Title: What I Need
Parts: Two of ?
Pairings: 4+Cathrine
Warnings: Violence

Quatre took care getting dressed. He wasn't entirely certain why it mattered, as it was just Trowa and Cathrine down there. In the end, he decided on a pair of loose fitting oatmeal colored slacks and a light blue, knit shirt. Both would be more than appropriate, considering it was much cooler in here than outside.

As he glanced in the mirror, drug a brush through his damp hair, he realized his nose was faintly pink. Rashid wasn't going to be pleased. He would suggest a higher degree of suncare protection. Personally, Quatre thought it wasn't possible to find a higher SPF than the one already chosen. Of course, if there was, Rashid would make certain he obtained it and added it to his arsenal of 'objects to keep Quatre from harm'. He could be well past middle age, with children of his own, and he thought Rashid would still treat him like the 13 year old child he once was.

Barefoot, the fringe of his hair falling comfortably against the back of his neck, he padded across the room and made his way down the stairs, enjoying the cool press of the polished wood against his soles. He genuinely liked this house, for its sentiment and for its creature comforts, saying anything else would be a lie. But if he lost it, he wouldn't miss it. There were far more important things than one house in the desert. He would rather lose it than any of his friends, for that matter. He could always get another house. Or he couldn't. It wasn't a life or death crisis. But he would be lying, too, if he said he didn't mind if things remained as they were.

The foyer melted away, and he stayed in the doorway, watching the easy affection pass between Trowa and Cathrine. She was teasing him, that sisterly gleam of victory bright like battle in her eyes. Trowa took it well, never giving an inch. Still, she never grew frustrated or got mean. What they had, was what Quatre had often longed for in his own sibling interactions. There were moments he wished he could have been closer to his sisters, known them better. Circumstance, and life had kept that from happening, and so he only dwelt on it now and then. The world of business had especially taught him the principle of not lingering for too long on what you couldn't have. You lost sight of what you did, or what you could that way.

Cathrine looked up, caught him watching them, and was surprised at the slight jump of her pulse. Certain it was just shock at having him be there without her knowing, she returned his smile. Trowa, unperturbed, merely nodded and went back to finishing off the last of his lemonade. Cathrine suspected her brother had known Quatre was there all along, but hadn't said anything. His sense of observation often startled her, it was so well developed. Or maybe it just rattled her. It reminded her of what he used to be, before joining the circus. Something she rarely liked to talk about, or acknowledge. But if, or when, he needed it, she would listen for his sake.

Moving in to the room with that simplistic elegance she had begun to associate with him, Quatre settled down into a chair diagonal to the couch she and Trowa shared. Pretending interest in her empty glass, swirling the ice around so that they clinked against one another, she watched him fold his lean frame up so that his legs were arranged one on top of the other. He had well formed feet. Honestly, she didn't know where that thought had come from, but it was the truth. And if she didn't quit watching him, he was probably going to notice and be annoyed by it.

"Thanks for waiting," he said, resting his cheek in the palm of his hand.

Trowa shrugged. "We didn't mind."

"Have you had dinner yet?"

"There wasn't time. Cathrine takes too long to pack."

"Trowa!"

He shrugged again, but there was amusement lurking in his eyes. Quatre saw it.

"Don't worry, I won't hold it against you," Quatre told her, holding in a smile.

"Well, that's a relief," she shot back, part sarcasm, part play, as she lifted her nose and examined something across the room.

"It came from France."

"What?" She asked, turning her attention to him.

"That painting over there. It came from France."

She stared at it again, wondering at the easy way he said that. No big deal. It came from France. As if thousands of people could afford to travel to France and pick up expensive art the way some would a worthless trinket.

"That must be nice," she answered lightly, though the gleam in her eyes was as sharp as the edges of glass.

"What must be nice?" He replied carefully, thinking that he was being tested somehow.

"Being able to afford something like that."

And she stared directly at him, her uniquely violet eyes pinning him with their challenge.

