn't so sure anymore.

You're dirty, disgusting, and worthless Claire. You're never going to be good enough, and it's your own fault, you know. You weren't strong enough to stop it, not any of it. Not Doyle, not Peter, not even Nathan wishing you were never born.

Noah lied to you every day didn't he? He never stayed, no matter how much you begged him, no matter what he promised or how tightly you held him. And do you know why? It was because he never loved you, not really. You were just an assignment to him, just the girl with the freaky power that he happened to develop an attachment to.

That's like with Gabriel isn't it? He promised not to leave right? How about all those times he'd train with you, go to ballgames and paint murals, or when you'd make breakfast together? He didn't do that because he enjoyed it, you moron. Gabriel did that so you would stop watching him all the time. When he was nearly killed for you or protected you from jerks like Anderson or Craig? It wasn't because he cared, he did it because you were his partner. It was his obligation to have your back. Do you remember all those times that you stood up for him, or every time you killed your target to protect him? You just made him think that he had to repay you. That's why he stuck around you so long, because he felt that he owed you.

How many times did you touch him anyway? All those times that you would hug him or touch his back or shoulder? You would grab onto his hand and arm like he was your lifeline, and you're aware that repulsed him, aren't you? What about at night, when you'd wrap yourself around him like a fucking octopus? Gabriel would hold you back not because he wanted to, but because he was trying to calm you down so you'd let go of him. All that pathetic clinging coupled on top of the rape? The rape that you enjoyed, (because you did like it didn't you, you little slut), that's what made him realize how much of his time he was wasting with you, how stupid and worthless you really are.

And the baby? Why in the hell would he have wanted a child with you? So he can be reminded of what a mistake it was to go on that mission? You deserve every ounce of pain, because you didn't do a damn thing when Peter gave you that drug did you? No, you just sat there and allowed him to take your baby. What kind of mother would you have made? My god, Meredith would have looked like mother of the year next your worthless hide.

As for the crushing weight of the water that would envelope her, Claire doesn't wonder about that. She doesn't wonder because she already feels that weight every second of every day. The only difference would be that underneath the water, the weight would be external as well as internal.

So Claire floats on top of the water, her hair spread out around her, and dose not sink beneath it.

But she wonders, maybe… just maybe… if she would feel better if she did.

PART TWO

Claire stands in the lobby of the Deveaux building, seeking shelter from the ragging blizzard. She looks out at the ferric wind that's causing the snowflakes to twirl madly through the air, the small white specks resembling ballet dancers on meth as they swirl and dance widely about on the currents. She imagines the below freezing tempture outside and contemplates the long walk home, pondering weather or not it would be worth sleeping in the lobby instead of facing the frost bite inducing cold.

As Claire pulls her coat tighter around herself the overhead light shines on her nails, casting a relefective gleam on their surface.

Until two years ago her nails would always be shimmering with color. One would probley expect, as the President's daughter, that her nails would be done professionally with elaborate designs and colors. That had not been the case. Claire always did her nails herself, and the polish had never been anything special. She had bought it from a local drug store, the shades mostly ranging from light pink to lavender, or to polish that was clear with flecks of glitter.

She once heard that the color of your nails says a lot about your personality. For instance, yellow meant that were a happy, compassionate, and optimisic person, while black signified that you were prone to depression anxiety, and negativy.

If asked which color she uses now, Claire wouldn't say that she uses black, red, or even lavender.

Her nails are unpolished nowadays, the clear and smooth surface free of glitter or hues other then that of her skin.

She doesn't know what that revels about herself, if it revels anything at all. Does an absence of color mean that she is a blank slate, completely devoid of personality or emotion? Does it mean that she is capable of being whatever anyone wants her to be, weather that is a happy-go-lucky waitress or a cold blooded serial killer? Are her colorless nails telling her something that she is too ignorant to understand, something that is essential to who she is as a person?