"I wouldn't know. When I was in France, I wasn't thinking about art," he replied evenly, irked, and surprised because he was. Few people ever made him annoyed, and he had not expected it from her.

Cathrine sat back, marginally chastised. She knew what he meant. He was fighting when he was in France, and the beauty of the country had probably been lost on him. She wasn't even certain why she felt the need to pick at him like that. There really wasn't a good reason, nor was it really her place. Quatre had been nothing but gracious to them both the entire time she had known him. Few people would take you in after just showing up on their doorstep, let alone invite you to stay a week.

"Your father bought it," Trowa interjected, and both wondered if he was trying to play peacemaker, or just making a point.

Quatre nodded. "He furnished this entire house. I just use it when I come to Earth."

Again, the careless way he said it dug at her. She and Trowa didn't even have a house. Not that it bothered her. They had always traveled in the tents, and stayed in the wagons. Or maybe it did bother her. Why, was beyond her. It had never been an issue before. Besides, she didn't think Quatre meant it the way it sounded. So why was it bugging her? Surely, she shouldn't care. It wasn't any of her business if he was rich and spent his money. He earned it, after all.

Squirming uncomfortably on the couch, she picked her glass up and played with it again.

Quatre caught the motion and asked, "Would you like more?"

She blinked. It would distract her. She wasn't thirsty, but at this moment, to keep herself from being uncharacteristically rude, she would take it. "Yes, that would be nice."

He would probably get Rashid to do it.

Imagine her surprise when he unwound himself, took the glass, and disappeared into the kitchen, only to come back seconds later with it filled to the brim.

"I made that this morning. Fresh lemons. I find they make the best lemonade," he told her, setting the glass in her outstretched hands.

Was he trying to make a point? It was said so amiably, she couldn't tell.

Quatre slid back into his chair, watching Cathrine take cautionary sips from her glass, as if she was afraid it was going to be too sour or too sweet. She seemed very absorbed in the contents of the glass, as well, almost as if she felt it held answers to all the great mysteries of life. He hoped it wasn't because he had been too short with her. It was only that he didn't understand what had upset her. He had only been trying to make conversation, and since she was looking at it, though the painting had made the perfect starting point. Either she hated France, or she was disdainful of his wealth. If it was the latter, there was little he could do. He was what he was, and for that, he made no apologies.

Considering they had known each other for going on four years now, he would have thought by now she knew what his money represented to him. It was true, they rarely saw one another, but he hadn't, in any of those times, ever given her a reason to believe he was selfish or shallow. Rolling his shoulders restlessly, he tried to let it go, wondering why it mattered so much to him. He had decided long ago that when you couldn't change people's opinions of you, you simply learned to accept them. But Cathrine was a friend, so maybe that was where it was different.

Trowa shifted, leaning forward to place his glass on a coaster on the coffee table.

"I'll make dinner," he said past the length of his bangs.

"You don't have to do that, Trowa," Quatre replied, surprised he had offered.

"I'm staying here. I'll make dinner tonight."

In other words, that was his way of repaying Quatre for the use of his house for a week. It just wasn't like Trowa to come out and say it that way.

"Well, only if you'll let me help," he agreed around a smile.

"Hey, don't forget about me," Cathrine interjected, sounding and looking indignant.

"No offense, Cathy, but you can't cook."

She narrowed her eyes. "No offense?"

Trowa rose in one fluid move, offering no apology. "It's the truth."

Grasping her lemonade tightly, Cathrine only managed to keep from dumping the contents on Trowa through sheer will alone. That, and she didn't want to ruin the carpet.

She knew she couldn't cook. Trowa knew she couldn't cook. Everyone in the circus knew she couldn't cook. She wasn't even allowed _near_ a stove. But that didn't mean he needed to point it out with so little tact. She could have at least sliced something, or grated something. It was embarrassing for him to say it like that, and she knew her face reflected both that and her anger. Her skin was probably flushed an ugly, mottled color of red. That was the curse of having such fair skin. Maybe a little time spent in the desert would remedy that. For now, she could have cheerfully punched Trowa in that impassive face of his, walked over his inert body, and found _herself_ something to eat.

Quatre kept from wincing, though he wanted to. Trowa favored the direct approach. When it came to men, that worked. Women, however, he had found, had a bit more delicate feelings, and it was far too easy to trod on them. Given the expression on Cathrine's face, Trowa had just done a marvelous job of dancing across hers. He was going to have to salvage the situation before she lost her temper. Cathrine was known for having a well developed one. He had been on the receiving end of it before.

"That doesn't mean she can't help, Trowa. I'm sure there's something she would like to do?" Quatre said, rising as well.

Cathrine's eyes cut to him. She didn't appreciate his overly gentle tone. He sounded condescending, as if she was merely a slave, or someone to humor, someone not on the same level as they were. That was fine. They could just make their own dinner. She didn't care. And since it was obvious her help wasn't needed, she wouldn't bother to offer it again.

"No, you two 'master chefs' can handle dinner. If you'll excuse me, I'll just go unpack," she informed them both coolly, handing Trowa her glass of lemonade so that she could breeze past them and bounce stiffly up the stairs.

Quatre waited until she was out of earshot before he turned to Trowa.

"I'm afraid we insulted her."

"Cathrine is overly sensitive," Trowa replied, shrugging.

They fell side by side, and walked in matching stride to the kitchen.

"Well, Trowa, you really didn't need to make her lack of skill known quite like that..."

Trowa set the glasses down on the counter.

"Why not? She knows she can't cook. I don't see why I should lie to her about it."

"To avoid her anger?" He supplied, opening the fridge to survey the contents.

"She gets angry too often. I'm not going to cater to her."

Quatre laughed. "Trowa, when you find a woman you care about, you're going to feel differently."

Trowa made a unintelligible reply that sounded suspiciously negative.

Watching Trowa slide onto a barstool, Quatre hid a smile. There would come a time when a woman's anger made more of an impression on him. Cathrine's didn't, because she was his sibling, and it seemed the nature of siblings to fight now and then. Trowa would see the wisdom in finding a more gentle way of telling the truth, and would employ it readily enough when it suited his purpose. Quatre knew he himself did everyday to soothe egos and placate tempers in the business world, not to mention the various politicians when he entered the world of diplomacy to stand behind Relena. While he was sincere on one level or another, the best way to handle it was always the sweetest way possible. It kept the level of stress down that way.

But then, sometimes, there were moments you had to be direct and almost brutal in your honesty. He just didn't see where this was one of them.

"It seems we have enough to make fajitas. Chicken or beef," he announced, after his perusal of the fridge was over.

"We'll make both. I like beef. Cathy likes chicken. I'll use your advice in this case, or she won't come down until morning."

"Smart man," Quatre praised with a grin.

They fell into an easy pattern soon after, lining up supplies and using their mutual sense of organization to their benefit. Quatre talked of the business and where it was going. Trowa talked of the circus, and where it had been. The simplicity in their actions wasn't lost on him. There was a time when neither of them would have been able to take a moment to enjoy something as easy as making dinner and catching up on each other's lives. The war had been a constant companion, a driving force that left no room for anything but it. Sometimes, he still dreamed of it, and sometimes, he still found himself reacting like a Gundam pilot. Old instincts died hard, he supposed.

He slanted Trowa glance while they stirred their respective pans of meat, peppers, onions, and sauce.

"Do you miss it ever, Trowa, piloting?"

Trowa didn't glance up for a while, and Quatre had begun to think he either hadn't heard him, or didn't want to answer, when lifted his head and regarded the other carefully.

"Sometimes. But I don't miss the fighting."

"No. I don't think any of us do. But I miss Sandrock. I don't miss what he represented, but I miss the control, the power that went into handling him."