Perhaps she's simply overanalyzing it, the lack of color meaning only that she has no interest in painting her nails.

Claire suddenly feels the first stirrings of tiredness settling over her, causing her eyes to feel gritty and her body to sag against the wall. For the first time she notices that there is nothing more then a few tables within the marble lobby, and although she is no stranger to sleeping on hard and cold surfaces, she doesn't like to do so unless it's an absolute necessity.

Claire exists the lobby, feeling the cold wind whip her hair away from her face and the snow pummeling her body, sharp tiny daggers that leave stinging flecks of melting liquid as they make contact with her skin. She begins the long walk back to her apartment, her unpainted nails shoved deep into her coat pockets.

PART THREE

Technaily it's Christmas morning, even though the sky is still pitch black, the sun having yet to rise.Claire is standing at her kitchen counter, a mug of instant coffee in her hand, her blonde hair tousled and sleep mussed. Her green eyes are heavily lidded, and she takes a long pull of the absolutely horrible coffee, not caring about the scaling heat of the liquid nor the blisters that form on her tongue. As of right now she doesn't even mind the taste of the "coffee", not when she has been awake for the past four days flying across the world, following up on sightings that lead them to France, Spain, Italy, and finally to Ireland.

This time, after two long years of following up on false sightings, maps that lead nowhere, endless amounts of paperwork, and two more bombings that released 2,000 prisoners, the sightings had been real. They had taken eyewitness accounts, interviews, even used telepathy to read the minds of those they talked to in order to be sure they were getting the truth. For all of that however, Peter was always two steps ahead of them, arriving at and leaving the next location before their plane had even landed.

When Claire arrived home at 2:30 am she had fallen straight to sleep, not even bothering to remove her cloths. Seeing as it was now 5:30 in the morning, a scant three and a half hours since she fell into bed, Claire should still be bundled up under soft warm covers and dreaming a dreamless sleep. Unfourantly for her she was woken up 15 minutes ago by the shrill ringing of her phone. Claire had stumbled out of her warm, cozy nest and attempted to locate the accursed object that had awoken her (running into several walls and falling over her couch in the process), finding it just on the last ring.

Which was why she was now standing in her kitchen, drinking caffeine that would have no effect whatsoever upon her system, holding the phone up to her ear and hearing the voice of her biological father on the other end. Nathan has called not to wish his daughter a Merry Christmas or ask how she is doing for the first time in a year and a half(What with the trivial issue of loosing her baby and all. Just a small occurrence in his daughter's life, not really of any importance), but to criticize her for the fact that her team hasn't found Peter.

Claire is only halfway listing to her biological father's voice, for the most part allowing the words to wash over her and her mind to drift. She doesn't need to pay attention to know how Nathan is critizing her. Claire has heard this speech so often she could recite it word for word.

"You need to work harder, Claire. You weren't put in charge of this project to sit around and paint you nails. If you can't find him it will be a simple matter of finding someone to replace you, god knows that they will do a better job."Nathan tells her, his voice angry and condescending.

As the words reach her Claire feels that familiar flash of hurt that Nathan always seemed to cause her, when she suddenly hears Gabriel's voice as clearly as if he were in the room with her.

"Hang up the phone, Claire. Nathan's not worth the energy it takes you to blink, let alone listen to. You're working harder then anyone to find Peter, and if Nathan can't see that then it's his own fault for having his head shoved up his ass."

As always the deep golden and bronze vibrations combine with the blood red crimson and deep ebony, pulsating through her soul and even as they wrap themselves tightly around her body.

Her friends' voice is so real, the multihued tones so strong and tight around her that Claire hangs up the phone and turns around, expecting to see Gabriel standing in front of the window, a mug of hot chocolate in his hand and steam clouding the lenses of his glasses.

When all Claire sees is snow piling up on the window sill, she grips her hot coffee mug too hard and wonders if it's possible for someone with a mind incapable of succumbing to mental illness to go crazy after all.

TBC