"Don't you get enough of that in the business world?" Trowa returned mildly, adding salt and pepper.

Blinking, Quatre laughed. Trowa so rarely used open humor, he couldn't let it slide by.

"Maybe. But it isn't the same."

"You wouldn't want them brought back."

He shook his head, serious. "No. It would mean the return of war, and I'm not so selfish I want my Gundam in my hands for that."

Cathrine, lured by the tantalizing sizzle of dinner, and unable to remain roombound by her pride any longer, found them like that, nearly shoulder to shoulder. They had an easy friendship. She was almost jealous of it. The thing was, she couldn't tell if it was because Quatre was so close to her brother, getting things from him she never could, or because Trowa had such an easy relationship with Quatre. Which was ridiculous, either way you looked at it. It had to be because of her lingering anger over Trowa's careless remark. There wasn't anything else it could be.

Trying to appear as if she didn't care, she asked, "Is it done yet?"

"No." Was all she got from Trowa.

Quatre smiled, more generous. "It's almost done. Just a few more minutes. Would you mind getting the tortilla shells from the fridge? They're the soft flour ones."

It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him that she had bowed out of helping them, but she bit back the comment and silently did as he asked. Her stomach was protesting a little too violently for her pride to get the upper hand here either. There would be time for her to be angry with them later. Right now, she only wanted to get something to eat, soak in a long bath, and get rid of this jet lag by sleeping soundly in the very soft bed that had been provided for her. She didn't think she had seen or felt a bed that perfect in all her life. She was fairly dying to try it out, not caring if she sounded like a kid given her first piece of candy.

Opening the bag, she pulled the tortillas out and arranged them on top of it, all resting on the counter. Dinner smelled so wonderful, she wasn't certain she could take much more waiting. She was almost willing to forget her vow to remain cool to them.

The irony of two men cooking while the woman sat and waited was not lost on her, and had she even touched on it, she would have shoved it aside. She disliked having attention brought to her weaknesses. Not that she expected to be perfect, just that she didn't think anyone needed to harp on what she _couldn't_ do more than what she could. If Trowa kept it up, she would just have to _accidentally_ nick him with a knife when they got back to performing.

A small, smug smile surfacing, she settled her chin into her hands, feeling much better. The thought of telling Trowa, 'whoops, I didn't mean to, honest. The knife slipped' also left her feeling somewhat vindicated. Reality would have been much more satisfying, but one had to take what one could get. Right now, she would take one of those fajitas and another glass of lemonade.

"Help yourself to more lemonade," Quatre tossed over his shoulder, almost as if reading her mind.

A bit disconcerted by that, she replied, "Thanks, I will," and got up to top off her glass.

"Oh, would you mind getting plates out please? It's the cabinet just right of the sink," he added, reaching down to turn his burner off.

"What do I look like, a slave?" She demanded, fisting her hand on her hips.

He flashed her a smile. "Cook's rules. You have to work for what you eat."

Cathrine sniffed haughtily at that remark, but didn't offer up protest beyond that. She liked the plates she found. They were pale blue, like the living room carpet, and thick and durable. Stoneware, she thought. They weren't at all what she expected. Given how much money he had, she had been certain she would find expensive, thin plates made of delicate china. It seemed, at nearly every turn, he smashed her preconceived notions, and made her feel base and snippy. She knew she really shouldn't let her dislike of money get in the way of her objectivity. It was remarkably difficult, however.

Just as she was spreading the tortillas out, they brought the hot pans over, scooping generations portions onto the shells. Two each for Trowa and Quatre, one for her. They took their plates, and glasses of lemonade, and rather than eat in the dining room, walked out onto the deck. It overlooked the biggest pool Cathrine had ever seen, and she almost itched to rush upstairs right now and put her bathing suit on. Rashid had advised them to bring some kind of swimwear, and now she was glad she had listened. Swimming wasn't something she got to do often, but she loved it when she did.

Quatre managed to curl up again in a small chair, his plate and glass sitting next to him on an available table with round, unframed glass. It was more than stifling here, even with the shade of the large umbrellas Rashid had strategically placed over every chair, but he loved it. It seemed to agree with Trowa and Cathrine too, if their happy demeanors were any indication. He was glad for that. He wanted them to enjoy their time spent here as much as they did, and hopefully, somehow avoid any more arguments.

They all dug into their food with as much enthusiasm as manners would allow, and waited for the first hunger pangs to dissipate before trying for conversation.

"It's beautiful here. A barren sort of beauty," Cathrine decided, gazing past the stone fence at what she could see of the desert.

Pleased, Quatre nodded. "I've always thought so too. This is always where I come back to when I have time off."

She glanced at him. "Do you get much time off?"

He looked rueful. "Not really. I work nearly every day of the week, and vacations are few."

"Do you need to work that much?"

Startled by the question, he thought it through before answering. Maybe he wasn't needed that much, but he really didn't have anything else waiting for him. The job was all-consuming if he let it be, and with no family demands of any kind, or a personal life, for that matter, his free time was left for business and politics. Things were running smoothly now, and had been climbing steadily for the past year or two. Those below him could handle the day to day tasks without him being in the office, and if they did have a problem, they could always reach him by his portable phone. There just wasn't any reason for it to be otherwise. Which, in a way was saddening. More so, when he went home to his small house on L4 and found it dark and empty.

"I suppose not everyday."

She nodded, but that was all. He wasn't sure what she had wanted from the comment, whether it had just been politeness that prompted her to ask, or some other motive.

"What about you, do you both enjoy what you do?" He asked, more from curiosity than just manners.

"It's a way of life," Trowa answered.

Cathrine nodded. "It's been that way for me, for a long time. I guess I hadn't thought of doing anything else..." here, she paused to shrug.

Did they love it? Did he love what he did? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. It was give and take, like life.

They finished off the last of their dinner, enjoyed the slowly setting sun, watching it splash vibrant hues of orange and red across the stretch sky. Quatre could have stayed out here long after it set and the stars made their appearance, but he thought both Cathrine and Trowa looked somewhat tired. They were probably fighting jet lag, and it would be better of him to see them to their rooms. They could all stand to turn in early. He himself had just arrived from space early this morning, and that in itself was no small trip.

"Why don't we turn in?" He offered.

Cathrine stretched, and he found his eyes drawn to her lithe, elegantly shaped legs. Jerking his gaze away quickly, hoping his mild embarrassment wasn't visible on his face, he gathered up his dishes and waited until they had done the same.

"I thought you'd never offer," she told him, falling between him and Trowa, with a smile.

"I'm sorry, it was rude of me. I was enjoying the sunset."

She looked at him. "Me too."

"Me three," Trowa said, deadpan, before slipping past them and entering the kitchen first.

Quatre and Cathrine shared an amused glance before both breaking into laughter.

"Don't mind the dishes, I'll clean them up myself before I head to bed," he told them.

"I don't think so," Cathrine disagreed, with authority. "This will be my contribution."

"Don't get in her way, Quatre. She'll roll right over you," Trowa advised.

"I can see she would."

"Stop talking about me like I'm not here," she told them, slapping at their hands when they both went to help put the leftovers away. "Now go. I'll do this. Go away."

"I know when I'm not wanted," Quatre joked.

"That's good. A man should know his place."

"The kitchen," Trowa returned, before Quatre could reply.

"Trowa Barton, get out of here!" Cathrine yelled, throwing a spare tortilla at his head.

He caught it with ease and examined it, as if seeing it for the first time.

"I think we had better leave before we receive death by tortilla," Quatre told Trowa, plucking said object from his hands to throw in the trash.

"Don't break any dishes, Cathy."

"Out!"

Both men slipped from the room before she could get a firm grip on one of the nearby carving knives.